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2010. 11. 28. 

Priming.

Gogol was trying the mobile rice mill. 

2010. 11. 29

This is it.

We are bringing them bamboos and them carpenters to the construction site. 

Tato Alex realized i was snapping pictures so he smiled. 

the bamboos are so long i can see them from the passenger seat. 

5-minute stopover at the plaza for some business. 

and 100 meters from the site the worst thing happened. 

the culvert was too narrow and the ditch too deep; the truck made a wrong turn and we're stuck.

"This way!"

 

But everyone helped so we are happy. 

despite the glaring 10 am sun. 

we got to the site just fine. 

bamboo bridge.  I don't see none of this anymore. 

 on this site will rise. 

Fin.

Why i shouldn't have done that

No, it's not a post about a failed love life.

This, in fact, is just a post about my swollen left foot toe-thumb (is there such a thing?). And why i shouldn't have done what i did.

i accidentally hit this big toe bigtime on our bamboo chair. why i hit it is a long story (it was about the pest control problem in our apartment) but i was trying to tip the chair so i can have a better look at it. Tipped, i did, and it was too heavy but it was also too late and in 1, 2, 3 intuition told me i should hold it steady with my foot and my foot hit something really hard i almost fainted from the pain so unbearable but what the hell, i should let it fall so so fall it did, just let it fall freely the rest of the 4 inches from the floor. it landed with a muffled thump 10 millimeters from my foot.

For 25 seconds my face looked like that face in edvard munch painting  "The Scream" but I didn't scream, take note, i didn't scream for help because i am a macho girl and i ended up hyperventilating and had to lie myself down on the floor lest i would fall on my head (and what, kill myself?). it was that damn painful. now 4 days after it's still swollen and can't be bent. the gray-bluish bruising is not visible, thanks to my wonderful indio skin color. when i walk it's like there's a lump on the big toe pad. yes, it makes walking uncomfortable but i'm patient and can easily tolerate life's little discomforts.

and when i tell keith i'm worried something must be broken he tells me:
"Toe (pointing at his toe), liver (pointing to where his liver is supposed to be located)."
evil grin.
Gad, i so hate that.
It's the same thing he did when i informed him about the rashes on my arms last night, afraid it must be peanut allergy. (i of course, googled peanut allergy just to be sure because i didn't want to die. in my sleep. last night).
well people die from brain cancer and the brain is certainly not the liver's next door neighbor.
GRRRR.

I should have stayed away from bamboo-chair-tipping.

So i started taking it on the kid. (Who's best to torment but the gullible toddlers!)

Tonight i again tormented my son over wasting water. I can never get the hang of telling my kid wonderful stories, like the one about the dead people (click that for the link). This time, I told him that if he doesn't stop playing with and wasting water, lakes will dry up and elephants will have no more water to drink.

To which he self-assuredly replied: "And they will then die." (Kag mapatay dayun sila.).

I could have laughed my heart out but laughing at toddlers' remarks is a "no-no" if you want to build their self confidence. hell yeah, the kid could conquer the world with all his self-confidence now.

This one is fun. This one i will certainly do again.

evil grin.

Moth ni Gogol: A lesson on death boxes.

Actually it's close to impossible to make a decent a taxidermy of a moth sans the chemicals. A week after its death, the moth starts to disintegrate if not properly treated/preserved. I won't go into the details of that as i am not a taxidermy expert...

But this is how this all happened...

In late October i brought Gogol to the cemetery to familiarize himself with the Pista Minatay tradition. I also wanted him to experience how it's like cleaning tombs as we were there to clean my grandmother's tomb in preparation for the November 1 All Saint's Day. The All Soul's Day is officially set on November 2 but it has been a tradition in our town to collectively visit the cemetery on the first of November.

To prepare his curious brain for the impending information overload (and of course to save myself from having to answer too many questions), on our way to the cemetery, i told him the story of death and of dead people being laid to rest in boxes. Expectedly, my story raised more questions than i could possibly answer so to prevent further confusion (and more tall tales from me), I resorted to this: Dead people died because they drank dirty water and had diarrhea and now they have to sleep in boxes in the cemetery. forever. end. of. story.

Meanwhile the kid got the horror of his life imagining that if he ate with dirty hands or drank dirty water he'd die from diarrhea and had to sleep in one of those boxes. forever. So somehow that cemetery trip did something good to us--he developed the habit of hand washing and drinking only from his own glass.

One morning after that short vacation cum cemetery visit, and some days after we're back to the City, i found an injured moth in our room. I did try to keep it inside the house and away from gogol (because last i heard, he unintentionally mashed a spider and wailed realizing he killed it), hoping it will recuperate on its own (because i didn't know how to provide care for an injured moth, sorry mothy). and it died.

and i found the chance to tell gogol more about death and dying and laying things to rest.

and was confronted by the question: "If i die, i will not fit in that box, nanay." He looked really worried. I can't remember how i survived that moment. maybe i told him, "We'll get you a bigger box."

With the small black box that used to contain japanese pastries, gogol and i carefully laid a piece of tissue for the moth to lay on. He held in his open palms 2 yellow push pins (which i realized were too big to use on the moth) as i carefully spread its wings. carefully, very carefully i fixed the delicate wings on the piece of cork glued to the box (covered by teh tissue) using the two push pins. A pen-type correction fluid was used to label the box while a blue pen with colored metallic ink was used in the label inside the box. 

Gogol bragged it for couple of days to people in the house. "Look at my moth! It's dead."

and then he forgets.

Good for him. 

PF Writing. Me writing on his writing.

PF is talking me into writing about the radio station that became so popular when we were still in high school. So good that it became our favorite. And everyone else’s, too. Much of our reunion conversations would have a piece on that, and the dj’s; some of them we actually interviewed for our fanzine. The local one closed in 1999. I have left Iloilo already and when I went back I was very surprised to hear my schoolmates, who never had any rock and roll nerve, gushing about the whole NU 107.9 Iloilo's last day event. I heard they even lit candles. Cheese overload.

Not a week ago PF actually mentioned writing about the station. It was when he was eye-ball deep with commitments (okay, I’m just exaggerating—make that armpit-deep) and I never took him seriously on that. I knew he’d never have the time for it. He’s even way behind schedule for his DAtE works. And since NU Main station reprogramming is also not so hot topic for me, I had little to no drive to feel nostalgic about it. 

I don’t listen to them anymore.

While Halloween vacationing at my parent’s place we sat with our backs to each other, absorbed by our own little world in cyberspace. I'd glanced and his his eyes are fixed on Form (uninteresting, he said), or an E-book (no El Croquis this time, I think). Or at pirate bay downloading porn for all I know. But this is how I came to know he was actually researching on his write up apart from ogling on architecture books and magazines--their total subscription cost more than our monthly rent.

PF: are you familiar with the band Anathema?

Me: No. what are they?

PF: and the Belly album in 1993.

Me: what? What the hell are you reading there?

(I thought he was asking me about a belly album in 1993 called anathema but before I could google it he said--)

PF: I’m making a list of albums released in 1993.

Me: Wow. You’ve really gone that far now. I’m still stuck to “Why Architects Drink” and you’re way beyond there, you’ve gone to music.

PF: and shakira already had an album released in 1993.

Me: meaning, she’s already old?

PF: because I thought we were of the same age

(who knows she was already bankable at 13?)

Me: is that for the NU thing?

PF: yeah. Why?

Me: wow extensive research you got there.

PF: well, you should write something, too. Then we post them together.

Me: Christ, is that serious?

PF: and you can tell BCG to do the same and we post together.

Me: How do you think we’re gonna proceed with that? We’re going home tomorrow.

(Back to our no-internet-therefore-no-wi-fi home, in these days of google-replacing-the-libraries)

PF: NU is changing programming on the 8^th, we still got about a week.

(No comment. Then I opened MS word and started typing, after sending BCG a message. PF turned to me to say something but he instead exclaimed --)

PF: what?! You’re already writing?

Me: well, of course. It’s not like it’s a term paper. And I’m just drafting. Unlike you I don’t abide by the FLW motto.

PF: (Laughs. Snickers. Chuckles. Or something like that.)

(amazed that I remembered that FLW comment. And he’s silent for a while then--)

PF: Help me remember Buffalo Tom.

Me: Summer. Taillights Fade. (as i tapped on my keyboards for youtube search)

PF: Nothing.

Me: Oh, Red Letter Day. That was popular.

PF: God. Still nothing.

(then silence. The dog outside howled. The baby in the room 2 meters away is sleeping like a log, I bet snoring. Then he asked me if I have--)

PF: Violent Femmes.

Me: what about?

PF: do you have violent femmes?

(because I almost played the buffalo tom only to find out that the mp3 is in our OTHER computer, which we left at home)

Me: no. except on mixed tape

(meaning cassette tapes. Where you use a cassette player to listen to it.)

(30 minutes after he asked me to call it a night. i played Buffalo Tom's i'm allowed for him to see, said he remembers now. Sad song, i say to him. Yea, that sounds really like something they'd play in NU in those days. Yea, i said. 

and gave my shoulder an assuring squeezed then off he went to sleep.)

More of it laterzzzz. God knows what he’s going to ask me tomorrow.

Mobile Reading

I don’t have a kindle. I haven’t seen a kindle and I can't see myself having a kindle in the near future. For some like me who can’t even afford a decent pair of running shoes, mobile books like kindle is the last thing in my mind.

But in the last 3 years of constant public transport commuting (read: jeepney/PUJs) from Jaro to Iloilo City downtown has proved stressful because, of the worsening traffic congested. It used to be a lot easier when the flyovers were non-existent and when LTFRB did not “sell” jeepney franchises like hot pandesal. (Those who say otherwise, raise your hand!)

I've recently knew that traffic congestion is one of the many stressors to a city resident, leading eventually to heart diseases and, well yes, premature death due to road rages.


My solution: read.

Read a book.

I have recently rekindled (no pun intended) my love for writing and reading, and I've amassed quite a number of books in the past few months. Most of them I bought because I wanted to write better.

My love for mobile reading, I discovered while reading J.R. Moehringer’s The Tender Bar. Mine is a hardbound copy with about 370 pages and I finished reading it in about a month, I guess.

It’s slow read, when you come to think of it, but I did it during my 20-minute jeepney rides from Jaro to my office in downtown Iloilo City. I realized that if I kept myself busy with the book I would not take notice of the clumsiness and the road butchery of the public transport drivers. And yes it helped, most of the time.

Prior to Moehringer’s, I’ve already started trying, first with Tom Wolfe’s From Bauhaus to Our House. 

Keith bought it about 8 years ago, along with Albert Camus’ The Stranger, which, thanks to the termites, has been wiped out from my collection. Bauhaus to our House was a difficult read for me because I was practically unfamiliar with the names of all modern architecture gods mentioned in the book. I also didn't understand Wolfe’s point—did he actually like the transformation to modernism of his beloved America or did he hate it? Sarcastic? Funny? So I had to read it again. And again—the third time I started highlighting the architects' names and the name of the buildings mentioned. Incidentally, I’ve started my love affair with pushpullbar and some other architecture readings so Wolfe’s became easier to understand. I got his point. Or so I think.

With Booksale conveniently located at the mall across where I work, I was practically hooked. Next I bought was Over the Moat: Love Among the Ruins of Imperial Vietnam, written by James Sullivan. 

I was never a fan of love stories. In fact, the last love story book I recall reading was that of Sweet dreams, back in my elementary days. It was also because my father banned these kinds of books at home. I bought James Sullivan's book because at that time, I did't have a husband-writing-about-his-wife book and because it’s about Vietnam. My roster also lacked a memoir about Asia. I have nothing on travelling, more so about travelling in Asia. I thought finding this book was timely. I finished the book in 3 weeks. Again, slow read because I was still adjusting to the art of reading inside a full-packed, overspeeding jeepney.

Then there came Candyfreak which I totally enjoyed. It was written by Steve Almond, a candy-loving Jew, and proud to be one. I think I bought it together with that Sullivan book. Because it was so funny and because I enjoyed every page of it, plus the fact that I have virtually mastered the reading the seemingly rollercoaster-ride that is the jeepney, I was able to finished it in a much shorter time. And also because, it was an easy read. Tender Bar was also beautiful, but it required a more detailed reading. When I was almost done with the book, I found my 3 year-old son one night, running his beloved scissor on its cover, so silent, like a ninja. Three slits. The next day, I brought it with me, unrepaired—three slits on the cover and all. I’ve almost forgotten how weird the book looked until I saw a handful of people staring at the book I was reading. 

Two of the most emotional books I read on the jeepney were Change me into Zeus Daughter by Barbara Robinette Moss, and Shot in the Heart by Mikal Gilmore. I bought Moss’ book because it's a memoir about a family. 

Plus, it was written by a woman. I still didn’t have that kind of book in my collection. Gilmore’s, I bought because it was a memoir written by a brother about an older brother in death row. Again, I still didn’t have that kind of book with me. Of all the books I read, these two were perhaps the most engaging because even when I was home, I read them before going to sleep and right after I wake up. It came to a point where I asked my kid to sleep on his own minus our reading of baby books routine because I couldn't wait to read my own books.
These two are hardbound, wider than the average size of the books and therefore, heavier. The stories were as heavy as the books.

These days, my jeepney companion is Daniel Treiber’s Frank Lloyd Wright. Again, it’s a difficult read because as much as i hated to admit it, I’m pretty low on the visual and spatial intelligence. 

Descriptions about the roof, the house lay-out, the panelings and glazings and all that stuff are hard for me to imagine. I would spend more time staring at the pictures of the houses than their descriptions. But even if that is so, there's no denying that this books has clearly showed how advanced FLW is for his time. Frankly, even if i'm a fan of modern architecture, Taliesin (East) remains to be a dream house. So there, that’s Wright education for me, courtesy of Keith.

The National Geographic Magazine is also a constant companion and every time a subscription arrives, I leave my book behind and bring this along. It takes me about a week to finish a magazine. By the time I’m done, the cover is wrinkled in faded from wrestling with all the knick knacks in my bag.


Reading is really fun. Cliché as it may, it’s my number 1 stress reliever. And maybe you should try it too. Especially when you’re in the middle of a terrible traffic congestion. But of course, not when you are the one driving.

Fin.