Karate Kids

My sister and I are into martial arts these days. Actually, I started out a year earlier than her and I would like to think I influenced her into joining a judo team in her university. She’s been on the training program for white belts for only about a month now, but she’s grown agile and calculating.

One night she asked me if I could be a dummy for her; she’d like to show me some moves. I told her she can’t fight a dummy and claim that her killer combo works. I have to fight back. “But we are in two completely different disciplines: me, judo and you, taekwando”, she explained. I was a bit surprised that she called judo discipline when a month ago she would mock me as I flex painfully to make my head meet my knee.

“The basic principles of one martial art apply to other martial arts” I sagely said. “It is all about the timing”, I then added trying to sound credible after a year of training. She seemed satisfied with it so she motioned me to follow her to a clear area in the house. She turned around, stood in a fighting stance, and squinted at me. I took my position and posed as she did. For a minute, we were circling the area, bluffing an attack, stomping a foot to rattle the opponent.

Then, she got hold of my shirt but I blocked it in time for her to lose grip. I stepped in her “circle” (that’s how she explained it, afterwards) and grabbed a sleeve. Instinctively, I slid in my leg behind hers and tried to trip her. She resisted and was stronger than I thought. I pretended to be crazy mad about her like when we were younger and I let out an enormous scream at her face which seemed to mess up her reflexes. With my eyes burning and whole body shaking, I pinned her to the ground and yelled, “One point in your face!!”

When I turned my back to her, I was expecting she’d go after me with a kick in the thigh, or nail scratch on my back. That was how we do it as children. We love to fight then, over petty things: a missed turn in playing Nintendo Gameboy, a suspicious win on Snakes and Ladders, a Power Rangers sticker album one accidentally tore, etc. I’d pull her hair, which was waist-long then, and then she’d bury her nails into my skin. I’d kick her for that and she’d leap at me, teeth clenched and shrieking like a banshee. We were out of control, untamed, wild.

I remember once throwing her into the air causing her head to hit the wall badly; I was a huge kid and she was no match to me. The impact was so intense my mother next room checked where the loud thud came from and saw my sister on the floor howling in tears and heaving for air. They had to take her to the hospital while I wait home, never been scared my whole life. When they finally arrived, I saw her bandaged in the head with a “purple patch” around her eyes. That night as we both try to get sleep in our room, I gave her the sticker album we were fighting over.

That was the only time we settle fights in a civil way: when someone gets hurt really bad and my parents intervenes. But it didn’t take months for us to reconcile unlike now that we’re older and have reduced the damages to verbal ones, unlike now that we have supposedly learned to be logical and diplomatic. The next morning, over breakfast, my sister excitedly narrated to me how the doctor put her head back together.

As we gradually grew apart, each having peers and own social group, our brawls became lesser. We learned to tame ourselves and control our urge to wrestle with each other. Our martial arts coaches later would teach us self-control, discipline and meekness. We’d be reminded never be the first attacker.

The things we fight over have changed as well. We don’t snatch each other’s note pad anymore because we can afford to buy one anyway. Instead, we argue over space, privacy, responsibilities. The bigger things. But sometimes we forget that we need to be like children again to settle matters we take as monumentally important, disputes we think would change the course of our lives when in fact they are as inconsequential as a Power Rangers sticker album torn apart.

I think it is better sometimes to hurt someone physically than accuse that person of faults or flaws she’ll probably never forget for the next couple of years. In that way, when the stitches have healed and the bandage doesn’t feel odd on her head anymore, the fight is over.

I looked back at her as she stood up from the ground after being pinned to it. She took on once again a fighting stance and then blurted out, “Okay, round two!”

Mid-semester Hibernation

This is my fifth post after almost a month of doing nothing with my blog. I have viewed my classmates blog and they're pretty much updated. I am a lousy student. No wonder my writing has not been improving. I only sit down and write when needed. This is not how it is supposed to be. I don't know what's keeping me from spewing words online (which I think can help loosen up my barin) when no one really views it. I don't have to be hyper-conscious of my writing because I'm only speaking to myself anyway. It doesn't matter if I screw up an entry with incoherence and blandness so long as I get past the paralyzing feeling of wanting to write with nothing coming out of you.

I should write more.

This week would be the craziest week to date. I have all my CW professors demanding revisions of my work. I have an exam on Friday which I have to pass or else I re-enroll the subject next semester. I have three major papers due on Friday, one of which should have been passed a year ago. I haven't actually started writing on any of them but I have the concept already. Today, I survived poetry class and I only have to think of the revisions. When I woke up this morning, I was having some stomach ache due to hyperacidity. I knew why it was happening: stress. So I told myself to slow down and relax (though I don't have the right to do so, with the kind of performance I had this semester). I realized that if I clog my brain with deadlines I'll just end up finishing nothing, just like what happened last semester, which incidentally caused all my trouble this semester (having all my CW classes clumped in one term. Imagine how much I had to leap from fiction to poetry to non-fiction to comics. ) So, although I needed to panic, I just went through my task one by one. Today was a minor success; I got past poetry smoothly.

I still have a week and four days before this crazy semester ends. But I won't be free during the break, because I have a lot of catching up to do. I still have three more semesters before graduation and unfortunately I must admit I don't think I'm improving, both in my writing and work/study ethics. I have three more semesters to prove to myself that I can survive after college.

The Intimate Art of Eating Spaghetti

I was alone that night when I came in The Old Spaghetti House. Upon entrance, I was transported to a different world, alien to the busy highway of Katipunan from where my car just raced through entwined jeepneys. A soft almost distant jazz music echoed in the walls of the small restaurant and it muted the screeches and the honking outside. It was a weekday, so I was not surprised to see few people dining in. They were mostly in groups and pairs, chatting over plates of spaghetti and iced tea or coffee. Perhaps it was the lights, but the scene looked dreamy to me as if it were a movie I faintly recall. The chairs, they were like from an old French movie. The wall where sundry antique items are displayed was like my grandmother’s display cabinet, the ones decorated with silver canisters, fancy plates and china. A huge capiz door at the back of the restaurant reminded me of a Spanish ancestral home.

A waiter invited me to a vacant sofa against the wall. He was a tall man dressed in a clean long-sleeved white polo and a striped apron tied around his waist. He looked classy.

He asked if I was with anybody. I said I will be dining alone. So he took the paper placemat and promptly placed it on another table. He then handed me the menu and stood near the counter to wait. I looked back at him before browsing through the menu. I expected the usual stuff—spaghetti of all sorts, appetizers, side dishes—until I looked closely and found written on top of it a message from its owners. It said: Some items on the menu are contributions from family and friends…Try each one of them and discover the treasures that have brought many friends and families together. Friends and family together. It was then I remembered that spaghetti sauce commercial where a family got together, on a weekend probably, to enjoy themselves over a bowl of Bolognese spaghetti. And so, I decided to have the same thing.

While waiting for my spaghetti, I looked around the place feeling rather awkward that I’m the only lone diner inside. A table apart from me was a couple who I think just came from the grocery to pick up some items. On my other side were two men and a woman, all in their business suits. There were sheets of paper and cups of coffee spread on their table; they were probably through with their spaghetti and it was time to get down to business. Another couple, perhaps a mother and her daughter, who was still in her high school uniform, were right across me and they were huddled over the table, laughing at a lingerie brochure. The daughter looked up and caught me staring.

I leaned back on the sofa and tried to be a little comfortable. I was going to enjoy my spaghetti and my night. I noticed the menu was left on my table, so I picked it up to read some of the items. Vintage movie posters were printed on its sides and since I fancy this kind of stuff I examined them before proceeding to the food list. Seafood Marinara, Meat Balls Spaghetti and Pasta Chorizo are a little pricey: 135 pesos a plate. It is not far from my 75 peso Bolognese though so I wouldn’t feel so robbed if I try some of them next time. They have pasta meals too which have either chicken or spare ribs. And then there are the rice meals. Rice, how can you take it away from a Pinoy restaurant, I thought.

It seemed the waiter waited for me to finish reading; he served my Bolognese, still steaming hot, right on time. I took my fork, set the garlic bread aside, and started twirling my pasta. They weren’t sticky like the ones I cook at home so some of them slipped through. When I lifted my fork, the loop I made didn’t hold together and it slid. I had the urge to check if somebody in the room was observing me. Perhaps somebody thinks I’m over-twirling it or something. But then, everybody seemed engaged in their conversation and their spaghetti. The girl in her high school uniform was more animated than when I first saw her. The couple from the grocery seemed to be in agreement over something, heads nodding enthusiastically while their eyes fixed on the pasta they were twirling. Their hands, I noticed, were moving in some sort of rhythm and I was amused at their body language.

My spaghetti just probably needed a little more mixing. So I scooped my pasta and tried to get the red meat sauce all over. I tried twirling it once more, this time with my other hand holding the spoon for support. My hands moved until the whole strand of pasta was in a loop. I then raised it up, leaned over my table, and took it in my mouth.

It was good spaghetti.

My feet tapped along with the music that was being played in the background as I was taking my first bite. They were now playing some sort of playful jazz, still soft and distant. I made another loop, this time with my head bobbing a little; I was slowly feeling at ease. As I was eating my spaghetti, I looked up at the wall and wondered at the mystique of the items on it—an old model of a tennis racket, an etched silver pitcher, a 1920s replica of a bicycle, and various frames with sculpted floral designs. The hanging lamps that hid some of the antiques from my view are also done in floral designs set on capiz. The center of the ceiling is designed with floral capiz which made the white light behind it frosted. Surrounding it were warm, yellow incandescent lights. It was all romantic.

Great food, endless stories and a right atmosphere are ingredients in having a pleasurable and memorable dining wrote the owners at the back of their restaurant’s menu. And though I was by myself, I indeed had a great and memorable time with my spaghetti; I finished half of it without ever looking up while twirling it. The sounds, the light, the mood, they were all part of my dinner. I enjoyed my spaghetti with jazz and yellow lights.

My waiter refilled my beverage when I put it down after a big gulp. He then moved as if gliding to the next table where one couple was seated. The girl who caught me staring at her was now enjoying her meal. She was swaying with the music as I did. I glanced over one of the man in the business suit; his sleeves were now rolled up, his fingers circling the brim of his cup.

I was on my last strand of pasta. I took the small piece of garlic bread and slid it over my plate. I put my fork in place, drank from my glass, and rest my back on the sofa. I stared at my empty plate and remembered how it looked with the pasta and the steam and the bread. By this time a new couple had entered in and settled at a table near the door. A waiter came out from the kitchen with their pasta on a tray. A familiar steam rose up to the air and mixed with the lights and the soft, distant music.

Old Buddies

Our high school yahoogroups is on the roll. We're now having good political discussions which is unusual for a bunch of people who just makes joke of everything. Some of us couldn't help it still. One wrote: "gloria must step down! hindi na kc kapani-paniwala yung muks nya. mukha syang tae lalo na nung nag sorry sya. mukha siyang pusang nasagasaan sa kalsada, nakaka badtrip". I was supposed to write back: "So you want her down because her face looks stupid?" but then thought about it--I don't want to be a kill-joy.

But some of us have grown keening brains. I'm presently in an on-going debate with this classmate of mine who was meek as a sheep in school. He says Gloria resign.

They have become very challenging.

My move to start the forum was brought about by cutesy, inconsequential forwarded messages that start to clog our groups. There was a time that the whole list of posted messages was about getting your wish after answering questions and scrolling down the screen past series of asterisks that are supposed to hypnotize you.

It was then I felt Messianic: Someone has to douse these people with brain fluids. Hence, I started a forum.

It was surprising that some of us are of the same sentiment as me. They were apparently just waiting for someone to broadcast how political they have become and invite them over a debate. I can't wait for what new things they are now capable to say.

Hopefully, our forum will introduce me to new, better buddies.

That Bright Blinding Thing

We read Wallace Stevens' "Not Ideas About The Thing But The Thing Itself" in class today and I have never felt my brain veins literally pump wildly my temples. This guy is one heck o' a genius. I have read his Snowman before but took him lightly. And now that I know a little better, I feel awfully embarassed how I read him in class before--I actually thought the Snowman was sad in the poem.

What is fascinating about him is his ability to put simply that which makes writers or anyone of profound imagination wide-eyed wonderers at night. And this makes sense because you can't have too many of the heavy stuff in good poetry, I think. He tries to imagine the workings of the Imagination through concrete instances of a man hearing a vague sound outside and not knowing what it is or a snowman beholding nothing in the snow. His simplicity is so tricky because reading him once, one assumes to get sense out of it but actually may not. And I find it irritating that I can't make anything of his very concrete and 'simple' poetry. Try reading Sylvia Plath, who without the internet completely escapes me. She talks of heavy things, death, suicide, through heavy words. She makes a maze within a maze. This is not to say that Stevens is inferior for he can't come up with something complex as a maze within a maze. It's the contrary in fact, because to be able to sublimate that elusive Imagination, the workings of the mind, the creative chakra, or whatever, into, say a leisurely afternoon in the park, is a mark of a rare alchemist.

After understanding Stevens slightly, I was challenged to search his works up in the net and read through them. Hopefully, I'll finally have a favorite poet.

I have finally forced myself to create one of this blog things. I was supposed to spent all summer tutoring myself how this works (of course, I knew the basics. But, I was very particular about how my blog should look. I seriously thought it was complicated to modify its look, so I got bored. Well, I think it still is. Hay, so much to learn). However, a series of unfortunate events stopped me. It's a series I don't have time now to go through one by one.

Professors can really make you do things fast. Thanks to my creative wrting class, I now have a blog. I can't afford to fuss over the lay-out or design, content matters most at this point.