Sunday, March 30, 2014

Art in my life

My mother bought me watercolor and a watercolor pad yesterday, and I've been painting since last night and this morning. I must say I'm improving fast -- or maybe I'm just remembering some of what I learned in Art class, when I was 12.

I don't think I'll ever be as competent with a brush as I am with a pen, but this is really fun. I love the focus that is required, the patience that is asked, and the surprise that comes with each splash of watercolor.

It feels good to be creating again.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Yours, the eternal romantic

Sometimes, while waiting for a play to start, I look around the theater and find myself thinking (wishing), maybe I will find him here.

This happens, too, in airports and train stations, and other places that I know for sure will be birthplaces of beautiful memories.

We will watch plays together, I imagine, and he will delight in my laughing out loud at a punchline and pretend not to notice when I wipe away a maybe inappropriate tear (he will know that sometimes, when something -- a scene, a line, a song -- reminds me of how much I love my country and my home, I can end up crying).

We will have a late dinner after, I imagine, and he will take me to a quaint restaurant that also serves coffee and happily offer me dessert. He will know that my favorite part of watching a play is the conversation after, and he will be amused that I have somehow, once again, managed to relate fiction to my life.

He doesn't even have to like theater; just him liking me liking it is enough.


Wrote this in the cab that took me home from the PETA Theater after watching Rak of Aegis. There will be a second run from June to August (I think). Catch it!

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Because there is beauty in the concrete

Once, late at night, while wishing me like to one more rich in hope, I hailed an MGE taxi, just wanting to go home, forget everything, and crash.

As I entered the cab, the driver greeted me with a cheerful, "Good evening, ma'am!" He was a big man, probably in his late fifties, wearing thick plastic-rimmed glasses. He smiled at me in the rear-view mirror and asked me how my day had gone.

"It was okay," I said. He was pleasant, but I was tired and a little upset, so I didn't feel like making small talk.

He got my address and turned on the radio. We drove in silence to whatever music was playing, and, still brooding, I watched the buildings grow smaller as we left Eastwood City and crossed the flyover to Bonny Serrano to Project 4.

As we turned right on 20th Avenue, an old seventies song started playing. I hadn't heard it in years, so I didn't recognize it right away, but my heart remembered something because the first line started pulling me home: It depends on who is looking at the tenement walls.

I tried to catch the next lines, trying to place the song. Then the driver started singing to it, his voice warm and rich and deep.
You can walk the streets
and find so much to criticize,
but that would be the easy thing to do.
Because there's beauty in the concrete
if you see it with your heart.
The sidewalks only hurt you
if you hate them from the start.
By the time I was home, I could hear it: many, many years ago, my father, now over ten years dead, with his terrible singing voice and thick Cebuano accent, belting out: This is a song, not necessarily sweet. I'll pass it on to people that I never will meet.

It was a child's introduction to how the world and words can contradict each other, and a moment I saw the individual, the person disconnected from me, in my father.

The cab driver, bless him, had a good singing voice. He sang with feeling, and this time, I took the words as a reminder, one of the many notes to self I've been posting all over the years to remember who, where I am.

Places of work turned into places called home. I entered the apartment with a smile in my heart and sank into my bed thinking sweet dreams.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Ash Wednesday

This Lenten Season, joy will be my sacrifice and gratitude my prayer.