The Terror Reigns

My cousin is a DJ at KUSF, Terrorbull Ted. He DJs the "local music hour" every Friday 4p-5p, it's an ecclectic mix of rock, punk, rap and whatever else comes from these music alleys in the SF Bay, plus tons of announcements of the local music scene. Have to give it up to him for promoting the local folks considering that most of the music on the airwaves is pretty cookie cutter karaoke stuff. How can you beat the Husbands singing, "Will you still love me tomorrow?"

You can check it out using iTunes Radio under "public" now available on Mac and PC.

Barbie converts to Wiccan

In homage to Denise Duhamel's poetry collection, "Kinky"

Every Sunday, being the good girl she was, Barbie went to church. She would bring out her most conservative pink outfit with Sunday best bonnet. Yet though she sat through every sermon, she had always felt there was something incomplete about Christianity. First of all, the Apostles had such horrible outfits!

One Saturday morning while passing by a used book store, she happened to see an ornately decorated leatherbound book that seemed to call her name. "Book of Spells" it said. She thumbed through the various elixirs and potion recipes. Her fingers stopped on a love potion: "guaranteed to bring all the men you want your way". She had always been a fine cook, because she had read the way to a man's heart was his stomach. But in all those years, not once did Ken comment on her fine cooking. Grant it, he didn't have a mouth nor a tongue, much less a stomach, but he could have at least tried to spoon some of her bouillabaisse down the hole in his neck.

She brought the book home and immediately began forming her outfit. She couldn't perform spells without the perfect outfit. She prided herself in creating her identity in clothing. She opens the toy chest bursting with pink chiffon, pink feathers, pink gowns. Let's see, we can use the rain slicker for a cape, and the gold pants from disco Barbie. Ooh, and I should probably wear my hair down and maybe braid a few strands to get that hippie/mother earthy kind of look. There.

Now for the ingredients: dragonfly (there was the dragonfly hair clip), water, a locket of your own hair (a pile of hair from when the little girl's brother gave RV Beach Barbie a crew cut so she could play with his GI Joe's.) She borrowed one of GI Joe's war helmets to use for a cauldron and placed it on the potpourri candle. Bring to boil, simmer, cool, then drink.

She looked at the concoction for a moment. It didn't look like anything. It didn't smell like anything either then she remembered she couldn't smell. "Here goes nothing", she says, as she pops her head off and pours the entire brew down. Suddenly, the room starts to spin, her head wobbling in its socket and she feints into darkness.

She awakens to someone stroking her hair, another breathing heavily on her neck, some are massaging her feet, and yet another ravaging her body with kisses. If her hard plastic exterior could tingle it would have with exhilaration. She was in the Ken bucket and they couldn't get enough of her! They jostled for position to get close to her, get on top of her, touch her skin. She screamed the name of God, Jesus and all the saints. The bucket rocked back and forth to their gyrations causing it to tip over. As they tumbled out, the liquid potion trickled out her hip sockets down her inner thighs.

She lay there watching the moonlight hit their glistening bodies and thought she would be missing mass today.

Maraming Salamat, Ginoong Ramero Royo

I was a participant in the Advanced Filipino Abroad Program, a Fulbright-Hayes scholarship that brought Americans like me to study deep Tagalog for 6 weeks in the Philippines.

It took a patient soul to help untangle our knotted and gnarled tongues to speak coherent Tagalog. May that soul rest well.

80's flashback weekend

I brought my Atari 10-in-1 game system to my cousin's first birthday. (Now you're thinking, how many cousins does she have? Too many, let's just leave it at that).

We hooked it up to the main tv, the teenagers were in the bedroom playing Tekken 4 on Playstation2. All the games were quite primitive compared to the 3D stylings and high bit pixelation that brings out he details of a single hair follicle. The Atari games were just blocks, you could use your imagination for the rest. The screen describing the game told you what to imagine. That block is you. Those pink blocks are mushrooms, the fast moving string of beads is a centipede, the thing with the wiggly legs is, no, it's not a crab, it's a spider and the snake thing that goes across the screen is a scorpion. Centipede had 4 directions to it at least. Pong has up and down.

The teenagers got bored and retreated to their room. It wasn't that exciting.

I can't really play the new games. My fingers are not coordinated to the numerous buttons. I can handle up, down, left, right and fire. Grant it, most of these games you can now find on cell phones instead of tv game consoles and even then they come in more colors.

For me and most of the people my age, the games were just as addicting as ever. I wonder what the teenagers will be telling their kids in 20 years.

As someone played Missile Command, we discussed how this was merely a reflection of Reagan's push for Star Wars, the counterattack project that would launch missiles against other missiles. We recalled the Cold War and the eminent threat of nuclear attack. All in a 4-bit game.

After we played Atari, we hooked up the karaoke. I never used to sing karaoke. I hated the sound of my voice and didn't think I could sing. Until I went to Hawaii and stopped in at a karaoke bar. Karaoke isn't about singing, it's about being silly and having fun performing. So, you don't sing like Mariah Carey, it still gives you a chance to sing at the top of your lungs or groove to a tune. And the karaoke audience is there to watch people have fun, and not necessarily sing well (ok, there are a few exceptions, like I wouldn't sing at a gay karaoke club less get heckled out the door.)

So now I sing karaoke. I figure I can sing just as badly as my drunk uncle, why should I care?

We sang a round of ABBA and Air Supply. Karaoke video backgrounds are either staged couples doing things that have nothing to do with the song, or they are essentially tourist videos of other countries that again have nothing to do with the song. This one VCD was filled with video from Danang as if you were watching a home movie.

So I'm singing Sting, "Roxanne" and the video is of Danang, Vietnam. It shows video of two white men swimming in the water, then pictures of Vietnamese men and women there. And somehow, while I'm singing, "Roxanne, you don't have to turn on the red light." my mind floods with the statistics regarding sex trade and trafficking in Southeast Asia which includes a great deal of women and children. And how many of the "buyers" are from the U.S. and Europe. Suddenly, karaoke became the soundtrack to larger global issues, gender and cultural power dynamics, and issues of sexual exploitation and abuse. I could barely look to read the words of the song anymore. We changed the VCD. There's a play in that somewhere.

Hey, even my SO who doesn't sing, even tried a song, though basically everyone had gone home by then.

The 1 year old, who was celebrating his birthday, sat quietly entranced by the words gliding by. All of his videos are sing-alongs. He's quite comforted by karaoke videos and starts to cry when the blue screen comes on or the words are no longer there.

Do we truy know what lies in his brain?

If you've ever wondered what travels through JoeyAyala's brain, now you too can find out, well at list a portion of it on his very own blog.

Also check out and order his latest album 16lovesongs or any of his other albums.

Ay, pala! The Atlanta Painter Revealed!

So the painter from the Opera book launching has revealed herself to be Miriam Jacobson, who will soon be a SF Bay Area convert. She's here scoping out the place to find a place to move to in a few months. Take it from Stephanie and me, the east side of the bay is better! But then again, we're rather smitten over Oakland.

The multi-talented Miriam is not only a painter but also a singer and song writer and hopes to pen some operatic tones to Barry's Opera. Can't wait to hear it!

She leaves the email with a P.S., inspired words from Barry's poems:

Your words are like a sword
That call us to a horde.

saying goodbye and saying hello

Having gone to two funerals for my grandparents, I've come to understand the ritual of death: the prayers, the mass, the rosary, and the food. I've come to realize that these rituals facilitate the mourning process and our abilities to transition in our lives.

I drove down to the funeral with my parents and sister. We had both taken the day off for bereavement. Technically bereavement is only meant for very immediate family and not for a "first cousin twice removed" which is the technical identification for my grandfather's first cousin. I don't understand this definition of the nuclear family. That real bereavement is only qualified for people "not removed." I'm lucky. My manager and supervisor are Filipino, they understand.

We waited at the church for the casket to arrive. His grandsons and nephews would serve as his pall bearers. I had heard a saying once about how you can tell how people consider the living by the way they treat the dead. Filipinos treat the dead well. In death, everyone you could possibly have ever known comes to say goodbye. Not only do they say goodbye, but they take a picture next to the casket to prove they were there. Grant it, we're also scared that if we don't, the dead spirit will come and visit it us. Nonetheless, it does allow for some closure even for the people who hated you. Though in this case, there weren't too many people that hated Uncle Paul.

After the mass, we caravan to the cemetery. More people arrive. Final prayers and blessings are given. The undertaker announces the coffin is to be lowered and that if you are squeamish to step away now. Most of us stay to watch as he is placed in. The machine uncoils the straps and squeaks as he goes down. Some of the grandkids are not yet 10. They do not quite know what's going on or why they are there, just that their dress up clothes make them itch. They watch ants crawl on a tombstone nearby. They cannot yet read the name nor associate it with a person. Once lowered, we each take a flower from one of the wreaths and toss it in, a symbol of our last goodbyes.

Later we say hello to the relatives we hadn't greeted yet. Cousins who used to threaten to toss us in fish tanks they said were filled with piranhas and now have children of their own. A few aunts who have also watched their husbands be buried, say some comforting words to my aunt, she laughs despite her tears. Directions are passed to the restaurant.

My cousin, my uncle's grandson, commented, "I've never eaten so much food in a week." There's always food at wakes and funerals. In the Philippines, the wake would be 9 days, with relatives and friends staying up all day and night, playing, praying and staying with the body. Subsequently, food must be prepared for all the guests in appreciation for their support and prayers.

It was like saying hello again to old family. It has been a while since there was a big gathering like a wedding. I announce to a few that my own wedding will be in another year or so. Words like that run like wildfire. My cousin's mom says that she's heard I was planning something, then she asks why not next year? I reply that my other cousin is getting married next year, so we are taking the following. She replies, "oh no, that's ok, you can be married in the same year. They're not your immediate. How old are you now? oh see, you can get married next year, like June or July, then by 2005 you can have an anak/child." At that I excuse myself to go greet another relative.

We find out how tall kids have grown and how my cousin decided to buy a motorcycle rather than another tattoo (artistic differences). Everyone discusses the different diets that they are on, doctor prescribed or otherwise. We exchange email addresses and business cards and promise to keep in touch. Word of wanting another reunion, the last one was 5 years ago. They want my mom and an aunt to organize it. My mom comments, "I'm not even blood related, yet they want me to organize it!" Being blood related, me and my sister volunteer to help her.

Til the next time we meet, we're still family.

A night at the Opera

Capped off a wonderful weekend with, but of course, a night at the Opera. No, no, not at Davies Symphony Hall, but at the abode of Kari Edwards and Fran in a live/work space that was an old Sears building 30 years ago.

Good to see the Well-Nourished Moon, Stephanie Young again. We only seem to run into each other when Eileen is around. Stephanie flipped through the pages of Kari's new book "iduna" just out from O Books. Can I tell you? It's a feast for the eyes with an aspect of mystery novel to boot. The text literally bounces around the page forcing you to flip and turn the pages up, down, upside down and around. There is text literally everywhere as if she's hidden messages and clues throughout the book.

Soon the crowd settled down as Kari took the podium and introduced Eileen who did a 15 minute piece, which was breathtaking, both for her and for us about entering one's skin. The speed and repetitiveness felt like a rollercoaster ride on the downslope. It left everyone dizzy, in that good, let's ride it again way. Or maybe it was the wine. It caused one attendee, a painter from Atlanta who was with one of the Chris' (I obviously painstakingly can't recall her name), to say, "Eileen's writing is like ballet, we fall in line accordingly."

Next up, debuting his new book from Meritage Press was Barry Schwabsky. Rhett would comment later it was like getting hit by cannon fire, til he realized he should just sit back and relax to let the words enter him.

Afterwards we chatted a bit more over the ube bread (which you can get at Valerio's bakery in Union City, Vallejo, and Daly City) and the heavenly brie, while Barry signed his wonderful collection.

We drove home still humming its melodic arias.

Bend it like Real Women

Just watched "Bend it like Beckham." Excellent movie! But I couldn't help but compare and contrast it to another indie, "Real Women have Curves," which took on a similar idea of the younger daughter who must battle the stereotypes that their mother's set forth for them but with the Latino community.

There is the emphasis on breasts and dressing feminine, as well as what it takes to get a man and how that adds to your female status and quality. The men in each of their families are quite supportive. For the most part, they stay silent behind their wives, but then when it comes down to it, they put their foot down and give their approval. Each get full rides to their respective far away colleges, so the family can't make say they can't afford it. Interestingly enough, they both have white boyfriends who are able to understand them and are open and accepting to the differences and cultural constraints the women must face, by loving them for who they are.

I wonder what the Filipino version of "Bend it like Beckham" look like. Most of the Fil-Am movies out are about Filipino American guys making their way, nothing yet about women. hmmm....I'll get back to you.

Of prayer cards and poetry

I attended Uncle Paul's wake. I could only stop in for an hour, but thought it best to at least stop by. There would be no chance tomorrow to see him one last time.

I get there and greet all the relatives, making my way down each row. I hadn't seen anyone in years, so had to stop and chat with each one. What are you doing? What are you up to? Otherwise in their minds, I'm still 5 years old, just taller. They ask if my sister is married yet, but not me, though I'm ready to answer that too. I'm grateful they don't ask that.

Me and my sister fell in age just slightly younger than Uncle Paul's kids, but older than the oldest grandkids, so the lines between who is uncle/cousin/auntie are a bit blurred. One of the grandkids I had last seen as a scrawny teenager, I turned around and he's quite the young man. Unlike my mom's side, these 2nd and 3rd cousins have mostly boys in their families. I quickly got caught up with which kids belonged to whom, their ages, and names.

It seems like all chapels were built in the 1970s and there are always attendants that dress from that era too. This one was a woman with the large brimmed glasses, bouffant hair, and loud blue large floral dress.

All the while Uncle Paul is resting peacefully at the end of the room. Numerous large flower bouquets on each side. To the left a picture of him, with a quote from Eclesiastes 3:1. You know the one, a time for every thing. To the left, a framed photo of his college picture. He was quite the handsome fellow. Auntie is sitting in the first pew flanked by other aunties some widowed others not, some of their faces are weary, tears are heavy. Each new person only reminds her of why they are there. It is hard. They were married for 50 years.

This is the 7th wake I've attended in my life (two for family of friends, 3 family, 2 friends). You know when you've been to a lot of wakes when you note how well the embalming went. These are things you notice. You'd hate for this person to meet their maker and not look good. He does look at peace, with a nicely squared tie and hands clasping gently a rosary. The inch long scar on his forehead from the aneurism surgery is still there.

My friend's grandmother had been a hair stylist. At her grandmother's wake, the hair stylist she had been in business with, looks at her grandmother in the coffin, takes out a comb and starts to style her grandmother's hair.

It's mostly the immediate family and retired folks there. It's early. Most everyone has not yet come home from work. I head to the back and hang out with the kids, get to know them again. One is in college, likes to fix up cars. Another is an apprentice hair colorist and make-up artist. There are other boys I don't quite know. They don't know me either. One of the older boys tells his 7-year-old sister to say hi to Ate Michelle. She's like, "who?"

I go to look at the large frames filled with pictures of the family over the years. Numerous pictures of him with each new baby. I joke with Uncle Paul's youngest son about the "Miami Vice" look he has in one picture. He replies, "I was hot! Break all sorts of girl's hearts." As his young daughter races around, I say, "oh and this one here will probably break yours."

I leave just as most everyone else is arriving. I have a class to teach. There is traffic on the freeway, but not for an accident or car crash, but for the sunset. The clouds take an unusual pattern, a strange swirl as if the lips of the Twin Peaks exhaled a smoke ring. It captures the colors of the setting sun, amazing oranges, reds, blues. If you could embrace a sunset, that's what it would have looked like.

I leave before they say the rosary, but say a private one in my heart, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for our sinners now and at the hour of our death. And may the perpetual light shine upon them. Amen"

I pick up a prayer card as I walk out the door. On the back is a poem:

Afterglow

I'd like the memory of me
to be a happy one,
i'd like to leave an afterglow
of smiles when life is done.
I'd like to leave an
echo whispering softly down the ways,
Of happy times and
laughing times and
bright and sunny days.
I'd like the tears of those who grieve,
to dry before the sun
Of happy memories that
I leave when life is done.

Uncle Paul (12/02/1927 - 10/20/2003)

My mom called, "Uncle Paul passed away this morning."

Uncle Paul was my grandfather's 1st cousin. Growing up, we didn't know many Filipinos except for Uncle Paul, his brother, and some of their friends. My parents didn't have family here except for them which was a good thing, otherwise I would have been writing this from Alamo, TX. Most of our social gatherings revolved around these few families who had planted roots in Oakland.

We would visit Uncle Paul in the Oakland avenues. It was a rough neighborhood, but I wasn't old enough to read the newspaper to know the difference between good hoods and bad ones. Though his kids were technically my dad's 2nd cousins, they were closer to our age and called my dad uncle.

Uncle Paul also worked for the City of Oakland. Me and my sister would visit my mom in City Hall and always run into Uncle Paul in the elevator. He had those 1970s thick black rimmed glasses, he was thin, with a receding hairline. As a kid, I never knew what he did there. When we asked my mom once, she said, "he makes coffee." OK, I thought, he makes coffee. In reality, he was an engineer for the city, but since most things were up and running and nothing needed to be built, there wasn't much to do, so he made coffee.

When I got a bit older, I asked my mom again, what Uncle Paul does. This time she added, "he erases numbers so he can add them again." So I imagined Uncle Paul sitting at his desk with a pencil, eraser, and calculator, erasing his marks only to write them down just as before, like a man who has finished the last crossword puzzle only to erase it so he can do it again.

I always thought of him as the quiet brother, who didn't say much, compared to his more gregarious brother, Uncle Fel. But he had eyes that sparkled within the dark frames. A humble, quiet man, who was quite religious.

When I was five, my parents went to some kind of evening event with them. I hid under a chair, upset that they were leaving at night and going out into that deep dark world. I was scared. He coaxed me out and reassured me that it would be ok and that they would be back. He had that way with kids, knowing what they needed.

When I was in elementery school, we got a call. Uncle Paul was in the hospital, an aneurism in his brain. I imagined him lying on a table under a bright light with the surgeons hunched around him as if in a soap opera drama. He made it through, I don't know how, but he lived. An avid smoker, he quit cold turkey after that. He had two grandchildren at the time and I know he wanted to stick around for them. He would live long enough to add several more grandchildren and watch the oldest ones graduate high school.

As the years have gone by, I've seen less and less of that side of the family, though all my years growing up, they were our closest kin. Families have grown up and we don't get together as often as adults. It seems like we only see each other nowadays at weddings or funerals. The last time I saw Uncle Paul was maybe 3-4 years ago at a house warming. He carried around an oxygen tank for his emphazema. Still looked good, modern medicine does amazing things like give someone an extra decade and half to live.

The family will gather Friday to say our last goodbyes and send him off with our final prayers. I wish we were getting together for a happier moment, but what's family if we can't come together during our sad ones.

in the valley of cayuga park

It is dawn, but still no sun. Only the gray satellite dishes know the direction of its rays through the fog. To the east, Alemany, to the west, BART tracks rising high above the landscape. The wood spirits cry aloha through the mist, their houses painted brightly, a kali warrior with ponytailed locks stands guard. The tall grass gives the illusion of an even playing field masking deep holes and irregular rocks. A black caddie with double manifold rising from its hood sits in the dead end announcing its presence with a bass beat. Snoop Dogg extols, "Rollin down the street, smokin indo, sippin on gin and juice. Laid back (with my mind on my money and my money on my mind)" Its 10am, most of his homies are still asleep. At the house across the way seven Asian women each with a tupperware container hop into a minivan. Every 5 minutes the train passes overhead. An old man carries his granddaughter in a bright red cloth strapped to his back, her black hair peeking over its edges. He tells her story of the old country as he walks up the graffittied staircase to Alemany. As a boy I would walk in morning mist such as this.

a wallflower at heart

Some friends invited us to a lavish housewarming. They had built the home from scratch and we had watched it evolved over the past couple of years. But a building is just a building and doesn't really become a home until you bring in your life, which is what the housewarming was for. Invited was a select group of probably the couple's closest and most significant friends, neighbors, etc. (Thus me and the beau were quite honored to be on the list!)

People they didn't think would come, came. Numerous folks from the east coast, and one group from Japan. Sure they came to visit the bay and the valley, but they came also I feel because they understood the housewarming.

So in this home were less than 6 degrees of separation, more like 4 degrees at most who knew this couple, wandering the halls. Some they had seen recently, others they had not seen in years, some had only contact over email or phone. I would watch as they wandered through the house, remembering items from previous abodes.

This table is from New York. I remember this item from San Francisco.

While we had known the couple for only a few years, there were people here who had known them for half a lifetime if not more. As they walked the house, you could see them filling in the gaps, both reflecting on when they had first known the couple to now.

As incredibly social as some of my friends make me out to be, in the end, I'm really a bit of a wallflower and really don't know how to chat, so usually I just listen as other people talk or fall into my wander and watch mode. I would say that I would like to be a fly on the wall, but the husband is quite the bug killer. Suffice it, that I wouldn't be on the wall for very long.

I did meet the neighbors down the hill, whose daughter shared my name, which in general caused them to like people named Michelle. I found out about their family of wild burros living on their land and the fire that swept on their property a few years ago and the providence of the 4pm wind change that saved the "praying" tree and home.

I must say that the couple was quite adept at the seating arrangements, placing people who would probably get along. We had 3 photographers and 4-5 writers/poets. And since the food and wine were exquisite, we all got to be food gourmands. You know when the food is good when each course, no matter how small, leaves one utterly satisfied.

The table was completely confused over the number of utensils at the table. We all knew the general rules about working our way from outside to in. Since the wait service took away plates and utensils that were no longer necessary, we got the answer to our questions after each course. By the end of the evening there was no doubt which fork to use because there was only one left.

There were 4 glasses for wines. Being a novice wine drinker, I would listent to the words passed around the table, like "fresh" and "tannins" and the need for the wine to "breathe." It was like learning a new language, but with your taste buds. Each sip trying to bind words to taste and sensation.

The beau and I had just watched a fashion television show on The Filipino Channel (the satellite tv of ABS-CBN, a major network in the Philippines). The show was general fluff: metrosexuals (single men, with lots of money, and narcissistic enough to be more obsessed with their beauty than most people, but they weren't gay), and fine dining. The fine dining was particularly interesting about the way in which spoons should scoop for soups, how not to eat off of other people's plates to taste, and other formalities of fine dining. Though I understand the need for fine eating ettiquette, it was interesting to see how the way Filipinos interact with food and social eating are contrary to what's considered "fine eating." But more for that on another blog.

Since I'm a sweet tooth, desert was my favorite part of the meal. It was apples and cinnimon on a delectable buttery and flakey pastry with homemade vanilla ice scream followed by an earthquake cookie that simple exploded chocolate in your mouth.

It was already midnight and many of the guests were making their way home. Sandy, being the ever observant poet, asked, "what about the port and cigars?" as noted at the bottom of the menu cards. Indeed a cigar would aptly crown a fine evening full of food and friends.

A handful of guests were staying the night at the christened home. So, with cigar box in hand and uncorked bottle of port, we made our way to a moonfilled porch under the stars in the valley. Though I'm not a heavy drinker, nor a cigarette smoker, I don't mind a cigar now and then, simply for the fact that it's easy to simply taste and puff out as opposed to swallowing it down to your lungs.

My friend Don and I have come across our own ritual between us, that whenever one of us visits the other (we live across the oceans now) we try to make sure there's time to share a fine cigar and liquor, such as tanduay rum or perhaps a fine bottle of wine. Don is such a bad influence. He's the one who introduced me to cigar smoking and wine drinking. It's important to have "bad influences" in one's life.

My beau had never smoked a cigar before. Actually, a few of us had not and it took a few tries to get them lit. Our hostess for the evening, being a fine hostess that she is, taught us the one thing she knew about smoking cigars and port. You dip the non-lit end into the port, then take a puff. You get a kind of swirl of flavors spicy and sweet.

She couldn't recall where she learned that from. I just figured it was her Illocano genes kicking in. Eduardo Masferre, a photographer that travelled throughout the Cordillera mountainous regions, chronicled many a cigar smoking woman. Illocanos know how to smoke a cigar.

As the moon came overhead, we called it a night. I brushed the cigar soot from my mouth. So, I'm all ready for bed, tucked nicely away, barely a sound to be heard in the valley, the moon casting a blue hue on the patio table just outside, our cigar butts left to cool. Then the sound of camera shutter, click, click, click. It's the beau shuttering away. How else can you capture the essence of the kind of evening we just had?

Working in reverse

I read a poem at the "Day of Ray" celebration in Jack London Square last Sunday. It was an excellent event with many fine bands and booths representing many of the organizations that Ray supported or was an active member of. There was a Native American drumming group that spoke of songs written from a person's first screams when they are born. And the Planetary Coral Reef Foundation that did dances from the Solomon Islands. I'm not sure how Ray did it. How he managed to balance all these things in his life. He was on the board of at least a dozen organizations on top of being everything else.

Now that Ray is gone. I think a lot of the people who knew him are asking the same question. How did he do it? How can we do the same in the hopes of filling the void he left behind? But in seeing all these people there, it seems to me that Ray wouldn't ask any of us to be like him, but instead be who we are, and do what we do.

They played a video about people speaking about Ray. And appropriately enough, Ray spoke the last words, from an inspirational talk he gave:

Be like water. Be gentle with the things that come along your flow. Be gentle with the thing that come along your flow. Be like water. Through the rapids, gurgle and bubble if you must. Through the rapids, gurgle and bubble if you must. Knowing, that the pieces of you will come together as one again to form your stream. Be soft. Be gentle. Like water.

[not quite a direct quote, but the phrases that stuck in my mind]

In the spirit of Ray, and in the idea that each person does what they can, a list of "ten simple things you can do to save coral reefs."

From the Planetary Coral Reef Foundation:

1. Conserve water - the less water you use, the less runoff and wastewater will pollute our oceans.
2. Use only ecological or organic fertilizers in your gardens and on your lawns. Chemicals and pesticides flow into the water system, pollute the ocean, and can travel on ocean currents at great distances, doing harm to coral reefs and other sea life.
3. Plant a Tree - you will reduce runoff into the oceans. You will also contribute to reversing the global warming of our planet and the rising temperatures of our oceans.
4. Organize a beach clean-up. Garbage pollutes ocean waters and harms coral reefs and other sea life.
5. When you visit a coral reef, practice reef safe diving and snorkeling. Do not touch the reef or anchor your boat on the reef.
6. Interview your family, friends, and neighbors. Ask them what they know about coral reefs and the coral reef crisis. Ask them what they are doing to save coral reefs.
7. Write to your government representatives and demand they take action to protect coral reefs, stop sewage pollution of our oceans, expand marine protected areas and take steps to reverse global warming.
8. Support and volunteer for organizations like PCRF that work to protect coral reefs, oceans, rivers, lakes or other waters in your area. Clean water is important everywhere. All watersheds affect the oceans and eventually, the coral reefs.
9. Learn more about coral reefs, their remarkable biodiversity and the special role they play as messengers for the health of our oceans and the world.
10. Build Wastewater Gardens (ecological waste recycling systems) in your home, school, or community.

The Philippines has some of the richest coral reefs in the world. Efforts continue in education to local fishermen who help protect and maintain the reefs by using non-poisoning methods of fishing and to reduce dynamite fishing. (Check my June archives about diving in Camiguin, Philippines). Though we're an ocean away, the efforts we make here are only a shoreline away.

sigh...

The distance between hope and remorse is 60 ft 6 inches long. A 5 oz. white leather stitched ball holds the volume of 60 years of expectation. 80,000 eyes watch its rotation. Ash wood cracks, drowned by stadium filled cheers, the sound of broken hearts. Hands mask disappointed faces. Winter comes early and long.

what lurks behind the blog

Haven't posted in a while. I'm recuperating from last week when I was just inundated with wine, tastes, smells, people, music, sounds. To recap: 2 year old, 4 house guests (in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath place), various wine tasting and trips to Napa, a poetry reading at a festival for a fine fine human being, 3 new poetry books (maraming salamats to Aimee, Barbara, and Sandy!), voting against the recall, rehearsal for a kulintang gig this week, dinner with my parents, and the regular job and kali class schedule. whew!

A friend of mine emailed, "haven't you noticed that although your calendar starts out empty and pristine that by the end of the month it's filled with dates, gatherings, and appointments?" I didn't quite know how to break it to her that life gets that way.

Now that life has settled a bit, I'm just soaking it all in. I believe in quiet time.

My house growing up was filled with people all the time. Numerous uncles and aunts came to live with us on and off. Being the shy, quiet one, I often sought refuge outside my home to find some quiet. Sometimes I would go to school early and just sit in the empty classroom, watching it slowly fill with light and sound and movement. During the summer, I would spend afternoons sitting on the playstructure watching the shadows creep longer and longer.

I do that now. But I find that sometimes I find my quiet time in the midst of noise and motion, like driving on the freeway early morning on weekends nothing to think about except the road or when I'm attending my teacher's kali class and I just get to be the student. In the motion of the kali, it's like being in the eye of a storm, while everything swirls around you, there is a calm and silence in the center. My friends have often called me the calm in the eye of the storm.

Here's a trick! I had my students spar. I told one of them to take slow deep breaths, his hands went faster than I'd ever seen them go! It was SO cool! I asked him how fast he thought he was going. He said about the same or a bit slower. There's something about the rhythm of our hearts and breath that keeps time in our life. Our perception of how fast the world is moving seems to be tied with our breaths. In taking long slow breaths, the world seems to move slower and we're able to notice detail. I tell my students it's just like the Matrix.

I'm such a sci-fi geek!

Which Sci-fi character are you?

I'm Galadriel.

[Yes, this is a very geeky thing to do. I won't tell if you won't.]

the coolest thing!

Perusing Victor Ganata's Fato Profugus, I stumbled upon the coolest thing. He wrote a program that will roughly translate whatever you want into the alibata script. Take note that many things do not translate well in alibata, particularly english words, but it will give you its best shot at it. While there, read up on the alibata, and check out some of Victor's poetry.

wines, music, poetry, cigars, photographs, vacuuming

I do not remember where I learned to dip cigars into the wine of blue moonlight

nor how a lens shutter enters my dreams of roaring rapids

the voice

through the rapids, gurgle and bubble if you must
through the rapids, gurgle and bubble if you must
be soft and gentle as water

from the song of your first screams
they shall write a melody,

it
will
be
as
your
name,

sung to call you home
sung to call you home

a moment to watch apples fall from trees that do not hit the ground

the white paint clothes his dark skin

propoganda for the new age

I am inadequate for marxist theory, like an alien out of phase of the continuum

the way film and paper are blind to rainbows
the way film and paper are blind to rainbows

and burros graze mountaintops

and illiterate writers have no context for names

the blades of grass will sing my song

and I will remember the taste of blue moonlight that coats my tongue

gray

I'm sure the downstairs neighbors are relieved

My partner's sister's family have gone home, along with their 2-year-old. It's quiet now and there are no more music playing kiddie toys. I'm sure the downstairs neighbors are relieved. She enjoyed high stepping her left foot and letting it hit with a thud. And the morning "I-hate-baths" scream will no longer be anyone's alarm clock.

Too bad. I was getting good at reading "Fox in Socks" out loud with their "tweetle beetle puddle paddle battles on a noodle eating poodle."

Makes me want to write a silly sounding rhyming poem now.

Domination and Submission

A brief stop at Aimee and Barbara's reading, I picked up a few flyers.

9th Annual Women of Color Film Festival: Call for Submissions

No Entry fee if you submit by Monday, November 3. Final deadline December 1.

Films or Videos may be of any length, genre and format, and must be less than 3 years old. Preview copy of submission must be in VHS format. Please do not send originals. We are not responsible for damage incurred during shipping. Please include a self-addressed stamped envelope if you would like your submission returned.

Send submissions to:

Women of Color Film Festival Project

c/o Pacific Film Archive

2625 Durant Ave

Berkeley, CA 94720-2250

wocfilmproject@uclink.berkeley.edu

maganda magazine: Call for Submission issue number 17 - Rennaisance
DEADLINE: Monday, December 1, 2003

Submissions of literary (3 hard copies or text format attachment), visual(slides or prints), video (VHS format) and audio (mp3 format) are welcome. Please include: contact info (name, address, phone, email), Brief Biography (no more than 150 words), cover letter. Do not send originals.

Submit to:

maganda@uclink.berkeley.edu

maganda magazine

18 Eshleman Hall

Berkeley, CA 94720

How California is becoming more like the Philippines every day

1. Jollibee's, Max's Chicken, Ma Mon Lok, Red Ribbon Bakery
   
2. water rationing
   
3. rolling blackouts
   
4. mosquito borne diseases (west nile virus)
   
5. action hero actors as politicians
   
6. smog
   
7. You can watch ABS-CBN anywhere
   
8. Billboard ads are in Tagalog
   
9. ousting of leaders before the full term is up
   
10. tsinelas are now in fashion for every day use
    

Gila Monster Tuesday Today

So if you've finished voting and need something else to do besides watch exit polls on TV, come to 209 Dwinelle and check out Aimee Nezhukumatathil and Barbara Jane Reyes at 6pm today.

Props to the sister on Telegraph and Bancroft

Standing on Telegraph and Bancroft was the old Chinese man who comes out now and then with his placards espousing his views of the U.S., China, Michael Jackson, and the Olympics. He stands on an upside down plastic drum on top of a folding chair. He knows little English but is often heard saying phrases like, "George Bush no good" or "U.S. no good" or "shame shame shame" and "happy happy happy."

Sometimes people argue with him. Most let him be.

Today a Caucasian guy tells him, "hey, why don't you go back to China if you don't like it here?!"

At that an Asian woman who would have simply walked by and let them talk replied to the heckler, "You may not agree to what he has to say, but he has a right to stand here and say what he wants."

The Heckler replies, "But I have a right to say something back to him."

Asian woman: "I'm not going to let you say racist things to him. And YES, it WAS RACIST!"

====

So the Heckler didn't think telling someone to go back to China was racist. Why not? Because he feels that immigrants have a choice, non-immigrants don't have a choice.

That seems to be a really weak argument. It's not really about whether there is a choice to stay or leave (that choice is available for both immigrants and non-immigrants).

It's about who has rights in this country. Don't immigrants have a right to speak their mind and criticize the U.S. government like non-immigrants? Would the heckler have told a black man to go back to Africa? Would he have told a white guy to go back to Europe? Probably not.

As Asians, as part of this immigrant community, we are often told to go back to where we came from when people don't like what we have to say. As if we, whether native born or immigrant, do not have a right to choose to stay here.

Everyone wants free speech, but not everyone wants the responsibility for having to listen to it.

Mini-monster in my living room

Well, not really a monster, but my partner's 2 year old niece. Her family is staying at my place as they visit my partner and the area.

She's not really a monster. She's really very sweet. They've been here for a few days now. I'm really enjoying having the little tyke running around the house.

I come from a large extended family and helped raise or at least watched dozens of cousins grow up. We don't mind kids running around the house. It's a part of life. Walls can be painted over, messes picked up, windows windexed, but how long is someone 2 years old?

She's entertaining to watch. The other day she found her bellybutton and has been showing it off to everyone. She's very proud of her bellybutton. She's not yet talking, but she smiles and giggles and on occassion screams a tone, especially when she has to take a bath. And she kind of knows how to shake her head from left to right to say no. She knows when her mommy is not in the room and knows how to find her.

The "therapists" say she's "slightly retarded" and they scribble notes madly when she says certain "tones" or "vowels." I just roll my eyes. Kids grow up when they're ready. She can hear her name being called and can locate noise and sound. (My grandmother said my aunt didn't talk for a while. At first they thought she might have been a deaf-mute, but she wasn't.) The 2-year old just doesn't want to talk. Eventually, she'll figure it out with or without the therapists.

They say she's "slow" because she isn't as "vocal" as the other kids, mostly because I realized, she's tactile. She touches stuff. She likes to touch the plants and the liquid inside cups. She likes to touch people's faces and hold onto things. This is followed by tasting stuff, such as crayons and leaves.

She may not say anything, but she certainly knows how to steal lumpia and string beans off your plate then run off giggling amused at her successful theft. She is already developing the Filipino trait of pointing with her lips. When you ask her where mommy or daddy or the fish are, she'll turn her head in that direction, then look back at you. She hasn't quite gotten the lip pucker yet.

She is up all the time, walks the same pattern on the floor for a few minutes, through the kitchen around the living room, down the hall and back. Sometimes she'll stop when she notices something new. She's fascinated by people's sneakers. She'll sit and look at them for a while. When we put her own sneakers on she kept looking at them when she walked wondering where she got them from. I forget that most of her world is seen from the knees down. Maybe she'll design shoes when she grows up.

I think she's part cat. In the morning, she'll wake up early, go over to where her uncle is sleeping and sit on her knees bent over and staring, just watching him sleep. Then, she'll plop her hand on his face with a thud. If he stirs, she giggles and laughs. High end experiments for 2 year olds.

She's learned to climb up steps with ease, a modified crawling. And learned to slide down them butt first. She did this for 30 minutes. She throws her head back and looks at the ceiling. This is very amusing for her. She laughs. It's funny.

Maybe I should do that too. Throw my head back, look at the sky, and think this world is a funny place and laugh.

The Gila Monster is loose in the Bay Area!

Aimee Nezhukumatathil is making the rounds in the SF Area. Tonight she's at Moe's on Telegraph in Berkeley. Thursday, she'll be in 209 Dwinelle Hall, UC Berkeley campus, 6pm with Barbara Jane Reyes.

Take a peek at APAture

Pictures of Kearny Street Workshop's APAture event are now up!

You know it's Friday, You know it's Berkeley

...when you're at Telegraph and Bancroft, the Graduate Student Instructors are picketting, the Hare Krishna are beating their drums, and a guy in an Elvis outfit is passing our flyers.

Second Chances

Check out TLC (The Learning Channel) at 1p today and you might see a blog/poet/kali instructor you might know. Will also replay Oct 21.

Noon Nom and vessels

Opening soon at B1808 is the exhibit "Noon Nom and Vessels" by Pinaree Sanpitak.

Just saw the preview. The exhibit is literally an experience. In particular check out the Noon Nom, a room stuffed with large pillows like dollups of marshmallows. Take your shoes off and wade on in, take a seat, lie down. It's a tactile and emotional experience you don't want to miss.

Moving: stuff around

I know of at least half a dozen people who have moved residences in the last 2 months. And they know even more people who have moved. It seems like everyone is moving. And me? Well, I've been selling all their leftover stuff at a garage sale.

My feng shui teacher tells me that in each place we live in, there are lessons to be learned. When we're done with the lesson, we move into new a space. Though it's quite possible that we move into a place with the same exact lessons, for the most part it's good to be in a new place.

I've got no plans on moving anywhere. I'm just moving stuff around. My partner's family is coming up for a visit. Where are they staying? um...my place. They're very good incentive to clean. And though I'm not moving, I can move stuff around to make my place feel like a new place.

Now, since I live alone, my place is pretty messy. Though many of us our really slobs at home, we really don't want anyone to know. But, it's been good. It's good to move stuff around, go through piles, divide them into shred, recycle/trash, save. Throwing stuff out feels good. The SO, who isn't the biggest neat freak either, has been helping me out. Cleaning other people's stuff is easy, there's no emotional attachment to anything. You just see the pile and think if it ain't something that's useful now, it's gone. I can always clean other people's stuff. When I clean my stuff, I get sentimental or I think that I might use something some day. But what really happens is that 1) I forget where any of this stuff is and 2) I end up buying the part anyway. I have 5 rolls of twine and 6 rolls of tape because of this. sigh. Fortunately, you can always use twine and tape.

We finished the main bedroom a few days ago and did most of the living room. We've got 3 more days.

Of course, when you're done cleaning, then you have a garage sale. We had our second garage sale a few weeks ago. Teamed up with other folks who also don't have garages to have a garage sale in Alameda, the Mecca of garage sales. In this town, it's a religion. For the first sale, we posted in the Alameda Journal. We met all the "regulars." There's the woman looking for costume jewelry, the Chinese guy looking for tools, etc. And they all know each other. When you say the sale is at 9, they come at 8 and ask if you need help bringing stuff out.

Garage sale regulars have a sense of urgency in their lives. For one, they double park. Sometimes they turn off the engine, sometimes they don't. If there are people mingling in the garage, they don't. It's as if they think that while they take this time parking, that next great Antiques Roadshow item will be bought and gone. There are others that do a slow drive by. You can tell they're regulars when they say that $1 is too expensive or pricey.

We don't really care. To us it's junk or stuff we can't/don't use anymore, so as long as we don't have to haul the stuff back home, whether we get a buck for it or not, it's all good. Garage sales are pretty busy for the first couple of hours then there's the noon to 2 lull, then picks up again during the last hour.

The last hour is by far the best. This is when you can meet the marathon garage sale folks, the ones looking for the last minute deal on stuff. And we gave them that deal, $1 per bag. Guranteed there will be a van full of folks come by and take a van full of stuff with them. This time it was 4 Filipino women whose mini-van was already filled to the brink. But at a $1 a bag, your imagination goes nuts. You think, the thing is not perfect but for a $1, I'm sure I could find someone who wants it.

It's all just stuff. But we put so much into it: what is once was, what it could be. We rarely think about what it's doing now (mostly sitting in closets gathering dust). It doesn't become something magical until we touch it and do something with it and live a part of our lives with it.

Speaking of "Cleaning House," I'll be doing several readings in the SF Bay Area for "Going Home to a Landscape" (November 2003, Calyx), an anothology of Filipino women's writing which contains my poem entitled, "Cleaning House". November 1 at Pusod. November 16 at Bindlestiff. December 2 at City Lights.