a masochistic alumni

Every Thanksgiving weekend is the alumni basketball game at my old high school. We didn't have football, so basketball was the big thing. Names like Jason Kidd and Ray Young came from the school. Banners of retired jerseys and proclamations of state championships line the gym walls. The guys play the junior varsity team and the varsity team, the women play the game in between. Unlike the guys who want to come back and play, most women come back, but only watch. If I go, I play. Might as well. Don't get a chance to play at all during the year, but I'll play.

There were 8 of us. Sarah, from the class of 91, plays every year like clockwork. Their team is big this year, we can barely keep up with them. I write my name on the sheet with my graduation year. I'm the next oldest player. I am now at least 10 years older than my opponents. Time to stretch. Going to need lots of stretching.

Mark Curry, from "Hanging with Mr. Cooper" fame, is an alum as well. He brings his 1 year old daughter over to stretch with us, says she's a future Pilot. The basketball is half her size, she releases her hug and lets it dribble to the floor.

It's a few minutes into the game before anyone scores. We stay pretty even the first quarter, then trail behind for the rest of the game. We sub in when we can. But I have to admit the bench feels good. If I focus, I'm able to get some bursts of speed to slow down the ball, maybe encourage a steal or a turnover. I manage to get to the foul line. I haven't been on a foul line for 10 years. Fortunately, I still have a pretty pure shot. There's a ritual to the shot. It's a gimme, but few practice it. Bounce twice, spin the ball backwards in my hands, bend the legs, look up at the basket, shoot. I feel my legs leaden as I lower myself. Legs, I think, get the ball up. Swish! one! whew! do it again! The ball releases I feel it spin straight from my fingertips....in! quick, now run back.

The game ends. We shake the other teams hand. For the record, I got a rebound, 2 points, a gym burned knee and played about 20 minutes.

My brother and I sit behind the alumni bench to watch the guys play the varsity team. Only a few of them continued playing through college. Most play street ball. The refs call often trying to protect the high school kids from the large guys. The alums end up losing but not without a bit of fun showboating for the crowd. Mark Curry sits on the bench as honorary coach. He gets up now and then, looks down the bench as if wanting to send someone in, then sits down deciding it better to not. A comedian to the last.

There's something about the comeraderie of basketball that I miss. The plays in the huddle, the drama of seconds ticking by, or calculating how many plays, how many points, before the game is over. The beauty of the arc of the ball as it swishes to the hoop. The trash talking from the stands. I played basketball for 7 years growing up. I can't help but miss it. Even when I don't play, it only takes a minute or two to get back into gear, I just can't run as much.

I woke up this morning under warm covers, the rain pelting the window, not wanting to move, knowing moving would bring me to the reality of the soreness. But it was fun! I don't mind. It brings me back to a lot of fond memories growing up. I was a decent player, but not that great and not as good as I could have been. But there are moments on the court, when your body moved in ways with grace and power that astounded me, the potential of being. Takes your breath away in more ways than one.

stuffed and stuffed

I'm behind on blogging. In the mental blogging queue: Anti-Martial law movement, pinoy comedy, and on eating dog.

Some entertaining reading coming up indeed.

We opted not to do turkey and got prime rib instead for the Thanksgiving day. I remember the first Thanksgiving for my cousin when he arrived from the Philippines. He had never seen a drumstick so large and could not imagine the animal that might have had a leg so huge. In his eyes, this land called America truly as large as they said in stretched out tales.

However for the Thanksgiving eve dinner, the SO and I went to Ranch 99 and got some live Dungeness Crab (Tis the season for crab). There was one Thanksgiving where all we had was crab. I remember the stack of a dozen or so red shelled beasts steaming on the tray. Asian people can be picky about their crab as customers told the seafood guy to keep reaching into this tank of really pissed off crab to find the biggest ones. Another guy bought 10 crab and asked them to be cleaned. Cleaning crab means taking off the shells and clearing the gills. It also means getting rid of tastiest parts! sayang!

Of course, the best way to cook crab is when it's live. We could either just steam the crab for 30 minutes or boil it for 6-8 minutes. We chose boiling as it would kill the crabs much more quickly. Once the water was at a rolling boil, I looked at the SO and said OK you can put them in now. He looked at me and said, "I thought you were going to do it. I'll take the pictures." sigh, very well.

The crabs knew what was coming, they held onto each other and to the paper bag. I pulled the first one out and I looked at him/her/hym (how do I know what sex a crab is?) and thanked him/her/it. I know I'm high on the food chain and I think it's important to acknowledge the animal. Lifting the lid, the steam rising high, I placed the crab in to the pot shell side down. A few seconds and it was over for the crab.

We cooked three crabs. The last one was a fighter even upside down. Almost pushed the pot off the stovetop. Hey, if I were a crab about to be put into a boiling pot, I'd fight to the end.

Some people don't like to see the heads or bodies of the food they eat. I don't mind. I think it's important to see that this fillet of fish or steak was once something living. And to acknowledge its life and give it thanks.

ay, nakakainis!

One of my favorite words, "nakakainis" = something that is annoying. [nah-Kah-kah-ee-NEESE] I like how saying it even sounds annoying. Nakakainis! like something that just gets underneath your skin. Nakakinis!

Nakakainis #1 - spent 3 months working on setting up this Macintosh server at work. the staff is starting to use it. lots of little problems popping up. which is fine. but I can't stand when my Windows platform coworkers declare failure and instantly try to think up some Windows answer to the problem that hasn't been tested, hasn't been worked out. "Let's start from scratch and use a whole other system and machine, etc."

Ironically, I might have found out these little problems earlier if said tech guy had read previous emails to the group asking the Windows tech people for some help in checking to see if it works. As a Mac person, I try to be open to the use of the other platforms, I really do. But give it a chance, why don't ya! It's amazing. Windows tech people will spend days and days trying to fix something, tweak something til it's semi-stable. But the second a Mac starts to break, they give up.

And they wonder why Mac people are so "defensive" and why we can't help but gloat when they're running around patching up the latest attack on machines.

Nakakainis #2 - The Last Samurai
I saw the trailer for this movie before "Matrix: revolutions." My friend behind me commented, "I'm so glad white people are there to tell our story. How else do we get onto the big screen?" Certainly the "way" they are marketing this is quite nakakainis.

From Paolo Javier:

"Casting beautiful Asian women for Warner Bros.' The Last Samurai PremiereAfter-party to be held in Westwood on Dec 1st.. Women will be dressed as village women from the film's wardrobe department and mingle 'in character'through the party, helping to create the ambience of ancient Japan, circa 1870's. There is no pay, but a chance to be part of this year's biggest Hollywood premiere with a guest list including Tom Cruise and the rest of The Last Samurai's fantastic cast!!

If interested please forward a picture and information ASAP to:

Cheryl Rave
Entertainment Producer
Warner Bros. Special Events

Why do I sense the exploitation of Asian women exoticism? Why aren't Asian men asked to come out in 1870s dress to be 'in character'? And I like the aspect that there's "NO PAY" for a big blockbuster movie like this? My only compensation is to be relatively "near" a superstar that will probably walk right past me? thanks.

Nakakainis #3 - SPAM email about how Kali is not a real term in relation to Filipino Martial arts
I do not know who this art of war guy on yahoo is. And I don't know why he's sending me his response to quotes from Leo Gaje, Jr. the head of the Pekiti Tersia Kali International association. Apparently, he has some issue with Mr. Gaje's explanation for the term Kali, which I must say, don't make much sense, but neither do the responses. I get email like this now and then about how there is no "proof" that Kali was ever used for Filipino martial arts and how it is a "new" term in comparison to "arnis" and "escrima" which are Spanish terms. Everybody wants proof. Everybody wants some piece of paper that certifies authenticity. Everybody wants to be more "indigenous" than the other. Where does this get anyone? As if they've taken up the role of cultural police.

As far as I know the term Kali was told to my teacher by Grandmaster Largusa who said he got it from his teacher, who was certainly using it well before 1957, the year most people quote the term Kali first being used. And whether or not it is a new term or an old term, it's being used now and that's valid enough for me. What I don't get is that I've seen all sorts of schools make up new terms and new titles, all the time!

It's unfortunately true that the Philippines due to wars, colonization and simply the tropical weather, has lost artifacts that could possibly tell us more about the history of its people. In reality, we may never know. And I may never have the kind of "proof" that art of war at yahoo will ever find "valid," but I have the one that counts deep in my heart of hearts.

All I can say, may art of war at yahoo find his/her "truth."

It's good to be a Goddess

Thus far: I'm a Goddess protector geek who is statistically a guy banished to the 2nd Level of Hell even though I am only 21% evil. [Boy, those standards for hell have gone down over the centuries, probably because Heaven won't take anyone but the purest of hearts. How boring!] You may also call me Trinity or Galadriel. And my 80s theme music is "Sweet Dreams" by the Eurythmics.

What this all really says about the kind of person I am? Absolutely nothing, except that I'm on the internet extensive hours each day finding out about these tests, taking them, and posting the results. hahaha!


You are Form 1, Goddess: The Creator.

"And The Goddess planted the acorn of life.
She cried a single tear and shed a single drop
of blood upon the earth where she buried it.
From her blood and tear, the acorn grew into
the world."

Some examples of the Goddess Form are Gaia (Greek),
Jehovah (Christian), and Brahma (Indian).
The Goddess is associated with the concept of
creation, the number 1, and the element of
earth.
Her sign is the dawn sun.

As a member of Form 1, you are a charismatic
individual and people are drawn to you.
Although sometimes you may seem emotionally
distant, you are deeply in tune with other
people's feelings and have tremendous empathy.
Sometimes you have a tendency to neglect your
own self. Goddesses are the best friends to
have because they're always willing to help.


Which Mythological Form Are You?

Down for Adobo: ya'll are making me hungry

I'm down for helping organize a real time offline adobo poetry love fest. My condo has a nice rec hall complete with kitchen. All this talk of Adobo is making me hungry. And yes, Eileen, after January 16 is probably best.

Anyway, I don't believe there are any restrictions on the kind of meat or non-meat in adobo. I had heard once this fancy restaurant in NYC had rabbit adobo, but I can't confirm if anyone has eaten said dish.

Al Robles used to teach a poetry class in Oakland while people cooked, an exploration of the talk story that tends to occur around the preparation and eating of a meal. Some very delicious dishes (food and poetry) came out of those classes.

Filipinos for Affirmative Action had a Filipino cook-off fundraiser for a while. They had categories for Main Dish, Dessert, and Adobo.

the quiz obsession continues

Protector


The ULTIMATE personality test
brought to you by Quizilla

though if I take it again:

Seer


The ULTIMATE personality test

online tests for the nerd that I am

Tatang thought for sure I'd blow him away on the Geek Test. Well, of course, I'm such a geek I LIKE taking tests. I was rated "Major Geek (40.8284%)." Not only did I know what a yurt was, I indeed wanted one.

I also took the Gender test. They thought with 86% accuracy that I was just male of center and that statistically speaking I was a guy. So, I had the SO take the test too. We had always known that we were the perfect male/female energy balance. I was just enough butch for his femme. And lo and behold, he is statistically speaking a woman! whoo-hoo! Go Scarlett! (that's his femme personality name. I don't have a male personality name. Michelle in French is a guy's name anyway.) We weren't all that surprised at the result. We'd be more surprised if he was statistically a guy.

I've never believed that finding the special someone was simply about sexual gender. Each person sits somewhere on the scale between male and female energy. People have to be the right balance. I've known women with alot of "male" energy pick the most machismo guy and it NEVER works out. They're much too much alike. Hell, whether it's a woman with this balance or a man, does it really matter?

just waking up

gad, i feel like I'm waking up from a hangover. That poem hurt. Or maybe it's the two cups of black tea that this relatively caffeine-less body digested. My mind was buzzed all day. Though my body was all relaxed. Feels kind of good!

There are martial artists that do hilot/healing. My teacher practices some hilot. You can't tell the difference between when he's injuring you and when he's healing you. It hurts like hell both ways. But when he's healing, you can feel the heat emanate from you, and you feel good (once the pain subsides), like something has been released, like something let go, set free.

Maybe that's what I've been feeling. The release of this poem, set free.

words in concrete and metal

Go home, fog,
Go, fog, home.
Pelican is beating your wife
-Ohlone song

Along Addison St between Shattuck and Milvia in Berkeley are metal plaques with different quotes, poetry and sayings.

Upon Reading an Opera

I promised I would get to know him.
cover to cover. an Opera. Words standing in the
spotlight of this page. I have no patience for black
tea. He tells his friends he never sees me write
poetry. Like holding your breath through the tunnel
to make your wish come true. It is difficult.

My eyes wander. read. reread. I still have trouble
understanding what I have read. I have no patience
for black tea. wait for it to brew. He tells me that
he falls into my skin. yet I resist his entrance. Like
holding your breath through the tunnel. Scientists
have measured the amount of dilation, the flushness
of skin, the redness of lips. Pleasure, he says, is the
new pain.

Line after line. It is difficult to hang on till the last
period. Counting to 8 till the bull decides he is done.
My sister and I talk of turkey and bibingka recipes. How
I grimace as white people speak of marshmallows on
sweet yams? Is this what their face looks like when
I tell them chocolate is not an ingredient of chocolate
meat? I have no patience for black tea. I read another
poem. A balance of sugar and milk.

The tea darkens as I pour. the milk falls like mushroom
clouds. the color inside my wrists where your lips
pressed upon them, too much milk. the shade of my
tanned forehead, too much tea. I have no patience.
I will ask, what would you ask of yourself. He never
sees me write poetry as my eyes widen. the ink within
pupils. between a woman's voice crooning Mona Lisa's
smile and the theme song from Once upon a time in
China that women like cranes ruffle red tipped feathers
to. He pleads, pleasure is the new pain. Asks
me to hang on as he falls into my skin the shade of
caramel of rose petals in black tea.

it is just air.

He tells his friends he never sees me write poetry
as if, he says, "it comes from air". My eyelids widen. I
feel their tension in my cheeks. Like holding your
breath. Reading white words on white paper. the
black letters grow so I may see the spaces within
as he falls into my skin. Bautista y Lorca have
given birth to a new duende.

Please keep it secret.

He blows smoke into my mouth so I don't have
to lie about holding my breath. about cigarettes
touching lips. speak white words on white paper.
milk swirl like clouds that enter my skin. Tension
in my cheeks. flush. read. reread.

Water, mochiko, sugar, a stick of butter. simple.
reread each line. I do not understand white words
on white paper. He has never seen me write poetry.
the way lungs burn when he pleads. stay with me.
make the wish come true. the tightening of my chest.
the color of my palms. milk mushrooming clouds.
I swirl the cup as if mining for gold. find sugar
crystals, milk, and tea. He has never seen me write
poetry. My eyes widen, dissolved crystals in tea like air.

This is where I write poetry.

In my eyes, he sees, his reflection falling into my skin.
The tightening of my chest gasping, pleading for me
to stay. wait. patience. Insert the key, pull back slightly,
turn. there is a trick. hanging on. I count the pages
left. Count the minutes til closing. add. 1+1. count to
8.

ride. ride. read. ride.
resist. read. rose. rose.
red. rose. read. red. reread.
Hold on.

pleasure is the new pain. clenched. water, sugar, tea,
rose petals fall. Like holding your breath. like poems
never written. like wishes that come true. like lungs
boiling black tea. like secrets of birth. you asked me
to stay.

stay.
wait.
count.
push
the
air
deep.

hold the breath long. fall deeper into my skin.
the way sugar permeates tea. air dissolves. strain
of my neck to keep breath still while kisses
dissolve on caramel skin. hold on. while my
eyes widen as if closing them will end this dream.
Let me fall. deeper. black tea. breath. air. poetry.
my arms clutch his body. press him into me. white
words on white paper. stay with me as I fall. a pain
so great as pleasure. the pupils of my eyes.

the last period.

See Allan Manalo's LAST U.S. stand-up comedy appearance

THIS Saturday, November 22, 8pm
Pull My Finger: Fowl Comedy
Fetterly Playhouse
3467 Sonoma Blvd
$12/$10 Students


Featuring:
Allan Manalo (who is running off to start a comedy club in Las Pinas)
Mario Ubalde
Sheng Wang
Eric Leroy

More Info: http://www.marioubalde.com

For you post-modern sci-fi junkies

I always get Galadriel. Must be because I wouldn't kill my best friend to be immortal, but I get to wear a very cool and powerful ring!


You are Trinity, from "The Matrix."
Strong, beautiful- you epitomize the ultimate
heroine.


What Matrix Persona Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

If I fudge it slightly, I get Neo. Otherwise, I'm pretty much Trinity. Yeah, I would have bust a cap in the Merovingen, too.


OH, but you might want to try the other popular Quizzes on Quizilla, such as "what 80's song fits you?," "what Nemo character are you?," "What is your Vampire name?" AND "If you were a Barbie, which messed up version, would you be?"

Hay(na)ku with Balagtasan inklings

Looks like Tatang is making good use of his special government grant. He started another blog Hay(na)ku, Tatang! where there is currently a discussion between Ferdinand Marcos and Benigno Aquino in Hay(na)ku form.

SPAM poetry

OH that Wily Filipino being as wily as he is, beat me to the punch by posting a SPAM poetry. See, and people don't believe me when I say that poetry just comes delivered in my inbox.

wine + art + theater

This Friday, November 21 Asian American Theater Company is hosting AATC Art and Wine Institute at the Blue Room Gallery. Tickets are $40, which includes a selection of 3 wines, a lesson in wine drinking and wines as well as delicious stuff to nibble on. 50% of the proceeds go towards AATC NewWorks Incubator project a new writer/actor program in the hopes of creating new works for AATC.

more about the Bindlestiff reading

Check out the the Nightjar for more descriptions of the Going Home reading at Bindlestiff.

the grumpy post

Leny had asked how poets deal with grumpy. Now that I'm grumpy, I might as well take a stab at it. As to why I'm grumpy, I'm not really sure, maybe a dip in the hormones, or just the gradual cycle of moods. ya, can't always be on the up.

I realize I don't write when I'm grumpy. Actually, I stay away from people. I don't like to schlep off my grumpiness unto others to pass it around. Grumpiness can be as contagious as yawning. Kind of nasty domino effect. In practice, I try to diffuse grumpiness, whether mine or someone else's.

I don't like being grumpy and I tend not to have anything to say. But I am forcing myself to write through this grumpiness. I tend to become a recluse when I'm grumpy and if forced to be socialble, head to the sides and keep my mouth shut. I don't like being grumpy, my shoulders get all stiff, my eyes frown, things everywhere annoy me.

I tend to go an veg in front of the tv: watch sci-fi, mindless reality shows. Usually in grumpy phase it's good to avoid the news, news tends to raise the grumpy level. And because I'm just grumpy at everything, I don't have much to say, which is why I tend not to write. I tighten up, my shoulders harden, my breath is constricted. It doesn't make for writing for me.

When I write, I don't think of anything. It's almost like watching tv but in my head. I watch pictures in my head go by, then write them down. Which doesn't mean I've never written angry poetry or painful poetry, but I feel like that emotion passes through me in the moment of writing. Afterwards is when I feel it, like coughing after a billowing car drives by. I'm actually really relaxed when I write poetry. I want it to come and I want to receive it, which I can't do if I'm involved with dealing with my own emotion like grumpiness.

I'm really not myself when I write poetry. I'm not exactly sure who I am, but I'm not me, the me that is concerning herself with this day to day life I'm living nor the self dealing with this icky feeling of grumpiness. Tatang has taken various pictures of me in different performances and states and I'm never sure who that person is in the photograph. Perhaps it is me, but it's a me I'm not too well acquainted or a part of me that doesn't talk, just moves.

Poet Russell Gonzaga once told me this story about this great Muslim fighter. This man challenged him and so before the fight he prayed to Allah. They battle, then the challenger falls. As the great Muslim fighter raises his sword to deliver the last blow, the challenger spits in his face. The Muslim fighter stops, then walks away. The challenger asks him, why he did not deliver the last blow? He replied that when the challenger spit in his face, he felt anger. If he had killed in anger, it would have been personal and would have violated his faith. He fights on behalf of his God, not for himself and certainly not for his own anger and vengeance.

Oh, I do write when I'm angry and sad and happy and grumpy, it's just not poetry. Poetry happens somewhere in the stillness between the thum-bum of a heartbeat.

not so evil

Apparently, this site is 21% evil and 79% evil. Even with all the cursing I've been doing lately. Actually, I scored high because of a lot of those phrases. See! What'd I tell ya! It's based on a theory that text as numbers can be analyzed to show how divine they might be. If you ever watched the movie "Pi," they discuss a similar mathematical theory. From the Gematriculator site:

The Gematriculator is a service that uses the infallible methods of Gematria developed by Mr. Ivan Panin to determine how good or evil a web site or a text passage is.

Basically, Gematria is searching for different patterns through the text, such as the amount of words beginning with a vowel. If the amount of these matches is divisible by a certain number, such as 7 (which is said to be God's number), there is an incontestable argument that the Spirit of God is ever present in the text. Another important aspect in gematria are the numerical values of letters: A=1, B=2 ... I=9, J=10, K=20 and so on. The Gematriculator uses Finnish alphabet, in which Y is a vowel.

Experts consider the mathematical patterns in the text of the Holy Bible as God's watermark of authenticity. Thus, the Gematriculator provides only results that are absolutely correct.

OK, so personally I don't think it's absolutely correct but I do enjoy numbers and finding out if I'm evil or not. hehe

a lesson to remember

Leny replies: "lesson no.1: when a student says "yes," make sure it's a "yes." There's a Kapampangan proverb: "tangu ng Basti, bang agad mikawani" - a quick 'yes' means a quick goodye (Pinoys are known for long goodbyes!)."

Ain't that the truth! Takes like 30 minutes to leave a party, cuz you're saying goodbye to everyone.

watching my language

Leny forwarded my blog link about the putang inang adobo and for a moment I felt like, "hmmm...maybe I should have censored my language." Kind of like that feeling you get when your mom finds out about your blog. Then I thought, aw fuck it. People can choose to read and not read. It's not like I'm sending them SPAM or bouncing them to a porn site. Besides I cut out a few putang inas, it was more like every other word.

Then I remember poet Catie Cariaga who for a time liked to sign her books with an Ilokano cursing phrase. And poet Joel Tan who said his grandmother used to curse like a sailor. Professor Dan Begonia at SF State often does a lecture about examining what people cuss about as a demonstration of what is considered sacred. Obviously Americans have some thing about sex and god. Filipinos hate when you talk about their mamas. Though I don't think we have too many to take the Lord's name in vain.

Filipino movies never censor out English cussing, but they go up in arms about cussing in a Filipino language. It takes on a whole other meaning. It's as if English cussing has no real meaning, oh but Filipino cursing, that's a personal offense.

There's an art to cursing. It has to be said in a certain amount of passion and purpose. I wonder too if cussing was part of the Babaylan tradition, which is what makes it so taboo. The power in cursing, a control over destiny, the power over someone's life, to curse the circumstances of one's own life and continue on in spite. A certain sense of abandon, a certain level of Bathala na (leave it up to God, but has more complex connotations).

Adobo made with love (and bitterness)

Here you go, Leny!

Since Leny couldn't make the homecoming reading at Bindlestiff, she sent a check so there would be adobo. I assume as a physical representation of her poem, "Adobo," found in "Going Home to a Landscape."

Dawn Mabalon, the ultimate organizing diva who put this together, tells us the behind the scenes story to this adobo.

Dawn is talking to one of her students about needing adobo at the launch. Her student says, "why cater adobo? You can make a lot more adobo if we cook it ourselves." and thus volunteers to cook it.

Fast foward to yesterday when Dawn sees her student who says, "uh, I can't make the adobo." She's like what do you mean you can't make the adobo?!?

Here's Dawn's account: "Putang ina! So I have to go to Costco and go buy chicken because we already cashed the putang inang check! Putang ina! And you can't call some restaurant to make a whole tray of adobo by noon. Putang ina! (at this point everything is putang ina)"

"I buy three large trays of the chicken wings because I didn't want to do all that cutting. But I DID chop the garlic, because the fresh garlic tastes better than the pre-chopped garlic. So here I am it's 2 am and I'm making this putang inang adobo! Two calderas worth!"

Tatang comments, "oh but that's some good adobo, made with love..."

Dawn: "...and bitterness. (stirring an imaginary pot) Oh yeah, with love (p'tuh) putang ina. This adobo is delicious. That's not bawang, it's my spit!"

[Just for the record, Dawn did not actually spit in the adobo. We're just acting acting.]

We were dying, holding our bellies full of the rice and adobo! Laughing to tears at Dawn's revised special edition adobo recipe. That's not soy sauce, that's my sweat! That's why it taste so good because I put my love and sweat into that. You better eat it!

[Food is important to Filipinos. The making, serving and eating of food often has more emotional weight than just having something for consumption.]

And Leny, that was some good eating adobo! Worthy of your poetic words!

["ina" means mother. putang ina is a really offensive term for your mother. I need not say any more.]

Back from Going Home

Had absolutely the most delightful time at the Bindlestiffs. A good turnout for a Sunday afternoon. Seats filled and banigs with pillows on the floor.

Allyson Tintiangco-Cubales, professor at SFSU, emcee'd the night and will be adding the book to her class curriculum.

On the reading list tonight: Dawn Mabalon, Alma Jill Dizon, Angela Narciso Torres, Jean Gier, Barbara Jane Pulmano Reyes, Lilledeshan Bose, Veronica Montes, Marianne Villanueva and myself. In addition, Bernie Sibayan had us rolling in the aisles with her comedy and Golda Supanova made us swoon with lyrics like, "the earth is the sky."

Can I tell you Marianne is fabulous? She is the only person I know who can get away with saying some of the stuff she says. So here's Marianne, this petite, sweet, her voice with a soft tone. She tells us about some of the past readings like the one at Galapagos Arts in NY where the reading was followed by a burlesque show. Marianne was so excited that there was a burlesque show since she had told her mother that she wanted to be a bomba star when she was older. I think the entire audience did a double take to make sure we heard that correctly. She says it so matter-a-factly as if all girls tell their moms they want to be porn stars and in that soft voice of hers that makes it sound so sweet. Marianne is a woman I would share a bottle of lambanog with. You gotta love people who just put it out there and set it on the table.

Highlights:

• Seeing Olivia Malabuyo reading her poetry again. She's been busy with the theater's transition and fundraising.Since her piece was an inspiration to Dawn Mabalon's poem, they combined the two in poetic tag-team.
  
• Seeing generations of families in the audience:kids, parents, grandparents.
  
• Barbara Jane reading her poem with Lille's grooving tracks.
  
• Newly wedded Bernie Sibayan rocking comedy about being married and female masturbation.
  
• Dawn's adobo and bibingka and wherever she got those delicious baby sized empanada
  
• Standing outside, a stranger walking by asks the name of the theater. We answer "Bindlestiff, like a hobo." He replies, "wow, that's a great name! I think I'll name my son that. He's due in a few months."
  
• wondering how the world would have changed if Marianne had been a bomba star
  

Talking with the other readers aftwards, we all agreed, that was just about the best feel good reading we had done in a long time. Alma Dizon flew her family up from L.A. just to do the reading. These black walls so familiar, like having a reading in your own living room. It was like home, a great place to celebrate "Going Home."

on letting go, on being set free

Though my parents are still alive and well, I have watched and listened to stories of my friends who have had to watch their parents pass. I cannot say I truly understand what they have experienced. Yet, it is evident that the love and life that was shared somehow continues. A tai chi master said once, "it only looks like it has stopped, but the intent continues on." The loss, the severing of ties, is often hard, yet it too often brings relief and freedom as well for both sides. It's a process, a process of living. These are some of their stories.

---

T was in his mid-30s when his mother passed. As he waited in her room with various aunties, they said to him, "oh, you are an orphan now. It is good. You do not have to worrry about them any longer."

---

D went through his father's passing. His father was 89, his mother had died the year before. He told me he went to his father's side, held his hand, whispered in his ear, "It's ok, Dad. You can let go now."

---

R was 16 when his father died. He smiled in the funeral photos. His family thought him odd. He said, "why shouldn't I be happy? He had suffered 3 long years. He was no longer in pain."

---

For weeks after his mother died, E couldn't drive past 65 mph, no matter how hard he pressed the gas pedal. His mother often nagged him about driving too fast. And now she got to do something about it.

---

The family had spent many weeks visiting my grandmother in the hospital. This time around, she decided she did not want to live her life this way and stopped treatments. I had gone to pick my cousin from the train station, when we returned she had already passed. My cousins lined the hallway outside her door crying, I could see my mother and her siblings weeping at her bedside. A nurse looked at the scene and declared, "Looks like someone was well loved."

---

When J's dad passed after a long illness, he emailed, "He is FREE!" I replied, "And so are you!"

rainy love tea morning

Spending a rainy Saturday morning cozily typing away inside with Joey Ayala's new cd, 16lovesongs, and sipping on a sweet delicious green tea from Japan. Life is good!

A friend passed along the box of various teas from Japan, since she's more of a coffee drinker. I don't know what it says on the packages, although a friend of my sister's says that they are organic, which is appropriate since one of the songs on the CD is "Organik." Joey is getting better at that American accented Tagalog twang. He's sounding more southern california though, almost with the "duuude" kind of lingering in his vowels.

BTW, only Joey Ayala would put a song about durian on a cd of love songs. I personally couldn't get past the smell. He described it as his mind didn't have a category for what he was tasting and was just going through the roledex of experienced tastes. He said he tasted chocolate and cinnamon and mango. He said it was almost like fine wine where your palate is just inundated with flavors that coat your tongue and remain in your mind, stomach and tongue for hours after. I had to take his word for it. In some ways, he's much more the adventurer than I.

Which brings me back to the tea. I enjoy tea for its very subtle flavors: the gentle sweetness, the soft woodsyness like trees after rain.

Time to hit replay on the cd.

let's go shopping

Tatang Retong has added a Filipino store next to his karinderia eatery.

a birthday wish

We managed to surprise my dad. My bro who flew up from LA stood at the door while the rest of the clan hid a few feet away. My dad thought it was just going to be a small family gathering of just me, my sis, and my mom. But you can't do 6-0 in a small way.

As the 6 candles were burning down (one for each decade), he addresses his siblings, in-laws, nieces, and nephews and says, "this picture (on the cake) was taken 30 years ago. 30 years ago I was worth $1. Today, I'm worth $50 million. Why? Because of all of you here. Each of you here is worth $1 million in my life."

That's dad for you. Always knowing what is truly valuable. Here's to many more years ahead!

Dad is turning 60

My dad is turning 60 on Friday. We thought it would be cool to get a cake with a picture of his younger self in frosting. They have this at Goldilocks. Take any picture and they'll make it into frosting.

So me and the beau went to my parent's place (while they were away in Vegas) to find a picture of dear ol' dad when he was young. Can I tell you? There are only a handful and most are in group shots where his head is only sticking out in the back. While my mother is quite photogenic and has a ton of photos to prove this, my dad is rarely in a photo and even rarer that he's in one by himself. We finally found a decent photo of him when he was about 30.

But that says a lot about my dad, who's always the one taking the picture instead of being in the picture himself, always the first to move to the back while he lets others take the forefront and spotlight.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

learning to pray

My mother prays the rosary every day. I've seen her do it. She manages to kneel erect for a good 30 minutes without fidgeting without moving, as if she has found the perfect lotus position balanced on her two knees.

I myself didn't really learn the Rosary until a few years ago when my grandfather died. By Filipino Catholic tradition, the rosary is prayed every day for 9 days after the death, then on the 40th day. But my mom insisted we pray it every day for 40 days. We were too old for her to drag to church every Sunday but she knew, we'd do it for grandpa.

Now, I had heard that supposedly, the Catholic church made the rosary longer by adding a glorious mystery. My friend's sister who works in the church told him that when their mother died. His father looked at her and said "we are not doing it the 'new' way." Filipinos like church, but sometimes we like tradition better.

For those of you that don't know the rosary, it consists of (I think) 5 glorious mysteries as denoted by each of the large beads. At each large bead you say an "Our Father" prayer, at each of the smaller beads in between a "Hail Mary." There's about 9 of those after each of the large beads. In a group setting, there is usually a lead prayer who reads off each of the glorious mysteries, then says half of the "Our Father" and "Hail Mary" prayers. It's basically a call and response. At the end of each, there is another prayer:

Oh, my Jesus, save us from our sins and save us from the fires of hell especially those in most need of your mercy. Grant this unto (name of person you're praying for) and may the perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.

OK, so I'm not in total agreement in the understanding of what exactly is a sin and exactly what the fires of hell mean. But there's something ridiculously comforting about asking for a perpetual light to shine upon them. There's something peaceful and gentle, as if the golden light of sunset is set upon them, that there is no night no darkness, but an unending glow. It's very angelic.

My brother is the king of rosary leading. He swept through it in 15 minutes. whew! See, usually, in order to "encourage" people to come and pray, you pray, then you get to eat. No pray, no eat. Thus, the faster you get through it the faster you get to eating. Though in my family, we've kind of broken that rule since we'd much rather have people be able to focus on the praying rather than focus on the smell of lumpia wafting in from the kitchen. I mean, you really don't want people to start saying stuff like, "and save us from the fires of the lechon," now do you?

There are ways of making it longer by slipping in all sorts of prayer just before the last amen. Usually they add the Litany which is a list of the number of ways to describe the Holy Mary: mother of God, Queen of queens, etc. The list is two pages long! After each, the group says "pray for us." I like this part too. I like the idea that this woman has so many names, identities, faces. That feels right.

The funny part of rosaries at wakes is the row of aunties that sit in the 3rd or 4th row and all they do is critique the way the rosary is being done. They might as well have score cards. "she's going too fast" "she's going too slow" "oh, see, she skipped a line." They are worst than the figure skating judges in the 2002 Winter Olympics.

I remember hearing Jaime Jacinto read his variation of the rosary's litany. I wish I had a printed copy of that poem. Instead here's an excerpt from "Heaven is Just Another Country" from the book by the same name:

Tonight, you say,
heaven is just another country,
and getting there is no harder
than that trip 40 years back,
on your first airplane ride to America
when you sang and prayed
like your own son beside you
because far below there was
nothing but blue sea
and the empty sky
that brought us here.

a winter poet

I'm thumbing through the thick issue of Poets and Writer's looking at all the different poetry contests and submission announcements. I'm still understanding the seasonal nature of the poetry industry, if industry is a proper term for it. The summer is filled with various writing conferences, retreats and workshops, presumably to work on a body of work to submit to the fall/winter deadlines. This is all new to me. Though I've been subscribing to P&W for a few years, it's only this year that I look at these submissions and think, "maybe." Before the announcements didn't feel relevant to me. For some reason this year, they do.

Part of it has to do with all these reading for "Going Home to a Landscape." I get to be a writer again. Not that I had stopped being one. But my life has been dominated by me as the Kali teacher, which I don't mind either. It just happens that in general people like to associate you with your most unique trait. Sure I'm a poet, but I'm easily recognizable and memorable as the Kali teacher. The nice part about the readings is that I get to be the poet first and interestingly enough the Kali teacher second. It's good to give the poet the front stage once in a while or else people forget I write too. I want people to remember so that I can remember. In juggling all these personas and interests, it's important to remember who you are or else one of those balls slips and rolls away.

I remember I like being the poet. I remember that there were poems that I've written and more poems that I need to write. Sometimes I forget.

As I read all these announcements, I find that I'm not "ready" in the sense that I don't have poems ready in hand to send out or a system to keep track of them. I know as if that should be necessary. Though I do write in journals and such, I haven't mined them in a while to put the poems together. I realize too that seasonally, I'm out of synch. I feel like I'm doing the opposite. I read these submission requests and themes and end up writing the poem for it after the publication or after the deadline. I'm awfully bad at writing for the deadline. Always the late bloomer. Then when I write the poem, I shelve it. It waits there til the next time I might get a chance to perform it or submit it somewhere, the next time I remember I'm a poet. I hope each time I remember my memory grows longer and longer.

Average Joe

OK, so I had a rare free evening on Monday to watch TV. I ended up watching two reality shows Fear Factor and Average Joe.

Sitting on my couch, Fear Factor seems easy. OK, just about everything seems easy sitting from my couch. I mean they do get hooked up on all these harnesses and stuff. And if you are about to literally choke, they got folks to pull you out.

I skimmed through parts of the Second Joe Millionaire. The first time around, ok, I must admit, I was sucked in with everyone else. The second time around just isn't as appealing now that I know the punchline. I just want them to fast forward to the last day.

In contrast to Joe Millionaire, there was Average Joe, where this NFL cheerleader has to pick amongst "Average Joes" most of whom are on the nerdy side and say stuff like, "I've had sex with very very very very very very very very very very very very few women." They are accountants, Phd students, computer geeks, who aren't the fittest guys nor model handsome, but they've got a lot of heart. Like when some of the guys get voted off, they're more sorry to see them go than the girl was. It's harder to watch the rejection as well.

I have to admit, I've always rooted for the geek/nerd/dweeb and have often been attracted to those types over the "hunky, model" types who I often found to be such jerks. The Average Joe always seemed more real. So, I couldn't help but watch and root for them, because I know that a lot of women would pass up the "Average Joe" and put up with the punk personality hunk instead. Pick the guy who spends more time in front of the mirror than spend it with you? I don't get it.

more pictures

Check out what's cooking in Tatang's Karinderia, pictures from the Palabuniyan Kulintang Ensemble show from last Wednesday!

Having photographed a lot of dance and doing the straight shot, he's been trying to see photos in a different way. This time playing with motion and letting the shutter linger a bit.

I tend not to like pictures of me, but I do like this one. Yes, yes, that's me, but everything but my waist and the slightest bit of my hand (lower left) are perfectly still while everything else is a whirlwind. I really like photos that are of me, but don't look like me. And really that's all I usually see, perhaps just a hand in full focus or maybe an elbow. If I were to pick a photo that shows what kali FEELS like, I would pick that one. It's like moving like a whirlwind yet still feeling immensely centered and grounded. I wonder if that's what the Tasmanian Devil feels like.

Though Tatang like this one better. He likes the idea of unbalanced yet perfectly balanced. It must be the blur but my fingers look like drooping candles.

Mucho kudos to Lily Mendoza

Proud sister Leny announces that the National Communications Association will be awarding sister Lily Mendoza's book, "Between the Homeland and the Diaspora: The Politics of Theorizing Filipino and Filipino American Identities" with this year's Distinguished Scholarship (Book) Award.

Congrats, Lily! Whoo-hoo!!!

Going Home to Eastwind (10% off til November 30th)

Had a delightful reading with Catie Cariaga, Barbara Reyes, Veronica Montes, Angela Torres with Marianne Villanueva hosting at Eastwind Books.

I was so sad we only had 10 minutes each because I wanted to hear the rest of Veronica Montes' short story. And Angela's poem called, "Freedom" about riding on a bicycle with her brother brought back similar memories.

In support of independent bookstores, they have a 10% sale on books til November 30th. So if you're looking for unique Christmas gifts, head there. We got there an hour early just so we could peruse the collection. I managed to get Oliver de la Paz's "Names Above Houses" and Jessica Hagedorn's "Dream Jungle". I noted that Tess Holthe's "When Elephants Dance" got a cover makeover for the paperback version.

Next week Eastwind features several children's authors including poets Tony Robles' "Lakas and the Manilatown Fish" beautifully illustrated by Carl Angel and Truong Tran's "Going Home, Coming Home".

Sometimes things are better left unsaid

There are a dozen women who stand
like cranes ruffling their red wing tips.

Such a beautiful form, to watch nature
repeated the way raindrops ripple puddles.

Pools that reflect the underbellies of birds.
Look down and you will see them flying.

One woman, her hat, joins the birds.
I catch it before it reaches still water.

Clouds roll overhead while wind sheds tears
softly like joy. A tiger prowls nearby.

He asks me if I understand. His face looks
like the multiple reflections of ruffled

feathers in a pitter-pattered pool. He asks
again. The scar of a claw mark runs red

across his cheek. Sunlight breaks through
the clouds and answers his question. I

squint up through the rays grinning then
turn back to his marked face and nod.

Two boys and a girl

I have a handful of swords. Quite a few of them antique at least 40-100 years old. They each have their own personalities, their own charm. When I handle them, it's like a dance, I feel where they want to go. Some movements are hard to do, that means they don't want to go that way. Others feel as though the weapon becomes a part of your hand, they like that.

Because many of them have had previous owners I wonder often about the people who have handled the weapon before. I wonder if any of them were really used in battle. I wonder what stories that have to tell. Some of the stories I feel like an emotion. Often they have a gender.

My kampilan is a guy. My Ifugao sword is a woman. I found out on Wednesday, my kris is a guy. It's only my second time performing with the kris. How do I know this? It's a strange phenomena really. It's as if the sword becomes a mask that I wear when I wield it. And when I hold the weapon a new mask comes on. I'm not sure who it is or where it comes from. It certainly comes from the sword, but who it is, I don't know. Maybe it was a previous owner, maybe it was the person who forged the blade. When I hold the kampilan or the kris, the movements are harder more forceful, while the Ifugao sword asks for softer more graceful movements, much more feminine. There's a certain calm about her while the others are much more brash.

With the wooden sticks, those are new so it's basically me the audience sees. But with the swords, it's as if a "spirit enters" as my BF says, that I become another person.

Picture what Going Home looks like

It's picture day today. Mike Price posted his pictures from the Going Home to a Landscape reading at Pusod November 1.

In addition, Jay Jao posted his digital pics from Palabuniyan Kulintang Ensemble show from Wednesday night, called "From Middle East to Mindanao," featuring Danongan Kalanduyan. He performed with his group, did cultural instrumental mix with other artists who performed instruments from the Middle East tradition, and played with Ating Tao, the world drum corp they have at SF State. It was a packed night in Knuth Hall, people waiting outside to get in. It was really amazing hearing the gong music being played and integrated into numerous facets.

Going home by lotto

Forgot to tell you about the last Going Home to a Landscape reading at Pusod.

Had just a delightful time with Holly Calica, Angela Torres (whom I met for the first time), Dawn Mabalon (who came to unwind after sending out job apps), and Malou Babilonia. Since Marianne Villanueva was in NY for another reading and Virginia Cerenio couldn't make it, they asked me to host.

Not wanting to make the decision on who reads when what, we drew lots. 5 scraps of paper to various audience members to choose a name. I would then buy them some time to prepare as I read their scripted bios. Some of us read from the book, or did a combination of newer stuff and printed stuff.

It was a rather intimate gathering with about a dozen folks there. I love intimate gatherings for poetry. It's the way it's meant to be shared when both poet and audience can feel each other resonate.

Hit the readings this weekend

Friday November 7, 7pm
Going Home to a Landscape
Waverly Writer’s Group
Friends Meeting House
957 Colorado, Palo Alto
Reading:

• Angela Torres
• Jean Vengua
• Dawn Mabalon

Sunday November 9
Going Home to a Landscape
Eastwind Books
2066 University Ave, Berkeley
Reading:

• Veronica Montes
• Angela Torres
• Marianne Villanueva
• Catalina Cariaga
• Michelle Bautista
• Barbara Reyes

Tuesday, November 11, 8pm
Monkey Productions presents
Viva El Chango! Book Release Celebration
of Maiana Minahal's first book "Sitting Inside Wonder"
featuring:

• Maiana Minahal
• Meliza Banales
• Jennifer Fox Bennett
• Treina Alexander
• Carol Hill
• Tina D'Elia
• Cathy Arellano

and films by: Veronica Majano  & Elizebeth Chávez

El Rio, 3158 Mission St, San Francisco

$5-10, no one turned away

Yay! Leny has a blog!

Check out Kathang-Pinay described as "a Pinay's attempt at transcending the fixity of 'otherness'."

day of the dead

Spent much of All Soul's Day (November 1) appropriately enough checking out Oakland Museum's exhibit "Global Elegies:Art and Ofrendas for the Day of the Dead" on now til December 7.

The Oakland Museum is a little known museum that focuses on the history and art of California. Their collection of art is focused on artists either based in or from California.

The ofrendas, or altar displays commemorating the dead, are actually found throughout the museum, not just in the third floor art floor. To get to John Ricker's metal coffin made out of guns, we had to follow the signs through the history section, with displays of the First Peoples and California's subsequent settlers.

Another coffin shaped like a giant green lobster lay upstairs from a Ghana tradition where the coffin represents an aspect of the dead. For example a taxi driver might be buried in a taxi shaped and decorated coffin. Next to the coffin lay some of the remains of Jerome Caja, who posthumously gave his own ashes away cast to various friends in plastic crosses.

While looking at the metal sculptures in the courtyard, we stared past the images of Stephanie Syuco's grandmother and greatgrandmother stretched into shadowy images on the glass like apparitions of Jesus or the Madonna.

On the same floor, but not part of the Ofrendas exhibit, was a piece by Reanne Estrada, part of her human hair on soap series, such artistry in the delicate placement of the fine strands on the white soap. Across from the soap was Manuel Ocampo's "Untitled (map of Los Angeles)."

The art exhibit floor includes a collection of photographs by Dorothea Lange and a retrospective exhibit of abstract artist Fred Martin 1948-2003.

Entering the Oakland Museum costs $8 (for adults) but walking through it's maze garden is free. It's like walking into a secret garden in downtown Oakland.

poetry in SPAM

well, I always thought there was poetry in canned SPAM but in email SPAM?

So, I've been studying SPAM (ie junk mail) as a part of my ongoing project about writing poetry influenced by the internet in the way the internet changes our language and creates it own form. I wrote a few blog poems a few months ago and wrote another poem by taking lines from email communications. So, I thought it would be interesting to write poetry in SPAM form, but what is SPAM form?

In my study, I was going through the SPAM and copying it over to a text file to peruse later and that's when I noticed the extra text.

For example I found this (actual text seen in bold):

Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited torrents of
Our US Pharmacy is Open to You!
but the time came when he had made himself in some way
Full Selection of US Licensed Prescriptionsinstitutions of his country. But there is danger that the
We Now Have Xanax, Valium, Levitra, and Faster Acting Viagr@ SoftTabs
From US Pharmacies, not Mexico or Pakistanwhen she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, narrower horizons. For what, after all, does it matter that
Discreet and Fast Next-Day Shipmentsthose about the ascent of the Western Sacred Mountain. It is
Prescriptions written by US Doctors
she fell into violent hysterics and kept her bed for several days.
Browse our Selection

went running or hopping up from the beach towards the bushes as

Block Future Offers?

Crazy, isn't it?

They do this because many spam filters, filter based on the proportion of hot words to regular words. For instance if they see 10 words and sex is five of them, then it's most likely spam. To the computer it looks like a regular email with full paragraphs. I'm not exactly sure where the hidden text is from. But certainly, there are SPAM programs for sale that compile the messages for said spammers so I'm sure the SPAMing people don't know either.

It certainly gives the my SPAM poetry a whole new twist. Playing not only with the letters we see but deliberately hiding others.

hmmm....will ponder this more...

BTW, I get enough SPAM as it is, so you don't have to give me any more for my research.

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.