Wounded fantastica
Wednesday, august 28, 2002 : 17:38 pm

My fingers are tense from pressing the ruler against paper, just before the lead of my newly-sharpened pencil makes a clean, sweeping line across this page. From atop stools I come up with magnificent, sweeping lines that fly straight as arrows, and yet I never hit the target, the red dot. I never seem to cut the apple in half. I can't. No one can. No one is perfect, precision inexistent. It's just an idea given to us by scientists, by mathematicians. They say the perfect face must have perfect measurements, must possess that magic number that defines real beauty. Wails of the Flaming Lips, lips as red as white snow, oh you know it. As for me, lines of missing sleep drawn under eyes, laugh lines carved in so deep you'd mistake them for loneliness, this is the perfect face, well, we all possess it, forget the measurements, because it's everything we are, reflected.

And then there was you:

I'm now making postcards. Write me your address and I'll send you one via snail mail. They are nice and colourful, but some are black and white, too. And a lot of them are brown.

Postcard Machina Kala

C'était très bon, merci !
Friday, August 23 2002 : 12:08 pm

In Conclusion...
All in all, it was a terribly sweet vacation in France. For what its worth, just so there's an archive, I wanted to say thank you to everyone I met in France. Forgive my caveman sentence, but you all rock. They dissolved all my impressions and feedback of the so-called "French attitude". We really must be wary of hasty generalizations. Isn't culture wonderful?

Of course, the Western World dominates our lives, as Asians. Especially in the Philippines, the most Westernized Asian country (it hurts, that fact. But the Philippines rocks!). It's in our vocabulary, our actions, imbedded in our central nervous systems. Anywya, we can read volumes and volumes of books about it, memorize the street maps, learn their language but ... nothing beats actually being there. Nothing beats the joys of jetlag, the wonders & appeal, the smells, the tastes, the feel, the sounds, the discovery and magic of a foreign country, not to mention a foreign continent. One can't help but be culture-shocked. well, I was, big-time.

So I guess it's picture time next. Woo hoo. A special shout-out, by the way, to my gurujuju : I appreciate your doing all the tourist-y stuff with me in Paris, even though I imagine it was extremely corny on your behalf! You're a goddam sweetheart, you know that? ;-)

France was delicious. As the Douglas Adams book goes, so long, and thanks for all the fish. Burp.

Pictures soon, when I'm feeling better. Promis? Promis! (a-la Tanguy... well, those who watched the French Film Festival will understand)

Kala *static* overandout *static*

Countdown: it's 8 days and counting before Doctor Doom's 25th!!! Doctor Denise, YOU'RE STILL IN SCHOOL!!! Hehehe. I'm just adding fuel to the fire. My sister laments about her age, constantly, you see. She really wanted to be fucking famous and well-reknowned by 25 when we were kids, but she took up Medicine. Hahaha!!!

You will listen to me complain
Thursday, August 22, 2002 : 1:53 pm

Hello, everyone. I'm sick. I woke up to a gray sky. My throat hurts and my voice is gone and my head aches and I'm running a fever. Even Jay-Jay Johanson fails to sound good today. And I still have to go to work later this evening. Im' typing this entry with my chin on the keyboard. Yesterday my taxi driver told me to go home and get some rest. He gave me extra tissue and told me to take care of my cough and colds.

I just needed to say Thank you for your concern, Mister Taxi Driver Man, whoever you were. I needed those words then.

A slice of my all-encompassing wellbeing and proof of the deepest aspects in my field of expertise
Saturday, August 17, 2002 : 2:17 am

Today, I'm going to poke everyone in the eye.

Concerning your screams of pain, I shall react with extreme indifference.

Le Airport !
Monday, August 12, 2002 : 5:20 pm

Sluggish
Paris was just waking up as we sleepily dragged our luggages across the cobblestone streets.

Last train rides are as important as the first. The Metro was virtually empty; it had few passengers that morning and I looked at each one inquisitively, their day just beginning. Julien once mentioned that the way back to the airport was always like film rewinding : suddenly, everything rushes back to you in an instant.

Charles de Gaulle airport is a web of escalators, taking people from its central hub to the destination written on the ticket. Airports always define a sense of reality - no time for solemn contemplation, just flourescent lit-magnified illusions. You find yourself obsessively checking your passport, your ticket, your boarding passes. Checking-in luggage. Locating your terminal. Taking note of boarding time. For me, my senses are too alert at the airport, my imagination running wild.

From the second floor, while waiting in line at immigration, I was observing a couple saying goodbye at the foot of the escalators, the girl awkwardly holding her composure, and the boy running his hands every so often over his hair, as if by habit. The boy cupped her face in his hands and his lips moved, probably last-minute instructions for whatever their agenda was. After a kiss, the girl stepped onto the escalator and, after three steps off the ground, turned on her heels, jumped back to the floor and flung her arms over the guy. Maybe, I was secretly wishing she was courageous enough to not move from that embrace. The boy beside me, who was also watching the couple, chuckled and shook his head, as if saying, "Happens all the time, that", as if he were already immune. Of course, he was right.

Soon the boy watched the girl get on the escalator again, his palm held up. This time, she didn't jump back, but she watched him as she ascended, her palm held up too, mirror images being pulled further away from each other.

My journal has too many pages written at the airport : during layover, while waiting at airport lounges, inside the plane.

In Bahrain I sat next to a bubblegum machine infront of Duty Free, ignoring the disapproving looks at my sitting on the floor (no one asked me to leave, so I didn't), biting my nails and drawing circles on my journal, hypnotized by a cardboard figure of a chef on a display window, an advertisement for a free trip if you dropped your raffle entries before August 4, 2002. Hurry! You just might win a 7-day trip of your choice to London, Paris, or Dubai !

In Abu Dhabi, I watched the numbers change on the overhead screen, wide-eyed with fatigue, awaiting the boarding announcement for the next plane.

This time, I had only one sentence written in my journal, for the whole 20-hour trip:

28 Jul 2002, Bahrain
Hello,
What are we looking for?

Registering 5 minutes after - France Part Cinq
Saturday, August 10, 2002 : 2:36 am

Notes from the non-shopaholic
And the shops in Lyon will blow your mind away. Or maybe they just happen to sell what I think will convert moi into a shopaholic. I mentioned the little shops downtown - that's where Mahmud, my itchyfoot robot, was born. There are toy shops that will literally make you melt at the prospect of not being able to buy everything they sell. From Guignol puppets, human-faced tin robots (the classic ones,Mahmud's long-lost brothers), to those little wooden figures whose joints fold when you press the bottom (I don't know what they're called, but they're delicious eye-candy indeed). There's even a specialized Tin-Tin shop.

You can find Little Prince paraphernalia everywhere, as expected, because this is, of course, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's domain (the airport is named after him). And they've got a beautiful Little Prince musical box, coloured blue, nonetheless! Bravissimo!

Now, I didn't think there would be better quality comics other than Sandman (Neil Gaiman is pure genius). Apparently, I was wrong. The words comic book to me is associated with matted sheets of paper and low-quality rendering, the kind that you can fold and put in your back pocket and fold into paper airplanes when you're bored. Nothing prepared me for French comic books. They have shelves and shelves of them, everywhere, all ranging from different styles of rendering and mood and extravagance. Glossy paper! Hardbound covers! HIGH QUALITY! Each box is an artwork in itself. It's an eye-opener to see how a word we've automatically linked to a visual in our pretty little heads can have an entirely different meaning in France. But then again, regarding the previous sentence, it's the same all around the world, right?

Now, about the selection of art materials. Their art paper selection is heaven on earth. Ranging from whatever size you could want, to whatever thickness you desire, to whatever medium it can hold. Everything. Complete. I went to one art shop in Lyon and it had everything. And I'll bet that was just a tiny art shop. Heaven on earth, I tell you. But the prices will drive you to hell.

Inversely Proportional?
People warned me I would be stunned by the costs in Europe. I'm aware of all the labor-wage-should-be-proportional-to-societal-cost-of-living ladida, but still, it's shocking. Shocking in a rueful kind of way, making you see the gap between countries and cultures. I could jump to the topic of the peso-dollar rate skyrocketing from 2 pesos to 52 pesos in a span of 50 years (complete with my theories and speculations of the dramatic drop-rate), but that deserves a more focused political essay, and I am by no means feeling political tonight.

Example: PHP150 for Coca Cola. 'Nuff said. And if you don't believe, I still have the receipt.

Last afternoon delights
The bus ride from Julien's place to downtown fascinated me each time. But that last afternoon in Lyon was heart-tugging. It's funny how you form your impressions when you least expect it. That last afternoon, right at the part of the bus ride where you're offered a glimpse of Lyon - the pastel building facades, the Basilica, the chimneys - I found my impression : Lyon's charms are like dimples on a cherubin's cheek. Charming and alluring, slyly secretive. I've always thought dimples were marks of something special, and deeper, in a person. A little nest for kisses. Lyon is all this.

Back to Paris
And if Lyon was all that, then Paris would be bright red lips. Seductive and full. Paris once again was like a burst of light - the sights and sounds were magnified, and people were fast, modern figures moving through a centuries-old backdrop.

Paris was choking with tourists and tour buses and tour guides and tour groups. Most of the residents were on holidays, clearly marking the Tourist Invasion (out to find the perfect Kodak moment).

Now, do you really think it's necessary to tell you about climbing the Eiffel Tower (only till the 2nd level because the lift was out of order)? Or taking the boat ride down the Seine? Or craning my neck upwards at Notre Dame? Or touching the edge of the pyramid at the Louvre? And telling you how deliciously foreign it was to the senses, how it made me feel extremely alive and detached at the same time, or how it all didn't register in my brain till 5 minutes after?

No, I didn't think so, too. I'm sure you get the idea.

I see dead people
A half-day in Paris was dedicated to looking for Chopin. In the heat of the afternoon we combed the excessive but beautiful gravestones in search for famous dead people (that sentence sounds horrible, forgive me). We found Chopin, Jim Morrison and Edith Piaf. The alive continue to haunt the dead.

(On a more personal note, I would like to make a personal apology to My Beloved Tristan Tzara, whose grave I thought to be in Pere Lachaise, but was in another cemetery all the while. Tristan, forgive me. But in a way I'm thankful I never saw your headstone --- you remain more alive to me now than ever. See you at the Cabaret V, xoxo, Kala)

Fécamp, Normandy
2 hours away from Paris is Fécamp, where the Dukes of Normandy officially resided till the early 1200s. Now it's a busy fishing port, home of the Benedictine Palace, famous for its distillery (a Benedictine monk during the Renaissance concocted the recipe for this famous liquer containing myrrh and juniper oil), and boasts the famous cliffs and beaches whose shores were landing points for Allied invasions during World War 2.

After the mountains and snow and all the monuments in Paris, it was refreshing to see the beach. The trip to Normandy itself was worth; picturesque, serene, almost bare. Julien and I played guessing games all the way back to Paris; at one point the train stopped in the middle of the tunnel, and I took certain pride in reverently handing our tickets to the ticketman who asked for "Les billets, s'il vous plait, mademoiselle". Indeed, it doesn't take much to make me happy.

Currently listening to Tom Waits' Mule Variations, which, funnily enough, has a song titled "Filipino Box Spring Hog". Have I mentioned Tom Waits is fantastic? Hum. More soon m'absolute dearies! *already asleep*

Part 4 - Snow
Thursday, August 9, 2002 : 16:52

The Telepherique
The Philippines, located a little below the equator, has a very boring weather forecast, it's either just raining or shining. So the prospect of seeing snow got me fired up for obvious reasons! We drove all the way East of Lyon to the Chamonix Valley, the largest and oldest winter resort in France. The road to Chamonix was absolutely stunning, from the dizzyingly high bridges to the little stone houses (with the roofs getting steeper as it neared the Alps) littered along a backdrop of mountains capped with... snow! The drive took an estimated 2 hours, but imagine how long it took in the 18th century, when the only means to reach Chamonix was by horsedrawn charabancs. Tourism in Chamonix started when 2 Englishmen decided to climb Montenvers in 1741, probably to conquer the Monts Maudits (Cursed Mountains), believed to be the scene of witches' sabbath (during severe winters between late 14th cent. to mid-15th cent., townspeople actually exorcised their glaciers). Apparently, these 2 men wrote pretty damn good accounts, because a Montenvers railway began construction in 1892, and in 1908 the line was inaugurated. That's advertisement.

The world's highest cable car ride can be found here too, linking Chamonix to Aiguille du Midi. The project plans for a funicular started in 1911, was cut short by the War, and came fully into operation in 1955.

We wanted to take the Teleferique, but it was the first day the Telepherique was operating after 3 days on account of bad weather, and the line was choked with tourists. Instead, we took a 20-minute charming red train ride that transported us from Chamonix to a panoramic view of Mer de glace (Sea of Ice), France's biggest glacier (240 metres thick and 14 km long from its origin, moving 1 centimetre an hour, approximately, with a time lag of 3 years). From there, we took a cable car to the edge of the Mer de Glace, where we visited a cave of pretty ice sculptures. Everything was tinted blue, there was a Saint Bernard the size of a pony, and surprisingly, literally being inside a block of ice made me feel warm all over. Parfait!

Yeah, Chamonix had charm.

Beaujolais
Upon arriving from Chamonix later that evening, we met up with Julien's friends and drove north of Lyon to the Beaujolais region, famous for its legendary wine, of course. It's amazing how a region so small (around 40 miles in one direction and 10 miles in the other) produces millions of gallons of wine to be sold all around the world. The grapes had just been harvested, sprawling vineyards stretching out in the late sunlight, car windows open. I was thinking of the snow I had seen earlier, and now this. There was a single mongolfier against the mountains, and I don't think I'll ever forget that drive.

Pérouges
Since the Rhone valley was colonized by the Romans, there are preserved relics and villages reminiscent of the Middle Ages and Renaissance eras, and Pérouges is one of those villages. The medieval city of Pérouges, with its stone walls and cobblestoned streets, will make you swear you'd entered the film set of the movie Chocolat. Julien and his parents and I wandered along lazily by foot, stopping often for exhibitions or shops. The church at the village entrance had thick walls and tiny windows, probably used as a defense tower way back when. It's astounding to walk through history.

It's a nice place to visit but I wonder how the occupants bear the number of daytrippers and tourists, who were choking the lovely little town (We were one of those daytrippers, so I shouldn't complain). I can only imagine how it looked in the evenings, devoid of crowds. It must be a very romantic place to live in but... where would you park your car?

Kala loves fromage.
I mean it. From the bottom of my heart. I would send love letters to Saint Felicien fromage saying "You complete me", if I weren't in touch with sanity.

Drama aside, my sister is excommunicating me from her "People I Like" list because I don't remember the names of all the food I ate in France. That sounds equally dramatic.

Drama aside, I had the most excellent meals in France. I eat bird-like proportions of food really, but in France, it's the quality and not quantity. The most beautiful words I've ever heard over the dining table were "You don't have to finish if you don't want to", because its effect on me was the exact opposite.

Bon appétit!
On the way to Pérouges we stopped for lunch at this restaurant, Hotel de la Tour. I'm not sure exactly where this was, but the address in the hotel brochure mentions Chatillon-sur-Chalaronne... it's north of Lyon, I think. The brochure also says: "We open our doors to you like an open heart". Ouh la! I should ask what meals exactly we ate and put them here as recommendation. And there was the famous frog's legs, foie gras, the huge crepe, that spinach-dish thing we had in Lyon, the salads, the ice cream, and the fromage. In short, it was French cuisine at its best!

Plus, Julien's mother whipped up these amazing French dishes from her kitchen each meal, without fail. I am now determined to learn how to cook, even if just for one dish perfectly in my lifetime (I have my sights set on the cauliflower with cream - I'm a very ambitious person).

Continued - still no pictures, eh?

Trois
Wednesday, August 8, 2002 : 4:15 am

Mental notes :

1. Cigarettes are expensive.

2. No 24-hour shops and everything closes early.

3. Everything opens late on a Monday morning.

4. Buses have schedules and appointed stops.

5. Learn to read the subway maps.

6. If you're going to France, LEARN FRENCH.

Just like in any country, one can feel terribly frustrated about not being able to speak the local language fluently, especially if you're the type who always wants to join conversation or - worse - the type who wants to start a topic. Lucky stars were upon me because all the people I met were absolute darlings and made an effort to speak to me in English, but as I said, I was lucky. Most French people aren't fluent in English, and entering a shop or ordering food can be a major heartache for the non-speaking French population.

It's a relief to have had my human translation search engine beside me, but had I been traveling alone in France, two days tops I would be inconsolably out of my mind. Although I admit that I extremely enjoy the pride with which the French take on their culture and their flippant attitude towards it, because it makes sense : learn to adapt, and make an effort to learn, s'il vous plait. I'm not saying you should take a two-year crash course on French before visiting. Just have a few flawless (and useful!) phrases up your sleeve, a phrasebook and an English-French dictionary. If you're too busy or lazy prior to your trip, your talent in Charades or Pictionary will work to your advantage for about a week or so, not more. And if you happen to be a mime, then by all means come to France immediately even without a word of French - you can even earn money pretending to be a statue on some square.

à droite, à gauche
Around the vicinity of the Cathedral of Saint Jean lies all the wonderful restaurants, shops and buildings, some even dating back to the Renaissance. The streets weave in and out, with a gem in every possible corner, from a shop selling old postcards from every year you could imagine, to exploring delightful traboules (similar to Filipino eskinitas), passageways allowing you to cross street to street through narrow alleys between houses. I found something there that I'd always thought the Phil. lacked - parks, gardens, a patch of grass where you can sit and write and relax. And statues. You can find a monument practically everywhere. Even their Metro stations have statues.

Ice Cream
I'll keep this equation clear and simple :

Best fucking ice cream ever = Nardonne

A quelle heure part le prochain train pour Lyon?
Wednesday, August 8 2002 : 4:28 pm

After I was finally able to peel my eyes from the Arc de Triomphe, I had my first Metro ride in Paris (before I continue, I promise you this whole recount won't be this detailed. It's just that first-time Metro rides are important to me). There were musicians playing in the Metro, giving a distinct feeling of surrealism in the flourescent-lit underground. Through all the train rides, both in Lyon and Paris, these musicians displayed their skills to a professional level. And indeed, they were no amateurs - I was informed that they had earned every right to be there, having to play in front of a panel of judges to prove their prowess in music (Beck played in French Metros for a few months, apparently, so they know talent when they hear it).

After a wonderful night's sleep in his Aunt's tasteful flat in Paris (where I was once again reunited with fromage), Julien and I took the SNCF to Lyon. The two hour ride would have been an excellent opportunity to catch up with jetlag but the scenery just won't allow one to. The spray-painted walls of Paris dissolved into picturesque green hills and postcard-perfect little villages (complete with the cows!). As the saying goes, it's the journey, not the destination...

Lyon
But in this case, it's the journey AND the destination, as we were deposited in the center of Lyon's crowded train station. After being away for more than a year, Julien noticed the little details as expected ("They changed it? This wasn't here before..."). I did, too, but on a totally different level ("Where am I? This wasn't here, ever...")

Lyon, the second largest city in France (if you include the suburbs. Some books say it's the third, after Paris and Marseilles) and the largest in the Rhone valley, is known as the gastronomic heaven and haven (Paul Bocuse, world-reknowned chef of French cuisine, hails from Lyon), and also hosts cultural gems like the Cathedral of Saint Jean dating back to the 13th century, to the well-preserved old quarter of town, to the Museum of Beaux-Arts (allow yourself more than 4 hours to visit this or everthing will be a blur, I swear). Two rivers meet at Lyon, the Rhone and Saone, making it accessible for trade and industry when the ol' Romans found it way back 2000 years ago. So they declared Lyon their chief city. After the French revolution, loom helped kick the city's industry back to life - silk manufacturers worked in Croix Rousse, one of the two hills in Lyon. As a result, high ceilings that used to accomodate the looms are still present.

Soleil
The only thing about the sun is that in summer, it shines till around 9:30 pm. I've heard about that before of course but obviously, this was the first time I'd experienced it. Since I don't wear a watch (time is going to move whether I have one or not, anyway, plus I'll never catch it so what's the use), I was always yawning like a laaaazydays bear wondering why I was so tired at four in the afternoon. turns out it was always around nine in the evening. Errr.

To be continued

France, Impressions Part 1
Wednesday, August 7, 2002 : 2:12 am

Before I show you pictures, I must come up with a draft of sufficient impressions and reactions. Sorry it took so long but I'm going to break it down in parts and pieces, because it's laaaazydays.)

I love Gulf Air
I had to stay overnight in Qatar because of Gulf Air's efficiency in exhibiting their inefficiencies (I don't want to expound on the topic, it's so tiring).

Instead, I arrived in Paris from London and not Bahrain as I was supposed to, 12 hours later and not 9 hours as I was supposed to. In short, nothing happened as it was supposed to. But didn't I say I wouldn't expound on the topic? Moving on...

Julien was carrying a limp piece of paper wtih the name KALA written on it, decorated with stars and lightning bolts and clouds. That was my first greeting in France. Frankly, I was just glad to be off an airplane.

Arc de Triomphe and Tour Eiffel
But all this country had to do was work its magic by... by doing nothing at all. It could be scratching its nose and it would still be magical. The Arc de Triomphe was the first thing I saw from the bus, and as I stood there looking at the monument I'd only up till now seen in books and pictures, with real cars whizzing by and real people speaking a language I couldnt' understand ... it was the start of my feeling of teleportation which would last me for the next 12 days, as if I were watching myself watch myself on television. The Eiffel Tower was behind the Arc de Triomphe, a little bit to its right. It was just there.

Up to now I don't know if I had subconsciously expected the Eiffel Tower to come to life, smile, wave at me and say "Hi! I'm Eiffel Tower, you can call me Eif, and I'm 985 feet tall! That's 298 metres for the Europeans because the American metric system is shit!"

Come to think of it, maybe I was. Each time the Eiffel Tower was glimpse-able (there's no such word but it fits my sentence so well), I couldn't tear my eyes away from it. Why? Because, as I said, it was just there.

More to come, with pictures too.

L'Amour Tombe des nues
Sunday, August 4, 2002 : 1:44 p.m.

...Why are you never online when I'm online...

Tetes Raides = masked melancholia

retrospective piano lessons
Sunday, August 4, 2002 : 12:32 am

Some people are meant to read the notes, some people are meant to play by ear.

Salut ! Ice Cream and Glaciers!
Saturday, July 20, 2002 : 01:43 p.m.

There are birds chriping from a tree from outside, and not too far from me, asleep and lost. "Being in a foreign place makes you contemplative," he said in the car, and I had to agree, as we made our way back to Lyon from the quaint town of Chamonix, where we visited the Mer de glace, the largest glacier in France. Most of the time I'm just taking everything in, overcome and overwhelemed to make a sufficient comment, or otherwise knowing that there is just no word that ever exists for it, and that even trying would be useless. I guess people must really have souls, because there are a lot of things that are left unsaid, too many moods and scores and feelings in someone's memory that are never going to be fully understood. By you or by me. Lyon looks like the inside of a flower. It s pink and yellow in the sunlight. And the ice cream I had has revolutionized the definition of ice cream in my personal tastebud dictionary, exemplified by 100.

Whitewash
Sunday, July 14 2002 : 9:26 pm

I try to forget the basics I've learned, like how electricity flows, or how come fireflies light up. So far I've managed just even barely, you see it's quite difficult to undo what you've learned. Not that I regret being part of civilization, but lately I've been despising the way standards are set by society. All the same, modules. Nodes and wires, robotic. You're my plug-in baby. And so in the course of one evening, I've mapped out the future, bookmarking which roads to take to avoid becoming rusty, so I'll know which way to turn when coming across the curve. With art and words to be co-conspirator, whispering to always choose heart over mind, just in case I forget, and maybe that will take me to utopic states I've been longing for, you know, that place we dream of each night, even though at the back of our minds it may as well be synonymous to the Bermuda Triangle.

Chasin' the clouds away

Pressure is back with a vengeance and I'm up to my neck in dealines, coupled with the realisation that I haven't been painting in months. It's a dry spell in the wet season. But I'll leave all that in a little journey for the first time in my 23 July's, for I shall find myself in a sunny European country named : France. A foreign word in my tongue. Will be meeting Julien at the airport, and he'll definitely know it's me - I'll have a huge arrow over my head with a sign that says "Overwhelmed and Lost". And an equally matching facial expression.

Oh, watch out my beloved Tristan Tzara, I'm coming to kiss yer headstone.

You too, Chopin.

Denise no more downy clowny !!! You're wanted in the jungle 'cause you're the absolute best of us all apemen.