Going going
Sunday, October 22, 2006 : 12:07 a.m.
The next time you hear from me, it'll be from Paris!!!
yipyipyip!
A toute à l'heure!
Sleep the clock around
Sunday, October 1, 2006 : 11:15 p.m.
There's something very strange about Sunday nights. Especially when the day has been rainy and gray, and you've had guests over for dinner the night before so you woke up at noon to a sinkful of dirty dishes, and you've spent the whole afternoon polishing off the last few episodes of a television series, and you can't wait to borrow Season 2 from the video shop.
And you're just sitting around, thinking of all the things the coming week is going to bring - the deadlines, the work, the hassle of booking moving trucks and the impending doom of that dentist appointment. And you're listening to an old Belle and Sebastian record, the same one you used to listen to during Sunday evenings in a country halfway across the world, and you're amazed at all the emotions the songs bring back.
Then your mother bullies you into a chat, and you talk about the dog and the typhoon and how the trees are all bald now and you say Goodbye, I Miss You, Chat With You Again Soon, and the songs keep on coming, and you feel like staying up all night, drinking Coke or coffee or Coca Cola Blak (which is, really, Coke and coffee), wishing you had a joint. And you think of that country halfway across the world and thoughts go through your head, you miss it, you don't miss it, it's home, it's not home anymore, you've always been away, you never left, you don't know what you want, you know exactly what you want.
So you end up sitting on the couch, wrapped up in a Sunday evening, listening to the music and tapping your feet to the music.
I want to leave
Monday, September 25, 2006 : 09:24 a.m.
... Aix-en-Provence, I mean. Automatically it means I can't wait to be in Paris!
A few weeks ago I was alone in Paris, dragging myself in and out of the metro, tramway and various stinky SNCF trains. All the trouble was worth it, though, because I have finally found an apartment, which has everything we wanted: it's new enough, big enough, close enough (to La Defense, that is), is within the budget and it has a parking slot. Bravissimo!
I know there are some people who actually like apartment-hunting, and I am not one of those people, especially since I was dragging a backpack full of useless stuff (and the question keeps repeating itself in my head, over and over: why did I bring my robot along?), holding a map in one hand and an umbrella in the other, and was navigating the streets of Paris without a GPS system, or a Sense of Direction.
But yeah, I made it, it's over and done with, so I can quit complaining. I did get to do some "chores" in Paris while I was at it:
I am so bored and restless already. I am so excited to move to Paris, I wish someone had already invented a Fastforward Your Days gadget. Don't get me started on inventors, those lazy bastards...
1. I watched The Science of Sleep at the Odeon and got a student discount without showing a student ID card (I told the lady, and I quote, "I don't have a student ID card" and she said crossly "Well, remember to bring it next time then!" and punched in a discounted ticket without even waiting for me to reply that I wasn't a student but a bum, and maybe I didn't correct her, and so what, and why are you judging me? Shut up.)
2. I went to my favourite lingerie shop, Women's Secret, and bought beautiful things.
The Rantings
Monday, September 4, 2006 : 07:56 p.m.
Anyway there are lines of songs that keep floating in and out of my head these past few days, staying in bed and only getting up to add something to a slowly emerging portfolio of works, and wondering what I should really do. Almost as if, I'd had enough of this imaginary pilgrimage to Mecca, of facing one side and kneeling on worn knees, making a some sort of declaration, trying to prove some kind of point. But, who do you really prove points to? To yourself? Or to others? Do you earn stripes serving your country in the war, or does the war end up colouring stripes across your body, maybe someday when you're six feet under, face covered in blood, limbs unrecognizable and strewn and scattered with a trumpet playing a mournful but heart- warming rendition of the National anthem for your dead ears to enjoy, with three shots ringing out and the flag placed solemnly across your belly...
Now how did I digress to war, I don't know, I don't know anything, and I'm really feeling like I should enter a confessional booth and ask a clown for penance. Maybe he'll say, "Okay, ten jokes, two sarcastic remarks, five puns and an act of contrition", and I'll feel better.
Or maybe it's just plain boredom and hanging out doesnt seem so very alluring anymore, and the encouragement of others saying "you're doing this for art" isn't so enticing anymore, but then if not for art then what am I doing this for, and I refuse to believe I would do something I wasn't happy doing, I'm not that type of person, I refuse to be the person who lives life as if it were a death sentence stamped on his/her forehead, no, it must all be for something, but for what, then?
And when I talk to people who are serious and practical they tell me that my dissatisfaction is normal because I'm doing something abnormal and my senses are bound to knock me off my feet sooner or later, but I looked inside my soul this afternoon, during that perfect moment when sun hits your face and it's orange and gorgeous and no, it's not about a position at work, it's not about money and it's not about being different because when I think of it maybe there aren't any differences in the world, only subtle alterations, maybe between smiles and frowns there are no differences, a frown is just a smile upside down, not necessarily opposites.
I finished a stupid murder mystery paperback this morning and I swallowed the story like one would swallow a live fish - I can't believe people can write such crap when they can write about opposites and war and death sentences and make up theories that will aim to understand something broken... wouldn't that be beautiful, to quietly aim for imperfection? Why is everyone so obsessed with being pretty and charming and adoring to the public? I don't understand it ... maybe there aren't boring people in the world. Everyone is interesting, everyone has an interesting side, as long as they put aside the fronts they put on for the public. Fronts. Fronts, as in war fronts, and I feel like I'm peering from a hole over barbed wire, in my dirty fatigues and my gorgeous war helmet.
So. In conclusion. Should I smile and say, "Oh, it's all so satisfying, I'm just going to Mecca, I just confessed to a clown and he gave me penance: Why did the chicken cross the road?" Or should I just admit to you that I've been trying to visualize all day how a turtle would look without its shell?
I'll go with the latter.
And I have no conclusion for this.
Only to say that I can't write anymore, and the keyboard has tricked me into pressing all the wrong keys lately, tricked me into forming all the wrong words lately, tricked me into putting together the worst sentences lately, and how do I fix it?
And yeah, how would a turtle look without its shell? Wide feet, flat back perhaps, tiny head? I think it would look adorable.
Whoa
Saturday, September 2, 2006 : 05:25 p.m.
Excuse the language, but WHOA PUTAIN!!! My god is back, I can't wait I can't wait I can't WAIT! I predict that I will love this!
Childhood Legends
Thursday, August 24, 2006 : 08:26 a.m.
My mother told me that I didn't start talking until I was 2 years old. They thought I was mute and had already sent me to the doctors for checkups.
"When you started to talk, we were so relieved," says my father. "But then you never stopped. It was so terrible hearing your racket day in and day out. You were so damn noisy."
(A father's love for his daughter, ladies and gentlemen)
If that's not enough, they added: "Then one day, you started crying. You cried for 2 whole days and we didn't know what was wrong with you. We panicked and rushed you to the emergency room. The doctor gave us a bottle of medicine that made you fall asleep instantly. Whenever you'd wake up we'd give you some medicine. You slept for 3 days straight. It was great."
(It's nice to see how responsible my parents were)
Basement Band Song
Monday, August 21, 2006 : 02:45 p.m.
A woman passed by last Saturday to view our apartment. The agency called us about 30 minutes before the visit, which were spent rushing madly about the apartment, throwing random stuff into boxes, tripping over leaflets and luggage from our recent Vienna trip, rinsing dirty cups and shoving them into the cupboards.
They arrived exactly on time, the lady and the guy from the agency, and we hovered around, nursing the wounded feeling of being evicted.
They opened our cupboards and commented on the cabinet space, inspected the toilets and bathroom, asked us about the apartment and the residence in general.
"I like it," she said. "Just big enough. And it's very peaceful, isn't it?"
"It is," I said.
The guy from the agency spoke up. "Err, I'm not so familiar with this particular residence. Could you show us the pool and the parking lot?"
So we showed them the pool, water glittering under the rays of the sun (that decided to show itself after days of gloom, the traitor), offering them an overview of the city and a glimpse of the tennis courts. She sighed happily.
"Really makes me want to go swimming right now. You see, I live in Paris," she said. "Big city, small spaces, high rent. Nothing at all like this. But this... this is exactly what I want. A view, the pool... Where are you moving to, again?"
"Paris," we said.
She laughed. "Maybe we can exchange apartments! Although mine is only about 35 square meters. I don't know how I could leave an apartment like yours."
I refrained myself from stabbing her in the eye.
Anyway, to console myself, I researched all the concerts I'd like to see in Paris.
Yann Tiersen, 23 Oct
That makes me feel better.
I'm having the shittiest time trying to find an apartment in Paris. Any referrals? Any ideas? All I need is something close to La Defense, not smaller than 50 sqm2, with a parking lot and preferrably close to Metro. And yes, I know I'm asking for a lot.
Dionysos, 28 Oct
Calexico, 29 Oct
I love you but I've chosen darkness, 29 Oct
Cat Power, 05 Nov
Yo La Tengo, 11 Nov
Sonic Youth, 13 Dec
Skating
Wednesday, August 9, 2006 : 01:31 a.m.
Last Sunday we went rollerblading, as always. It was warm but there was a bit of wind, and the path was virtually empty throughout the whole trip.
We parked at Toulon. We started slowly, pacing ourselves, chatting from time to time. Until the pain started, which, I know now, if you leave it for a few minutes, becomes numb again until you forget it was ever there. We paused after the first leg of the cycling path, stretching our legs. The sun burned marks of the straps of my shirt on my shoulders. He passed me the energy drink we had bought earlier at the gas station: a purely psychological drink. The sun started to get to us. I was panting like a fish out of the water.
“You need a push? I can push you,” he asked. I shook my head. “No, I’ll try to find my pace, you find yours,” I said. We took turns taking the lead. We passed the second part of the path. “Uh-oh. Here’s the dreaded part,” he shouted. We slowly made our way uphill. It’s an uphill where you can only push as hard as you can, and feel like you’ve barely moved. We inched our way to the top. We knew it was a downhill afterwards.
Cruising downhill, we spread out our arms for a bit of air, ecstatic that the first hard part was over. Energized, we started talking again, skating side by side, holding hands sometimes.
“Do we go a bit farther than we usually go?” I asked. “No, let’s just do what we can do, no pressure,” he said. We stopped a lot during the third leg of the path, there were plenty of streets to cross.
The next path, I feel the need to describe it, is the most serene path of all: there are mountains all around, you pass by fields, there is a stretch of land that grows flowers, up the road there are donkeys. We moved to our own rhythm, lost in thought. My feet ached but then they’re supposed to ache. Afterwards I realised that he had pulled ahead, in a burst of adrenalin, and I couldn’t see him anymore. I made my way to our meeting place, the bus stop, and waited for him, dizzy under the heat of the sun. A few minutes later he joined me, apologizing for going too fast. I told him that it was ok, that I couldn’t catch up, that’s all, and that we should head back.
Every weekend, as often as we can, we skate about 25 kms. We enjoy the thrill of outdoing each other; we want to be the one to jeer at the other for being tired, for giving up. It’s all a game of bravado, a game that only people who like competition can enjoy. But this weekend something was different. We had gone too far, it was too warm, we were hungry, we were tired, and it was a long way back to Toulon. A few minutes into the return trip, I paused. “Christ,” I muttered, massaging my aching calves, “it’s too far.”
He stopped as well, panting hard, not saying anything at first until he finally admitted, “Yes, it seems really far to get back...”
“It’s going to take forever,” I moaned. Then: “Can I have the energy drink?” We brightened up as we drank our psychological drink. He said gently, “Let’s go, when you think about it, we’re almost there. There are a lot of downhills, starting here.”
Three-fourths into the journey the mood changed. “We’re almost there!” he cheered, from some dam of energy that had broken somewhere. “Stay close!” he shouted, then started moving faster. I tried to keep up, until I got my pace again, then it was sort of a race to the finish line, where we finally relaxed and started chatting again. We staggered back to the car, removed our blades, wobbled about comically and painfully on our feet, then drove off.
We ate a late lunch at 4 pm by the port of Hyères. We wolfed down our crepes like there was no tomorrow. Boats docked and others headed off towards open sea; people milled about, dogs were walked by their owners, children ate ice cream.
Rollerblading is a remarkable sport. There is so much time to think – too many things you remember, too many things you forget. Things are easier once you know the path, but still your legs ache, and still you get dizzy, and still you feel like giving up, even though you’ve been through it more than a dozen times already. Between fighting your way through the torturous uphills, and letting yourself go at the downhills, I try to keep the following things in mind: Go at your own pace. Find your rhythm. Take turns in taking the lead. Don’t always try to stick together. But stay close to each other. Don’t be scared to say you think you’re tired, because maybe the other is thinking the same thing... and the only thing needed to be able to make it to the end, together, is to admit it. And always have a psychological drink to keep you going, even if you think it is only overpriced water and lemon.
And this is how we spent our third year anniversary of being married.
Loop Lust
Monday, July 31, 2006 : 11:44 p.m.
I am by no means a professional guitar player but I do get these melodies in my head that I would like to keep; and it would be nice to have a copy, you know, like the way we write our dreams down sometimes to not forget. LoopStation! I want, I want. I want one so much it hurts! And the best thing of all is that it comes in the colour pink!!!
The blender is now officially my favourite kitchen appliance (it's used for reheating food, right? Just kidding, pft). The other night we made margaritas for our guests and we all - well... I - got reasonably tipsy, but proceeded to lose all reason that was left of this tipsy-ness when I decided, the moment the margaritas ran out, to continue with rosé wine. Somehow we all decided to go for a swim (at midnight). Normally, the pool closes as soon as the sun sets, but someone hauled himself over the gate and opened it. The four of us started for the water, giggling like morons, when we realised that the pool was already occupied and, uh, being used (my theory! me and my dirty mind's theory!), by a couple. You could tell they were nervous, probably thought it was the residence's guardian. We went back home to give them a couple of hours to finish up, deciding to watch a movie, and before the movie ended I was asleep.
We are taking as much advantage as we can of our apartment. We are booked with summer guests and it's so much fun to have our friends from Lyon come round. The last hurrah?
Um and we make a lot of fruit shakes too.
Take a good look at this, because this is what my current object of lust looks like! Our friend Lionel, visiting from Lyon, brought his Boss RC20 LoopStation along. You can record a riff and loop it to play back while you overdub layers and layers of sound, until it feels like there are 20 people playing along with you. It's amazing, believe me, a total headrush. Joseph Arthur is a great acoustic looper as well; I saw him play live when he opened for R.E.M. (and now you must get his album). I created a loop the other day but wasn't able to save it; in my excitement I just recorded over it, and in typical Kala fashion, I erased that loop as well. Er.
When Soul Meets Body
Wednesday, July 26, 2006 : 10:08 p.m.
So it all boils down to this: We're moving to Paris. Because of this, our plan to fly to Beijing/Vietnam had to be sacrificed (inverted smiley icon)
The days have slowed down for me since I'm no longer looking for a job. I've temporarily abandoned my driving lessons because - and I won't lie - of Laziness and Fear. Pure, unadaultered laziness. Crazed, heart-stopping fear of my teacher, who slaps my thigh when she "thinks" I have my foot on the goddam accelerator when in reality it's her foot's fault (she was too busy chatting on the phone to realise that it was she who was doing all the accelerating). And from the Gospel According to Murphy, the minute I stop looking for a job, I get 2 callback interviews, both for positions I wanted and felt I had a chance of getting, both of which I had to turn down. Driving instructors, rejected interviews - just another day in the life...
Box
"Boxes!!!" I cried happily. "Excellent! Are they big enough?" I started folding one.
"And hello to you too," he said pointedly. "I hope we still have bubblewrap. If you didn't pop them all."
"Of course I haven't," I said, conveniently leaving out the truth that I had cut for myself a square of bubblewrap a few months back. But this action is justified by the fact that I can get very nervous for no apparent reason.
But anyway, Boxes are Good. Boxes mean that we are moving. Boxes mean not staying put. And most importantly, boxes mean change.
And if you have boxes at home but aren't really moving house anytime soon, you can sit in it and pretend it's a spaceship! It's fun, and I'm 27 years old.
Hem
Whenever I tell people we're moving to Paris, I get sympathetic looks, gentle tsk tsk tsk tongue-clucking noises, and worried shoulder pats. I know I'll miss certain things about Aix-en-Provence: the great weather, the laid-back lifestyle, Cinema Mazarin with the art flicks in Version Originale. Or that bar along Cours Mirabeau that serves gigantic chilled glasses of iced tea (bigger than the biggest Nescafe café garapon). Even the madness spending an hour trying to find a parking spot on a Saturday afternoon, and those "Manhattan's HotDog - New York-style Hotdog!" stands that one can find everywhere. And of course, all the friends I've made here.
What's going to hurt the most is to leave our apartment. Sure, our residence is a bit Los Paranoias with its monthly codes and never-ending regulations, but it has a pool and a tennis court and I know that unless I become a trillionaire overnight, it's just not going to be the same.
Haw
But in the end, I'm relieved we're moving. Julien groans whenever I mention our move, but I can only think of the opportunities Paris can offer me, job-wise and culture-wise. At this point in my life I don't think I, and I don't think we, can stay in one place for three years straight. Aix-en-Provence is a small town, and though not lacking in charm, it can feel small from time to time.
The thought of being able to meet old friends from Manila in Paris excites me. The fact that I'll be able to visit Musée Pompidou's exhibits thrills me. The idea of the 'free museum entrance' every first Sunday of the month clinches the deal. And think of all the companies that need a serious CV bombardment...
I know I will complain bitterly about being Paris once Winter rolls in. I'm aware of the astronomical rents and the lull of spending a good part of the day underground, taking the Metro. One place isn't better than the other. But the most important thing is Change.
These past few weeks have been a long consistent headache, but finally the Paracetamol is working and everything is falling into place.
The good news, however, is that when Julien arrived the other day, struggling down the hall, rousing me from my sprawled-on-the-bed-can't-move-because-of-the-heat half-vegetative state, he had in his arms...
2 million euros and 100 people
Sunday, June 25, 2006 : 10:31 p.m.
This morning, during the minutes/hours of lazing in bed after waking up on a Sunday morning, Julien awoke with another long-term project in his head, and spent 30 minutes describing every single detail of the said project.
"It's going to be a success!" he said breathlessly, smiling at the ceiling.
"I doubt that it will... spark... (yawn) any interest," I said doubtfully, rubbing my foot against his leg. "I mean, your target audience is pretty small."
"It's going to be a hit," he said confidently, playing deaf. He turned over and we looked at each other over our pillows. He was grinning wildly. Over the next few minutes he attempted to tickle me, and stopped when he got bored from all my kicking and screaming.
"Well... ok. If you pull it off. Anyway, it's worth a try... what should I do?"
"You can make the drawings. I'll need a lot of studies. Character studies. You know anything about it?"
"Not a thing!" I told him. The wind almost blew our window shut, but thankfully the latch didn't give way.
He had that crazed look on his face, the one that translated to "I will be hyperactive for the rest of the day."
We then made out for a few minutes, and after we pulled away he murmured, "Now, all I need is someone to invest 2 million euros... and I'll need about a hundred people..." He then wandered off to the kitchen to make cappucino.
Full Meal
Monday, June 12, 2006 : 06:27 p.m.
It's summer. I opened our freezer hoping to find something to eat (you know it's bad when you start raiding the freezer) and found nothing but ice cubes and popsicles. So I had 3 popsicles for lunch: violet for eggplant, green for vegetables, and red for apple (dessert). I am the Healthy Living Ambassador.