Two years ago
Thursday, November 27, 2003 : 03:10 p.m.

I want you to have a world without borders without discrimination without tourist traps no aeroplane ticket expirations no visa nor passports just a world scratched with symbols some understandable, some with sense and for those who don't understand at all let it be enough for you to just sit back some lazy evening, to smoke some cigarettes and turn the globe lightly with care, wondering marvelling at this mystery walking beneath your fingertips.

Go for it!
Wednesday, November 26, 2003 : 11:02 a.m.

My head is full of electronic bleeps and bloops and I'm in bed with my feet against the wall staring at the tickets in my hand that will bring us to watch Grandaddy live! ROCK!

Star Child
Thursday, November 20, 2003 : 10:10 p.m.

You're my star child and I plucked you from the sky. From evrywhere to here, a universal puzzle, in a jar. You're the star child and the death of stars just isn't too grave (anymore); why don't you please just tell me how we are supposed to save the other, follow supernovas, a Big Bang in your eye, over and over again? You're it, sleeping silently besie silk patterns, forehead creased, hand clenched, your body pink and weak, shining in the dark, eyes closed, forever away, my star child.

77
Friday, November 14, 2003 : 02:34 a.m.

Good Lord, I miss 77. In case you've never heard of 77, you're corny. Since it was so close to our home in QC, we often used to go there. Too often for it to resemble the set of Cheers. We had our after-wedding party there, which was so memorable because it was like a party in your own living room. Doi the barman, if ever you get to read this, this is a bit late I know but we had a wonderful party, thank you! I am putting a picture of us in honour of 77 and its magical chocolate milkshakes.

Now-defunct cast of Cheers (with Doi the barman)

Umbilical cord love
Sunday, November 9, 2003 : 08:04 p.m.

Sometimes, I love you. Those times are when birds sing in the sky, and when the sky is a deep blue, and when alone in some forbidden city, trying to write a postcard to a familiar place and face, clinging to an imaginary umbilical cord. Those are times when money comes easily, when food is on the table (hot, steaming, tasty), when the car runs perfectly, perfect mileage and shiny license plates. Those are the times when the songs that are sung come out completely in tune, and the guitar strings plucked are clear and straight, the arrows shot cuts the apple in two.

But I hate you sometimes. And I hate the way the clouds stick to clothes, and how sun is bitten away by darkness. And when the trees lose their leaves. And when the leaves grow back again. And when skin stretches, taut, over faces that don't smile anymore because there is no reason to. Hands that are tired and shaking from exhaustion. Fear, toxin, exhileration.

I do not really want to be associated with you. But things that remain facts, are. And that is all.

In case you were wondering, this is all about my love-hate relationship with my favourite colour, the Colour Pink. I call it: loveletter to a colour. I wanted to explore the amount of feeling one could put into a seemingly "trivial" matter. Nice, no? Now, if only I could be less of a smartass and more of a person...

Umbilical cord musings

I really like umbilical cords, because ...okay, it was a secret but I guess I have to tell you that...(whispers) I was born with one. And another secret: you were, too (most likely).

Please! Recover from the shock of this stunning revelation!

I didn't have it for a long time as the doctor so rudely cut it a few minutes after I was born. Anyway, I never really thanked my mum for lending me all that air and food space when I was renting in her tummy. Are umbilical cords cut just so we can get lovely navel piercings when we reach the age of rebellion?

Balance

The other day we went ice skating; the most fun I've had in days. I'm not an expert but I manage not to fall when my feet are slightly above ground. I've got a good sense of balance, when it comes to these things. Maybe it's because I'm closer to the center of gravity. I used to be able to turn cartwheels while wearing roller skates when I was around eight or nine. I could even skate backwards. Christ, I was cool then. What happened to me? Why am I reduced to writing loveletters to colours and speculating about umbilical cords? My secret wish is to be an X-Gamer, rollerblade category, but I've never rollerbladed enough.

Weakness weakens

'A sure sign of things to come. Weakness can be a strength'. I made that up, I wrote that, thinking that irony is clever.

Maybe in a way, like I said, weakness can be a strength, especially when it boils down to the facts of life. That we can never really be strong, with what we love. That we cling to them lovingly. That we are shattered, with or without them. Colours. Or umbilical cords. Take your pick.

Stumble along
Wednesday, November 5, 2003 : 12:12 a.m.

THE PROBLEM with Paris is that it's too damn charming. It's like phlegm sticking to your throat which irritates you to no end but at the same time excuses you from attending classes, so why not? Maybe it's a bit too medical a parallel, but I'm sure everyone gets what I want to say. It's Paris.

To start off, let me praise the TGV for making travel thru France quick, comfortable, and convenient. Let's go through it fastforward shall we? Standing in Lyon station with Jul, boarding the train, removing my coat and gloves and putting them back on. Train starts, chugs to life, me turning to Jul to say "It isn't too fast," and living to retract the sentence. Like a large bullet zooming through the countryside, the aftermath of its speed lifting up the skirts of the innocent cows. Depositing us in the heart of Paris. Too many people all of a sudden; Chinese, Japanese, Arabians, people speaking in different tongues, a group of people sign-languaging an argument.

Still in fast-forward. Up the spiral staircase of the apartment we are staying in, so close to the Eiffel Tower, the classy part of town. I count sixteen steps to one floor. Looking up, I see six more floors. Mental math-ing 16 multiplied by 6. I don't finish the equation, my breath is coming out in short gasps, sure that my lungs are knotting themselves to form the words "OUT OF OXYGEN" but still I try to look cool because I'm really superficial at times. The room: charming, but convinced that Princess Sarah actually slept here. Look out the window, see the Eiffel Tower still there. The strain of the stairs leaves and I'm able to breathe normally. End of fast forward.

So. Where does one go, having already been here a year before, having already been dazzled by the subway and old buildings blending with the new culture?

1977 is more than four numbers
1977 now holds a different meaning for me; it is now NOT of importance being the year my sister Dr. Doom was born, nor is it of importance being the album title of Ash's first album. Because 1977 WAS THE YEAR THE POMPIDOU CENTRE OPENED TO THE PUBLIC, goddamn, one of the largest museums of modern art, goddamn, this, my friends, is where Duchamp's Fountain is displayed, in the Dada room (tear falling from my cheek), where Joan Miro's Bleu collection are hung like blue canvasses designed solely for my eternal happiness. Includes works of Robert and Sonia Delaunay, a collection of Hans Bellmer's dolls, everything from Fauvism to Surrealism (damn I saw a Victor Brauner) and even some tattered Andre Breton manuscripts.

Centre of All things Mighty and Bright

Maybe I died twice here ---first, upon seeing the exhibition space and everything in it, and second, upon the realisation that, after five hours, we still hadn't eaten lunch. Walking on the bones of our feet, so colourfully put. Do not go to museums on an empty stomach; it is the worst crime you could ever commit and I'm not even being funny--- it is a crime. Quoting Mr. Juju on the second death: "The first 2 hours were fine. The 3rd I started to lose my comprehension, voices were muffled, colours blurred. The 4th I was walking unsteadily, holding on to consciousness. By the 5th, hearing loss and temporary blackouts, mirages of bowls of Vietnamese soup and chickens dancing."

Me and the Tour Eiffel
I'm such a tourist. I'm such an idiot for the Eiffel Tower. I'm not as touristy as the busloads of Japanese who take endless poses before the tower, but I may be touristy enough to insist on visiting the monument even in sucky weather. I swear, I'm such an idiot.

It sounded like a good idea to me though, so when Julien left for the afternoon I took my bag and water and walked to the object of my affection without taking my eyes off it, because I have no sense of direction (I get lost walking in a straight line).

It's a tired view but humour me a bit

It was cold, but I'll spare you a description of how cold exactly by telling you that it was around minus five billion degrees, the temperture! Plus rain! No shit! I'm thankful I'm still alive! Did I climb to the top floor... the answer is no, I didn't climb it at all because besides being superficial, idiotic, touristy, and having no sense of direction, I'm also a cheapstake. I was up there last year and I'm pretty sure that Paris didn't rearrange itself that much. The feet of Eiffey, though, I can report, are still beautiful.

The weather and dead trees

To detract everyone's growing opinion of distate for my unpleasant traits, let me push Reichelt to the spotlight, a tailor who, attempted to fly from the heights of the Eiffel Tower with a cape. He fell to his death amidst the cheers of the large crowd gathered. 1912 was not the year for stuntmen.

Louvre
How many people have walked through the Louvre since it was a fortress in the year 1190 I don't know, but one thing's for sure: walking through the Louvre always feels as if you're there for the first time. The size of it is something we have to talk about. Sit down. Be calm. (Whispers) It's really big. King Philippe-Auguste went a tad bit too overboard with the size, didn't he? And Napoleon's apartments were... well, too much is too much (really, how can a person sleep in a bedroom with that much gold and freaky tassles around?). One thing is for sure though; there's always something to look at, because being one of the most historic monuments in France, it has sweeping staircases and paintings on the ceilings.

Imagine walking one mile to get to the kitchen for a drink of water

But first let me go outside the Louvre, because there is a garden just before called the Jardin des Tuileries, where we walked amidst the falling leaves and I felt like a princess... which, if you didn't know yet, I am. Nice, no?

My royal carpet of leaves and loyal tree subjects

They also built statues for me and made a carpet of red and yellow leaves for her royalty to walk on.

My royal statue. And collection of green chairs

Going through all the periods of art and art history blows one's mind away; navigating through the museum scatters the pieces of your blown mind into different directions. I'm pretty sure my brains are scattered on the floor halfway through Pre-classical Greek sculptures and Objets d'Art all the way down to Italian Renaissance (Mona Lisa is overhyped though; there are more impressive paintings than this 'masterpiece'. It's a bit pathetic how people surge their way towards the end of the Italian Renaissance to get to Mystery Mona, not even taking a glimpse at the other pieces on the walls, eager to snap pictures at a frame too tiny to be studied, when, really, artists such as say my newly-discovered Gericault -- not Italian Renaissance of course but you know I mean -- are equally if not more impressive. But that's just my opinion.)

I liked Antoine le Moiturier's The Tomb of Philippe Pot (late 15th cent.), and Gericault's works, especially The Raft of the Medusa (absurd, delightful, notorious). I was never really familiar with Gericault until now, and seeing his portraits of dead horses and dead cats, I'm starting to like the guy. Admittedly, people who paint guillotined heads amaze my sick mind. I'll have to admit that preferences are made through the years, and even though mine veered more towards modern art rather than classical at the end (but then again it's not the end still), I like the way we always find a way back to something grounded, how museums manage to impress stuck up preferences, and I really thank the Louvre for that.

The Winged Victory of Samothrace

The sculpture above is one close to my heart, I attach this picture, because years ago I had to draw this particular statue to get myself into UP Fine Arts, and after all these years, seeing the real thing, I find myself having the folds of her marble cloth on the palm of my hand, the arches and bumps of her wings on my mind. And the way I made the connection to this makes me feel the way the Louvre is supposed to make one feel; that we're just masterpieces, that we're varnish on paintings, that victory has wings and it lives here; trapped but released through thousands of people who see its painted ceilings, its moats, its walls.

What moving, compelling drama I have written about a statue! Bagpipes are playing a Celine Dion flop in the background. The smirk on my face is priceless.

I was in a movie set but no one was filming
Montmartre, besides being notoriously popularized by the film Amelie Poulin, which I guess everyone has seen, is seemingly worlds away from Paris. Because of its being on a hill I don't know, but it has a certain quiet charm, and life seems almost lazier here. The sadist in me should note that the name is from mons martyrium, after the martyrs tortured and killed here way back 250 AD, long time ago: we were all pre-genes then.

The wind was quite uncooperative the day we visited and if not for gravity I would have been hovering over Paris... by the way, Montmartre provides an excellent view of the whole city. But of course with the weather you couldn't see too clearly out.

The hills are alive with the sound of tourists

There were really nice stores, full of little Eiffey keychains and kitsch pens shaped like saucisson and bread. Japanese tourists were hoarding kitschness, as usual.

It escapes my mind how people can manage to stand under the rain and wind on top of a hill to pose for a picture with a background that won't appear on their prints because: Number One The Weather Sucks, and Number Two They're Standing Against the Light. People and their disposable cameras!!! Really! Montmartre was crowded that day, mostly because it was the 1st of November therefore Mass, and because the Sacre Coeur is one of the most visited sites.

The result of a well-won bribe

Sacre Coeur was built as a result of the classic blackmail/bribery between businessmen and the church. Businessmen Alexandre Legentil and Rohult de Fleury made a deal to finance the whole basilica come France be spared from then's Franco-Prussian war. I suppose thousands of monks prayed for the safety of France, in order to get a badass church such as this one. Really milked it out of those businessmen, because although not particularly graceful, Sacre Coeur is vast enough to be considered as one of France's most important Catholic structures. That goes to show you should never bet on churches. They have someone influential on their side.

Paris at Night
At night, from the Trocadero, the Eiffel Tower turns into a ridiculous disco ball for five minutes every hour.

Walkways and Trafficless Business Centers
You can perfectly smoke here; none of that no-smoking ordinance blah-blah. There aren't any cars since there's only underground parking, hence no traffic, hence you've got no excuse to be late unless subway strikes occur. West of Paris is La Defense, business center of Parisians et.al., yuppie extraordinaire mecca. The hole of La Grande Arche is big enough to fit the entire Notre Dame cathedral. It would be a nice scene for Bjork's video It's All So Quiet, La Defense, with all the necktied and stockinged employees dancing their overworked hearts out. There's a huge statue of ---- of all things--- a thumb. A constant reminder to the rat racers, perhaps, that "everything is A-OK!!!"

So you think you can tell heaven from hell?

And so fastforward to the afternoon, descending circular staircases for the last time, finding our seats on the train, coughing all the way to Lyon, where suddenly the tree outside the bedroom window turned red and yellow, finding an envelope full of red leaves, probably to be used in the future for collages, or postcards, or just for keeping... who knows what to do with the leaves in autumn when they fall; there are millions of them, one leaf to every person, and the story ends here, sipping tea, pressing the "upload" button; too lazy to spellcheck.

I thought it was my foot
Monday, October 27, 2003 : 12:06 a.m.

In the end, the cold always wins. One can only imagine how cold a nose can be, as if it weren't even there. There were days in Manila where I found myself spread out on the bed, fanning myself with whatever flat surface I could find, not complaining, but bemoaning my fate of having been chosen to endure the temperature of a string of islands quite lose to the equator.

Outside, the temperature dips below zero and keeps on dipping without mercy. Outside, the car windows are fogged up as if very heavy fornication issues were taking place between the plush car seats.

But who, in this weather, would even think of stripping down to one's underwear, even with the heater on?

A lot of people, I muse silently, with a grin playing at the edges of my lips, ouhla; if only you could see me. After all, the best radiators are loved ones.

But yes like the born digressor I am, I digress: I am here, a faithful reporter, to report, supposedly, of newness and all kinds of exciting happenings. But I've been a lazy person, lounging in beds and warm baths, flipping books in languid fashion as if I were Cleopatra herself, minus the dramatic eyes and the obnoxious relationship with Antony. No, there is no excuse for it, even in this text I try to evade the inevitable, skirting thru unneccesary details just for the pleasure of delaying what I have been wanting to write for a long time.

Discovery countdown
So far accomplished: the discovery of food. Racquettes, crepes, tartiflettes, all go down my throat and settle comfortably (and sometimes not so comfortably) in my stomach. Next on the list: the French lessons. From the calm pleading of "Deucement, s'il vous plait, deucement..." as someone fires a barrage of French ammunition at my face, to the struggle of pages in my Point par Point French book, I would have to say that I have at least accomplished some things, mostly simple conversation, translating my bedraggled collection of words into something comprehensible.

Biennale
The Biennale ("C'est Arrive Demain") is in Lyon: a grand, sweeping culmination of conceptualization and visualization, the reason behind the string of saliva dribbling down the side of my mouth like a juicy bone hovering over a dog's mouth. The Biennale, set in four different locations in Lyon; the Biennale, with one light show featuring music by Jay Jay Johanson himself; the Biennale that, with its "adult" content, refused to let me in without proper identification of age, as only 18 years and above were allowed into the Sod & Sodie Sock Cap O.S.O of Mike Kelley and Paul McCarthy (a display of conceptual brilliance). I had to show identification, too, back in Manila, to watch Fight Club. If I look young there, I suppose I look ten here. Pffff.

FNAC, France's "everything important can be found here" store as I am pegging it, has an English book corner. Of course, with the exemption of the classics, there are some pretty damn good titles on the stand. But I can't help but jump to another topic.

Austen and the problem with her classic
Let me tell you the problem I am encountering with Austen's Sense and Sensibility: it's formed like a snobbish school clique back in my all-girl's (insert gagging here) private school. They talk about nothing but boys. From start to page 85, boys. Boys, boys, boys. A family moving away, the gorgeous children meeting boys. The center of conversation is of bachelors and bachelorettes and BOYS. No, I do NOT feel sorry for myself reading this book in my age. You can tell me that I have no culture and appreciation for a book as "grand" as this, that I am one of those Coupland-reading fanatics without any link to the roots. I don't care what you say. I don't even plan to finish this book. Nor do I care to get to the end before I start forming opinions and critiques. I'd rather criticise now. I'm at page 85 of this horrible book and I refuse to go one page further, to hell with Marianne and Elinor and their spiritless, spineless mother. I would throw the book if I could, but since I am a firm believer against book-throwing, anyone who would like a copy of this disgusting thing can send me an email with their address and I can ship it over to you, with gladness.

My first emails to my family once arriving here were the customary "cuddling-up-to-you" emails, the "Oh-God-and-how-is-the-dog" emails when normally I wouldn't have given a rat's ass to the smelly dog anyway. I expected to be the apple of my parent's eyes a bit longer, even if only thru email, 3 months in the least, but one month tops they're writing monosyllabic replies to my tales of woe.

Dear everyone, I madly typed, the cold here reminds me of Sylvia Plath's description of London winters, and it's only Autumn. Why didn't you force me to buy those ukay-ukay coats? Why did I even bring my lovely sleeveless shirts? I'm no thermometer but the temperature is around minus 78 degrees outside (at this point I sniff melodramatically and continue with immense exaggeration) ... and the cold it seeps thru my skin and I don't have any more lotion and my skin is all dry. Why didn't I bring more moisturizer. Miss you all. Kala.

Came the reply of my mum: Kala, I am so glad to hear news from you. Everyone here is fine, all a bit busy especially myself with the task of [insert list of motherly tasks here]. Send me more pictures. We miss you!

I increase drama to the cold because I have a low threshold for it. I never used to open the electric fan or at least never aimed it directly at me, even during summer. It's something I have to get used to, I know. As we were walking the other night in a minus 2230 degree weather to the Chinese restaurant, Julien told me that I saw the evil in everything, in response to my complaints that I was turning to ice with each step that I took.

I promise
This is going to be the last weather-related complain you will hear. I am going to focus on things other than the unnerving cold that finds a way to enter my coat, scarf and gloves (I must stop this sentence before it turns into a paragraph)... I wrote an entry filled with witticism (not all witty as usual) last week with pictures and a very sharp and description of everything that was happening, but for some reason it got lost, so I guess I'll have to put others instead.

shops are nice with posters and grafitti

it's autumn, leaves are falling

squares, fountains, and city halls

because i like shadows

coucou lyon

elephant dance
Monday, October 6, 2003 : 02:29 p.m.

Now I know the real meaning of cold, putting on multiple layers of sweaters as much as my body allows, till I am thick-bodied and definitely not as fashionable as I would like to be.

And anyway, what is fashion but something that preoccupies a mind that has nothing new to chew on? France has always been something associated with books, TV5, and Lonely Planet daydreams for me, and now here I am, here we are, here we all are, trying to make sense of the unbelievable taxes on tobacco and why the sun shines so late in the evening.

Yesterday Park de la Tete d'Or was teeming with screaming children, all whom I resented because they spoke better French than I did, all whom I wanted to hug because they were adorably trudging on with horse-shaped balloons and barbapapas (French term for 'cotton candy'). And Julien and I stopped by to regarde an elephant, who was swaying on his feet and swinging his head to his internal earphones. It's wonderful to spend an afternoon with elephants. The weather yesterday allowed us to walk from Parc de la Tete d'Or back home, crossing the bridges and walking uphill slowly. Today, the weather is back to gray, with light drizzles that make you feel like not leaving the comforter. At all.

And yesterday I felt the distance between islands and grounds, wondering, where am I, I'm here, I'm somewhere else, it's exciting, it's scary, it's all new. Yesterday, two months married, my husband and I watched an elephant dance in the parc.

And I know that I like it, this feeling, this elephant dance I'm going through, probably, this elephant dance we all go through, whether we are aware of it or not.

I like it.

I really do.