Silentium

Silentium!
Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
(Translated by Vladimir Nabokov)

Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.

How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.

Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the outer light,
drowned in the noise of day, unheard...
take in their song and speak no word.

i'm not used to this.

so much of what we live goes on inside. for me, life is one moment of thought flowing or flitting into the other, depending on which landscape one's fancy discovers or returns to. i can spend hours on a book, gobbling up its contents and digesting them later. i love taking a moment to reflect on a moving passage in a piece of poetry recently discovered. oftentimes, thoughts pass unsaid, unwritten, unexpressed.

i am perfectly at home with solitude, the peace and freedom it offers. i have always been a quiet person, even when i was a child. it has its advantage: one becomes the most likely candidate for the role of confidante. the view from this vantage point is always a fascinating one. more than just being entrusted with secrets or being privy to thoughts otherwise usually kept hidden, the role of secret-keeper allows one to keep a piece of someone else's thoughts or feelings with your own, without having to necessarily part with yours - unless opinion or advice is solicited.

being quiet, however, has its drawbacks. sometimes the seemingly innocuous inquiry, "what's new with you?" becomes a conundrum with unforseen (to the inquirer) complications. in casual conversations among casual acquaintances, the polite answer would be, "oh, you know, nothing much. just the usual," before launching into some short vignette about whatever one's "usual" might be. among friends, the vignette may be a bit longer, the response a little less edited. i hardly play the role of storyteller, so when the opportunity presents itself i am unable to gracefully rise to the occasion.

***

it wasn't a casual conversation. neither are you a casual acquaintance; quite the contrary. i don't know how to answer that question without the response sounding too trite, off-tangent, or revealing too much. i can tell you, however, that you are not the first to complain about my inability to turn the tables around and open my mouth. it is only in retrospect that i realize i should have shared that interesting passage from the book i'm currently immersed in, or told you about the quick and fascinating lightning show i witnessed as i was making my way to work.

maybe i'm just making excuses. what we conceal is always more than what we dare confide.

i keep secrets, too.
***

Zane and I scrapped our original plan to see one of the entries to this year's Cinemanila, but made our way to Greenbelt instead to see Julie and Julia with Dia.



Julie and Julia is the film adaptation of Julie Powell's eponymous book, in turn a rendition of her blog which chronicled the progress of her self-imposed, 365-day foray into Julia Child's seminal cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Written and directed by Nora Ephron, the film juxtaposes the lives of these two women, both beginning with their movement into unfamiliar territory and their journey to self-realization through, you guessed it, cooking. Julia Child and her husband Paul are expats newly-arrived in Paris, while Julie and Eric Powell have just recently moved to an apartment above a pizzeria in Queens, a larger space than the one they left in Manhattan.

For want of something to do, Julia tries her hand at several acceptable occupations for married women in the sixties, attending classes in hat-making, studying French, then finally attending an advanced cooking class at Le Cordon Bleu. With the encouragement of her editor husband, Julia Powell, a cubicle employee for a government organization helping families affected by the 9/11 tragedy, embarks on a project: "365 days. 536 recipes. One girl and a crappy outer borough kitchen." Although more than a generation separates these women, the sentiment is the same - the desire to find one's calling and therefore define a self that is distinct and separate from one's role as wife, worker, etc.

The storytelling itself is simple and linear, even though it deals with two timelines. The narrative is a study on parallelism, and the cutting from one storyline to the next - from Julie's to Julia's, or vice-versa - not only serves as side-by-side comparison of these women's struggles and triumphs, but also as a cliffhanger, a break before a significant turn in the plot. There are a lot of funny moments in the film: in one scene, we see Paul Child literally crying by the door upon finding his wife vigorously chopping away a mountain of onions; in another, Julie Powell, in a fit of frustration over failing to do a recipe properly, is on the kitchen floor, crying and throwing a tantrum. The low points are rendered with very little melodrama: joy and pain war in Julia's features until she finally breaks down after finding out that her recently-married sister is with child, and from the quiet way her husband comforts her we realize that they are unable to have their own.

Larger-than-life and with a peculiar voice to match, Julia Child is splendidly and perfectly portrayed by Meryl Streep. I remember an acquaintance raving about her performance in this movie, "Meryl Streep disappeared; that is Julia Child on screen." Ms. Streep was more than able to capture the tenor of the iconic Julia's character. The subtlety of her approach made me see Julia as a funny character, but without the slapstick; her gestures were firm, decisive, but without grand gesticulation. Meryl Streep wore her character like a second skin. Amy Adams as Julie Powell was also impressive. As a young, married woman juggling the role of wife, employee, friend and daughter in 21st century New York, she echoes all the joy, frustration, insecurities, complex relationships of today's woman in her thirties with great sincerity and humor.

I fell in love with Stanley Tucci and Chris Messina as the main characters' incredible husbands. More than just an emotional prop, I believe that the role as husbands played by these fine gentlemen is astoundingly simple, yet extremely significant: they treated their wives with unswerving love and deep respect, and because they were confident about their place in life, the enthusiasm and support was real and sincere. With this as the backdrop, Julie and Julia flourished and ultimately succeeded in their own respective journeys.

I liked how the music was used as a subtle, invisible cue to gently transition the audience from one storyline to the other. It is only towards the end of the movie that one song, Time After Time, played out uninterruptedly through both Julie and Julia's storylines. The cinematography, too, was used to compare and contrast. In the first few scenes, in Julia's story, we see the Eiffel Tower in the background while the couple settles in to their new home. On the other hand, as Julie and Eric drive to their new home, the camera tilts to an old, rusting water tower as the car passes by.

Overall, Julie and Julia is a good movie, another Oscar-worthy material for lead actress Meryl Streep. Now, shoo and go see it!

***

there is a finite number of times that the heart can take rejection. with each one, the heart suffers a little death. i'm getting tired of trying to fit in somewhere i'm unwanted. i'm tired of seeing your retreating back.

i need a break.
***

question to the void: why does my neighbor choose the exact hour of my deepest slumber to crank up the volume and sing to his heart's content? i mean, really, there's plenty of time to do it; just not anytime during the late afternoon to early evening. can't be asking for much, can it?

god, it was so hard to go back to sleep, even tougher to wake up at the appointed time. i ended up coming to work later than usual again and missing a client call! grr.

***

do you think perhaps that the sting of sharp words is easily dismissed by offerings of sweet treats? i'm no longer a child, you know, despite my predilection to chocolates and sugary stuff.

ah, but you're not exactly having a smooth ride lately, have you? perhaps it's my proximity. should i expect more of these unexpected, hitherto unreleased outbursts? just wondering.

it's been a good day with you, nevertheless.

i was hoping to make good time with sleep yesterday after leaving the office early. after some leisurely "dinner" and the usual end-of-day rituals, i hit the sack around noon. the blissful idea of an eight-hour sleep was one of my last lucid thoughts before i succumbed to oblivion.

i was stunned to waking not many hours later. some disembodied voice permeated through my subconscious and startled me awake. it was decidedly off-key, definitely loud, and annoyingly persistent. there's a birthday party at the neighbor's apparently and, like most pinoy birthday parties, there is the ubiquitous videoke set up at the celebrant's home (indoors or outdoors, depending on the available space), open mike, with the volume turned up as high as anything. and like any typical videoke in any party this side of the world, this one featured a series of dubious belters aided either by alcohol, enthusiasm, or both.

i blearily consulted the clock: 4:00 pm. shit.

i tried to go back to sleep, i really did. i shut the windows, drew the curtains closed, put a pillow over my head. by the time the third singer was doing his best to make me abhor a novelty song even more (the title escapes me, and really, i have no wish to recall), i gave up.

i got up, had dinner, showered, and left. i arrived at the office four hours early, and a couple of hours before the rain started pouring.

well, thank goodness for small mercies, i suppose. i don't know if i'd have traded a full eight hours' sleep with getting caught in the rain. the point is moot in any case.


***

i cannot be trusted with words. my fevered imagination takes it and runs with it. very far. with me, a myriad of possibilities springs forth with one word. a universe explodes into existence where the word and all its possible connotations and conjugations become the stuff of sea, sand and sky.

a word of warning, therefore: please don't tell me things you don't really mean. with every word said and later refuted, it becomes increasingly difficult to question the probability of what could have been possible. it takes herculean effort to rip apart a universe, albeit a made-up one.

Poem Not Written in Catalan
Eric Gamalinda

Of all the things that are not eternal
I deny the patience of water, the divinity of salt, and the
persistence of the spider

I would like to write a suicide note in three and a half languages
and travel south on a Thursday towards
some form of life outside of earth

And although people will think I'm no longer there
I will live in geodesic domes
and count only in numbers below zero

Sometimes when I walk past trees in the city I hear them denying me
Normally this doesn't bother me but today
I'm not going to take any conspiracies

I deny bodies of water smaller than the Great Lakes
I deny any planet larger than America

I deny the fact that when I kill time, time is actually killing me
I am air, light, sound, all of which I deny
I deny the Buddha, I do not deny the Buddha

An exact copy of my life is being lived three million light years
away
If there's a way to prove it
If mathematics were the only religion

We are passing an era of turbulence
make sure your seats are in the uptight position

"When we come close to another a certain light ignites"

Love like an arsonist
steals into my life and burns down all my tenements

(In a court of law, love will deny me
and I can't prove a thing)

***
cross-posted in greatpoets

***
it was already 15 minutes to 11 last night and i still felt like i needed to sleep some more. i felt so tired for some strange reason. and so to have some good excuse for arriving a bit later than usual for work, i put on the short black dress zane and i found at market! market! the previous day and a bit of makeup.

it wasn't so bad.

di naman tumalab sa 'yo.

it's funny that no matter how old one gets, no matter the stature or accomplishment one achieves, affirmation remains a powerful motivation. we still desire validation from others, even if it's as inconsequential and trivial as one's look for the day.

suddenly i'm feeling like an e-heads song.

***
it's easy to inject an opinion on something, anything, that you aren't directly involved in, isn't it? perhaps the distance gives better perspective. the risk is minimal, non-existent, even. it allows free rein to your biases, or frees you of it. solicited advice, however, is slightly different. to an extent, your involvement increases, because although the one who sought it has full control of which direction to take, your advice will be mulled over, becomes a viable option. the mere fact that your advice was sought implies a certain amount of trust and confidence in your ability to weigh the situation and come up with something sensible to spout, other than sounding off what you think about it.

i hope to god the ones i'm giving out are sound.

I have to admit that I had apprehensions coming into the cinema knowing that it's an American film. Not another Hollywood churn-out, please, I silently prayed. And it wasn't; not really.

The film tells the story of Archie Williams who decides that he will film his own suicide as the end-of-term project for his media class. Deliberately fitful and confused, the story treatment uses hand-held camera shots, webcam angles, and the all-seeing, high-angled cctv "big brother" shots. Thrown into the mix are the animation sequences of Pinoy Arvin Bautista, rpg simulations, home movie clips, and 50's public service documentary clips.


Teen suicide is a heavy subject, but the film captured the isolation and world-weariness of the theme without turning it melodramatic, cliche, or even vacuous. But even in moments of despair, as in real life, one can find pockets of humor borne out of life's sheer absurdity. So yes, the movie was heavy, but not too leaden. Gabriel Sunday is great as Archie Williams, delivering the quintessential "misunderstood" teenager with equal parts of shyness, anger, and sensitivity in one gangly, camera-toting package. The supporting cast, from Brooke Nevin's Ms. Popular Sierra Silver to Joe Mantegna's Dr. Gafur Chandrasakar, is flawless.

There was poetry here, too. In the end, Archie finds illumination in the wise words of beat poet Jesse Gabriel Vargas, played by the late David Carradine. Does anybody actually commit suicide? Sure. But I left the cinema smiling and without a heavy heart, so go figure.

***

Today was a change from my usual Sunday pace (read: sleeping like the dead). Dragging myself out of bed at 10:30 in the morning to meet up with Zane was worth it. Got to meet her bellydancing teacher and co-student over lunch at Gerry's Grill, did a little shopping on the side, saw My Suicide, had a foot spa treatment, then capped the evening with dinner al fresco style at Brothers Burger.

***

Hope your weekend was okay, despite the circumstances. You were on my mind.

Out There
Jackie Kay

Now you are out there in the wild seas;
your small boat battering at the big waves.
The night is darker than you'd have ever believed;
each cruel wave soaks you right through.

There is no lighthouse light, no rescue party.
The small moon is shrunk like a dehydrated brain.
The stars are shattered empty bottles of wine.
And you are out there alone, my own one.

And there is nothing I can do for you,
I can't throw you a line; I can't get help.
I'm stuck here shivering on the shore watching
your dark boat – your bleak bow braving the loss.

You cling to the wheel, sway from side to side.
Waves, the height of houses, smash and toss.

***

I would take your pain away if I had the chance.

But this is a battle you must fight on your own; a form of forced self-redemption or vindication, perhaps? Why you have to go through all of this to prove yourself escapes me.

I have no answers, I have no clue. I can only offer hope that all will work in your favor and you will get what you rightfully deserve in the end.

You've returned, crossing an ocean and several time zones, bringing with you stories of reunions and road trips, of lost keys and giant trees. I lift away the heaviness of a long day and listen to its many voices . I heard a child's voice marveling at his father's patience and endless supply of frozen treats, a grown son's concern for the years evident in his parents' faces. I heard an adventurer marveling at the beauty and magnificence of the ancient redwoods.

I asked for photographs but you were too tired from the trip to share them at once.

How did we live before such ephemeral proofs of a time which will have become a well-kept memory? Perhaps that was what storytelling was all about. Not a factual recounting of events as they happened, but a faithful retelling, a verbal re-creation of the experience, how it was experienced - sight, sound, feeling.

I thank you for this gift of stories.

And thank you for inspiring this entry. Perhaps one day stories of my travels will find their voices here, too.