The Last Book I Read: The Time Traveler’s Wife
I admit it. Possession is not for bedtime reading, considering the fact that I read before I sleep to relax; and Possession did little to calm my nerves. I can’t sleep reading and re-reading passages, the language ever so caressing, suddenly throws me onto the vastness of outer space. I mean, the premise of two scholars uncovering those long secret correspondences between two Victorian poets sounded romantic enough, but I had no idea it would be such a huge feat for I, a non-advanced user of the English language. It has a lot of poems and culture I’ve yet to understand. Well it’s alright to throw in verses like this:
She tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As earth stirs in her winter sleep
And puts out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.
(Robert Graves, quoted from Possession)
I appreciate that. Really, I understand and appreciate that in the context of one of the protagonist’s relationship with his girl friend. But Possession has a lot of bigger words for me, and when Ms. Byatt strings them in one sentence they become colossal.
So I did not wait for migraine or dysmenorrhea to decide later on to switch to the more reader friendly Niffeneger with The Time Traveler’s Wife.
The Time Traveler’s Wife was just recently released as a movie (‘ve yet to see!) The story revolves around Henry, who has a fantastic genetic time-traveling disorder, and Clare, his wife. It’s mainly about their fairytale relationship and Clare’s struggle in coping with Henry’s disorder, which almost always put him in dangerous situations.
Got pic from web. too lazy to grab a phone/cam to snap my own book.
Now let’s start with the love first.
Warning: spoilers.
1. Ms. Niffeneger had a fantastic idea, nay, an absurd one, and I admire her for making it bigger and making it work as a love story. You can feel the hard work she had put in writing the book. If the story were in the hands of a lazy author, I would just stop and pick up Possession again and whip myself bloody as penance for my sins and that of the world.
2. I give you permission to whip me bloody on this one: the theme’s fate/destiny. I squeal with delight. For the uninitiated, I am an advocate of Plato’s soul mate idea and its impossibility in real life. There’s this one scene when Henry met Clare in the library for the first time, and boy, was her pick up move ever so smooth and interesting.
3. Two words: time travel. I fell in love with the concept after reading Palahniuk’s Rant. It’s a crazy bitch’s idea, and whoever thought of time travelling must be some really good old miserable crackhead who wants to live in solitary confinement. Read the Grandfather paradox.
Now I have very simple standards. When a story invokes in me an unusual tide of emotions and ideas, then it is an excellent work. It means the author did a good job whipping up a vicarious force strong enough to stir those thoughts and feelings I already have. With TTTW’s it was sort of okay. No earth shattering, sob-inducing moments. It’s a lovely story every girl would want to have. Well, most girls would, I think. But I scratch myself reading some scenes and another. I mean I scratch my head.
Questions:
1. Sex figures importantly in a relationship, but in this book, is it really necessary to throw in a lot of that?
2. Is Henry’s previous observation of Clare’s horniness a smoking gun to that kinky scene with Gomez later in the book?
3. If Henry were normal, would he still meet Clare, and vice-versa? Would she ever make that move in the library to seal their fate?
Verdict: the book is thick. Five hundred ten plus pages. My favorite, easy read novel is 257 pages long. Nurse’s Reference guide: Emergencies is 800+ strong, and it is useful. BGFF… because every Cosmo chick deserves a gay best friend mini mag is less than ten pages, and it’s more or less useless. I’d still recommend The Time Traveler’s Wife to those who want a good, long love story, and BGFF to those who want a gay BFF.
Your salary’s pretty measly. Ouch.
I still earn pesos, though.
One day I saw a friend I haven’t seen for a long, long time. We chatted happily, catching up on each other’s lives. The conversation covered almost everything including each other’s jobs (or the lack thereof), and when it shifted to that I became particularly incensed by one tactless remark:
“Baba ng sweldo mo.” (Your salary’s pretty measly).
Playing the ever gracious hostess, I smiled weakly, barely managing to stop myself from saying something visibly scathing.
I just let the crazy boil inside.
Two days later I sat in my room wondering if it is actually logical to have felt that way. For the record, that remark is true if you compare my payslip with tenured agents in the same company. There is a difference of maybe five to eight grand. Since this is my first job my salary is also understandably lower compared to my tranchemates with previous experience. And then I remember J once told me that I should’ve told the HR people to raise my basic pay, simply because I can. But I digress.
The Salary can always be blamed for the Job. And the Job is always blamed on the individual. In this country, a college degree does not necessarily guarantee the Right Job. Additionally, the People around you think they are the arbiter of virtue such that they consider it a special privilege to snigger behind your back when you choose the money over the Noble Path of Lesser Pay. It is simple: they look at your job, and then at your past. Did you study computers and ended up a food service crew? Did you study cells and genes, and ended up counting and collecting money?
Going back to my friend, I guess the fact that a college degree was out of her equation gave her the right to say that to my face. She’s still in college and earning in lump sums every now and then, while I’ve already graduated, working in a non-Biology related environment, and earning twice and more of what I would have if I worked as a research assistant. Now I’m not criticizing research assistants. I am upset about people judging aloud. We can’t deny judgment, as creatures of nature that facility is programmed for our survival. However, we can stop and think before our unscrupulous mouths can comment on other people’s choices in life. We can stop and think and just mind our own business.
Well, I have to admit that I had that mindset before, that many bright Filipinos in call centers are wasting their talents for money. Of course I found out later that my notion of languid people doing dumb talk were just as dumb as the idea. The industry would not thrive in this country if the people running it aren’t genuinely bright. Favorite term: passionate. If the managers, assistant managers, team leaders, and all the other agents feel they are wasting their talents in this industry, then they are doing a good job of concealing their frustrations. If not for the ungodly shift schedules, I can declare this job perfect for me right now. I am in this process of feeding my needs for self fulfillment, so that includes, well, this need to develop my speaking skills. I’m not the best conversationalist, you know.
So for my part, being upset about my friend’s remark was perhaps an automatic response, a defense mechanism. I must have unconsciously remembered all the ungodly hours I’ve worked and the things I’ve learned and have been trained to do, and felt they were deemed trifle and mediocre. The salary was not my choice, but the job was— I willingly stepped in that company with nothing but an eagerness to discover and learn. And when choices I made on my own are openly shot down with insensitivity, then I have every right to be incensed.
The Fish Sails
You don’t write me letters
You’re such a pain
These afternoons, the lazy sunny day outside
They make me miss you
A lot
A lot
Will you please call me today?
After about a month, my dear friend Miggy, who’s touring the world, finally got wind of me on Yahoo Messenger.
And boy, did my pride melt.
When he left around August, he didn’t call. The day he boarded his plane, I was out with co-workers, and I received his farewell text message. I was so upset, I called him. I know I had little adjectives and phrases to offer him, given how I felt (“gago ka, I hate you” and “ingat, pasalubong ko“). I could tell that he was flustered and amused, and he must’ve thought I had a little too much to drink. But man, was I so sober that time, I surely hated his guts. I thought I was a little bit important for him that he’d say goodbye and call home the day before he left. I was also well aware that I was acting like someone important. Dammit.
Did I already told you he didn’t call me at home?
****
At that time they were docked in Ireland, and images of leprechauns danced in my head as Miggy, with a yellow daffodil on his left ear and lying flat on his chest, typed away in front of his monitor inside his cabin. It was a balmy evening outside the ship, and on the woody land beyond the port the crickets and cicadas hummed their rasping songs.
Like they were merchants in the 18th century.
I was just too happy and sad, I forgot that I hated him.
We talked about the countries he’d been to and how many girls/guys he had slept with (just one guy. His roommate. On a separate bed). We talked about Mauritius on the east of Madagascar. We talked about his conspicuous absence online and his “just not being able to use the net” ditty. We talked about Amsterdam and how he missed the Great Chance to see the famous Red Light district. We talked about his upcoming birthday. We talked in bits and phrases. We talked in imagined, uncertain tones.
And the feeling manifested itself. I miss the guy, even though I don’t talk video games or play Magic/Yugi-Oh! Cards with him. I miss him even if we just used to see each other about thrice a month. I miss him talk about himself. I miss him in a non-textmate way. I miss him like I do my Multivitamins— I know they’re there, I just don’t pay attention unless I feel the need to take them. I miss him like I miss my little dog Muffy when I was seven.
Come to think of it, he’s one of my best friends. His being away surely made my heart grow fonder.
Two Days Off
One of the reasons why I love some time off work is that I get to do anything. I have an excuse to pass up reading A.S Byatt’s Possession (I have imposed upon myself a one chapter per night rule during workdays), I can roll onto and off the bed whenever I want, or I can go out and shop for random little things. I have the weirdest shopping habit. I’m not attracted to clothes, shoes, or bags— instead, I love ‘em little whisks or vials of food colouring, or muffin pans and moulders. And of course, books. Recently, I was inspired by Lucy Torres’ article to make polvoron. The question that jumped out of that page though, was: “What’s a polvoron moulder?”
Photo from etsy
And google, I did, before venturing out to the market/general merchandise/superstores to hunt for this little contraption. My heart did a little dance when I spotted it on the baking/cooking ware section in South Supermarket in Alabang. I was a bit disappointed about the limited shapes, but I was still ecstatic about it—a polvoron moulder!!!
So off I went to buy the other ingredients, and after a failed attempt (I followed the recipe to a T and got Diabetes candy. Bad.), I finally whipped up something by feel, and presented it to my certified taste-testers: Kuya Mark and May.
May: (tiningnan. Ayaw kunin. Sabi ko, sige na, tikman mo lang para pag may kulang tell me. Kumuha ng 1/4 tsp.) Mmmmm. Pwede na ‘to. Masarap!
Kuya Mark: Mmmmm! Akin na lang! (points to the tub of powder).
With my little polvoron moulder, I made around 40 pieces with this recipe:
1 1/2 cup powdered milk
1 cup flour
1/3 cup sugar (or you can put less)
Unsalted butter
Pinipig (optional)
Disclaimer: I am not a food photographer.
Toast flour and pinipig over medium heat until light brown. In a bowl, combine milk, sugar, and toasted flour-pinipig mix. Put a little butter in it. I don’t recommend 1 stick of butter because it may affect the flavor. Around three to four tablespoons will do; one stick is equal to 8 tablespoons, so you get the picture. You can also try to pinch the mixture to see if it somehow holds together. Then you’re ready to use that little moulder!
***
The only problem I have with my kind of work is that I’m getting fat—-that is, I don’t get to exercise in the morning anymore.
I love mornings, but nowadays I don’t see it anymore. Add to that my fondness for eating like crazy in the office. And drinking alcohol. Which is yucky, now that I’m catching myself doing it at least once a week. But what I’m really worried about are my pants and the strain they would bear to tuck in that bulging waistline.
I have not yet imposed a certain level of discipline when it comes to matters of the stomach.
Just last night, I had that familiar craving, during the same time we take “lunch” breaks. It was easier to keep my mind off food if my sister had not been on the computer, because I would have Facebook and Stumble Upon to distract. I didn’t want to shoo her away to the other room, and I was too lazy to tiptoe and start the computer there. So I read a book. After about half an hour—
Ate, kain tayo. Luto mo kong noodles.
My sister suddenly came up to me with an earnest plea to please, ate, cook me something. (She wouldn’t survive home without us, even if it’s stacked with canned goods and instant noodles).
The aftermath
So I promptly stood up from the bed where I was reading, and remembering my favorite midnight snack, I said. “I’m going to cook hotdog too.” (I love hotdog dipped in mayo. Late at night. Love!) She forgot about the noodles, and in the solitude of my room we had rice, hotdogs, mayonnaise, and instant crab and corn soup that I mixed with thin noodles I found in one of the cabinets. We also had Mer-nels’ cake for dessert.
Afterwards, she told me that Plock was a nice game, and I clicked away until early morning.
The Last Book I Read: A Painted House
(Warning: some spoilers)
A Painted House is John Grisham’s first work outside the courtroom genre (or so Wikipedia reports), and in my humble opinion he masterfully narrates the story of the Chandler family in rural Arkansas during the 1950’s, when television and telephone lines were rare, but were slowly creeping into the American consciousness.
The story is told through 7 year old Luke Chandler’s point of view, who at first, sound older and wiser for his age. As the story progresses, however, Grisham convinces the reader that his storyteller is like any seven year old, who is just a little more intelligent but still craves adventure and displays vulnerability.
The title, A Painted House, refers to the Chandler house, at first bare wood that is later painted in gleaming white. This signifies an important transition that happens to Luke and his family later in the story. The process is brought about when little Luke’s grandfather, Pappy, took in a family of hill people and some Mexicans to work in their cotton farm. Pappy’s choice of workers soon changes Luke’s world forever, as he is suddenly aware of too many secrets, some violent and dangerous.
A Painted House is a glimpse of the American Dream in the 50’s, and of rural American culture, and Grisham meshes them with details to form a flowing, eventful narrative. The ending aptly leaves the reader the feeling that as little Luke moves up North, his life there would be much more normal, or perhaps a little more exciting.
The Last Book I Read: The Cement Garden
Lolly, exhausted after finishing Ian McEwan's The Cement Garden
Okay, so let me just say this: if I read this book in high school, I wouldn’t know what to think. Or say. Or feel about it.
In retrospect, I might’ve felt distaste.
But four years and so much sexual and political discussions later, I must say I am blown away with Ian McEwan’s The Cement Garden. Especially with the ending.
For a story basically revolving around four orphaned kids, this one perpetually painted a dark afternoon picture for me. And the part where they buried their dead mom with cement. The prose was too delicious I was giddy with how morbid it all was.
Anyway, there’s this better review on the Cement Garden at Illiterati. (Funny how she mentioned AS Byatt’s Possession, the book I’d be reading after I finish Grisham’s A Painted House)
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Today is my beautiful mom’s birthday, and today we go through our usual routine: she will drive my sister to school, then she’ll drive me to work. Then, she will go home and sleep.
May God bless her with more beautiful, routine days like these. And then some more days, so we can drive for her in turn, to strange, fab places.
xoxo, Anne
Inspiration
daddy melvs in blue
Today I saw “dad” and I sort of missed him. I also had this incredible urge to kiss him. On the cheek, that is.
I’m not talking about my biological dad though.
I’m talking about my “dad”, the guy who mentored me during the first few months of training for my first job. And mentored he did, amid the fear and pressure, amid my contained sobs. God, like my parents, has been spoiling me rotten. He didn’t let me go through this call center experience without a person who’d cushion and push me back up when I wanted to fall.
He must’ve known I’m not that go-getter, but he talked me through it and made me believe I can do it.
I saw him twice today, and all I felt was this overwhelming fondness. I’ve been on the job for like two months now, minus the three or four weeks that I’m actually taking calls, but it feels like I’ve already gone to some high road. I mean, I would have quitted a long time ago and chose the way of the slacker who’d play Restaurant City all day and take all the quizzes in Facebook. With profound sincerity, he made me feel that I can do what they’ve been doing for years now. I knew it was time to go out of my comfort zone, and he was the “dad” that told me to jump. The “dad” and the good friend I leaned on so much.
He came up to say goodbye because their shift ends earlier tonight. He had been transferred to a different process along with three other guys from our tranche. We’re still working on the same floor, but the hours spent together, especially as one team, has been less. I do miss the whole tranche working together.
When dad approached, he nudged my chair as a way of farewell. I was talking with a nice lady on the phone that moment, and after saying goodbye and wrapping up the call, I swung around to see him already far away.
I hope I see him tomorrow. Just so I can give him a thank you kiss.
On Your Porch
I am currently in love with two songs: Bright Eyes’ First Day of My Life and The Format’s On Your Porch. My speakers are burning with ‘em songs.
Anyway, here’s my playlist for the week with those two songs plus four more for the sentimental junkies. They’re short and sweet.
justifying singlehood.period.
At work, I had a conversation with a colleague that made me say: “I don’t miss being in love right now.”
The day before yesterday, chance hammered me on the head when my ex caught me online. The conversation went something like this:
(warning: expletives)
Ex: san ka na nagtatrabaho?
Me: sa Alabang
Ex: saan sa Alabang?
Me: sa ABCDE
Ex: di ba bangko yun? Anong connect sa Bio?
Me: (tangina mo, gumraduate ka muna) tingin mo ba pag sa laboratory lang ako, masaya?
Ex: eh dun ka bagay eh
Me: (gago ka pala eh, bakit ka pa nagaaral? Tingin mo bagay ka sa loob ng paaralan? Gago.) party lang muna
Needless to say, I logged out.
I think it is fortunate for me and those people who attempted to court me, to not have developed any intimate relations at all. I am saved the trouble of being bitter (I am damned bitter ’til the end), and they are saved of my clingy ways that might haunt them forever. Okay, that sounded conceited.
***
Sometimes I wonder if I had been spiritually castrated, or that the part of my brain that controls kilig and the likes had all been severed while I was singing I’ll never get over you getting over me(!!!) some years ago. Not that I’m blaming someone in particular, but after that relationship, like some recovering mental patient, I did start blaming the intangible— fate. Moreover, I began liking, to the point of believing (in a groupie way), that idea Plato postulated, that one which romance novels to thrive on since time immemorial.
The soul mate.
You know that story. Plato said God (Zeus?) created humans as bisexual/monosexual creatures, and there were three kinds: male-male, male-female, and female-female. By some telenovela-worthy twist, God became angry with humans and sliced them apart. Since then we are left with the urge to wonder and wander, at some point in our lives, where our other half is. I like the idea, because it’s also a very logical and fair explanation why some prefer the same sex, right?
But I wonder why some grow up and grow old devoted to a passion, finding their better half in things like painting or charity work. Before God sliced us apart, were they the mutants, the then freaks of nature?
***
Here I am, sitting in this room, wondering where on Earth my soul mate is. Again, like, for the nth time.
Was he in the college town I left? Did I sort of leave him there without getting to know him? Or is he in the workplace, in the same room or in the floor next to us? Is he British? Have we talked already? Will he be in med school then? Or in some shady bar when I go out tonight?
The world is full of mysteries. Sometimes I get tired just imagining them.
