Flypaper

There are few books I can read in one day, even a relatively short book like The Ocean at the End of the Lane, and yet The Ocean at the End of the Lane is one of the most majestic exceptions to my otherwise steadfast reading habits.

"It's a good thing to have your own books with you in a strange place... If you take a book with you on a journey...an odd thing happens: the book begins collecting your memories. And forever after you have only to open that book to be back where you first read it. It will come into your mind with the very first words: the sights you saw in that place, what it smelled like, the ice cream you ate while reading it...yes, books are like flypaper--memories cling to the printed page better than anything else." -Mo from Cornelia Funke's Inkheart

I had to bring books with me on this trip: a sixteen hour flight to Hong Kong then another two hours to Manila requires books more than it does electronics although to be perfectly honest, m iPhone's always near--something like a bad toupee as opposed to a necessary appendage.

Now, what books to bring?

I picked Surprised by Joy, Van Gogh: The Life (which is not travel friendly), Three Cups of Tea (still only 3/4 of the way through after six months), an unnamed daily devotional, my copy of the Bible, and my Kindle (which I charge periodically but have not had the chance to take advantage of). These books, while on my 'Can't Wait to Read' list also inhabited the more prominent list of 'Stop Ignoring Me'. Even after sorting through which outfits I had to bring, it was not until I was very done packing that my eyes came upon The Ocean- occupying neither previously-mentioned lists because, as I wrote, The Ocean- is the most majestic exception of my otherwise steadfast reading habits; but it stared at me. I stared at it; heard it calling my name and said, "All right, fine. You can come, too"

I did not read much on the flight but passed the time sleeping, writing, cloud watching, or watching in-flight films; wishing I had room to do some yoga in coach because my back was K-I-L-L-I-N-G me.

Then we landed at NAIA (Ninoy Aquino International Airport), the Philippine air brushing against my skin and washing my lungs with senses I hadn't recognized since my last visit when I was five years old. I jut turned twenty three.

Still, reunions after nearly a day of travel induce more yawns and heavy eyes than it did comprehensive conversation so I only allowed myself to stare and internalize: a death in the family two weeks past, and a wedding not two tomorrows later I had more than enough reason to be melancholy, but preferred the more instructive tendencies of thanksgiving because despite my own personal memories I had to make sure I'd be ready to intake others' memories which I was sure would unintentionally overwhelm me like Typhoon Yolanda unintentionally overwhelmed the better half of Southeast Asia. My lesser imaginations needed to give way to reality before I could be allowed again into thoughtful seclusion, thus upon entering my aunt and uncle's home I set to explore it in order to absorb some familial similarities.

Despite looking Filipino (although I also apparently look like every other race under the sun) I am not very culturally Filipino. Born and raised in the tri-state area of New York City my younger sister spoke my thoughts when we exited the airport: I have never seen so many Filipinos in my life!- better said considering the last time I was here, only one of my cousins was born, and now I have to add a new part to the family with my uncle's marriage- so many family members I haven't met, or have met but cannot recall the acquaintance. But I go on only to say I belong here as much as any wanderer belongs anywhere: suffice to say: nowhere, but everywhere.

But if my travels have taught me anything valuable at all, I've learned that 'All that is gold does not glitter'. Nothing on this earth is so bad that it is intolerable, and nothing is so good that it is unreachable. Just because I'm visiting my homeland that happens to be a third world country, I should not expect gloomy faces (same for first world residences where not all brings youthful qualities).

I found a bookcase in which should reside at least 480 books, but found only thirty books, and an odd assortment of photo albums. Examining their spines I came across The Graveyard Book, and concluded, I should leave The Ocean at the End of the Lane here. Six days later, the thought still creates turmoil for two reasons. One: it's my book, and two: I can't decide if I'm being selfish and therefore suffering from first-world-problem-syndrome, or if this is a sincere case of sentiment and heartbreak. (I am careful to separate the two because I often mistake the former for the latter: perspective matters a great deal more than situation.)

But, I don't want to give away this book. But I do. Anyone who enjoys The Graveyard Book is now destined to enjoy The Ocean-. But what if my cousin proves an exception?, indeed, I live in a world full of exceptions. I tend to deny 'surprises' convincing myself that they are instead 'better options'. What if I give away this book and book stores no longer sell hard cover first editions?! It's an entirely new year now- I'll have to buy it in paperback, and I know: content is more important than features... First world problem or sentimental heartbreak?!

Because I understand that the best gift to give a book lover is not a light in the shape of a hard cover, or leather book marks, or gorgeous, sturdy bookshelves. The best gift to give a book lover is a book, so you can imagine how well I like to give away books to prospective or proven book lovers (done rarely).

If Funke's Mo is anywhere near right about traveling with the printed word, and I want to give away the only book that's left me immobilized (especially having read it along with the audio version, voiced by the actual Neil Gaiman) I will have to leave behind my memories: these parts of my heart and mind in the Republic of the Philippines. Besides, I am afraid to reread this book because of the 'new' things I know I'll find. Kind of like why I dread rereading the Book of Revelation.

Still, what better way to give away a book: one that I love to someone that I love. It's as natural as hour of fireworks and gun shots in every Filipino's back yard (so to speak) to celebrate the new year. Hello. Why live any other way?

I admit, my worst fear is that the recipient (in this case my younger cousin who, before this, I've only ever met over Skype) won't appreciate the memories I've given him in the shape of an immobilizing book, but to hell with that! My business is not what the recipient does the gift, only to make him the recipient of a gift.

Just give it.

The Empty Bookshelf and the Sleeping Cousin

A sudden empathy...

The other day, I found my copy of the Bible, don't ask me where I found it, but I finally found it, and took to reading it. If you recall from my last blog I moaned and groaned about reading Proverbs and Isaiah like the ridiculous child that I am, when it occurred to me (oddly enough, while reading the Proverbs) that perhaps the reason why Proverbs sounds and looks so slapdash-ed-ly put together is that Solomon, wise as he was, had these sudden bursts of wisdom occur to him at the moment, and jotted them down, much like any person, full of wisdom or witless, today would suddenly be struck with a thought which he would have to write down, never later deciding to expand upon that thought. Some thoughts are better left un-expanded; better left as purpose-less poetry :P

note: not poetry without purpose, but without a fluid theme. ya get me?

Perhaps Solomon walked often, making these casual observations when something struck him, like a fire pit and had to write, "As charcoal to hot embers and wood to fire, so is a quarrelsome man for kindling strife", Proverbs 26.21.

He heard, observed, and maybe even touched everything and heard, observed, and touched God, not because God was in the fire he noticed. Do you know, sometimes I entertain the thought: I'm sure that they who wrote the books of the Bible were not always aware that they were directly inspired. I don't imagine that, when they were inspired, they glowed likes the Avatars of the Bending World (see: Nickelodean's The Last Airbender or Legend of Korra), nothing like that- I'm sure they knew when words greater than themselves possessed them (although it would be cool if they did glow, ha) but what if God, when using Solomon, when using Abraham, or Moses, or Isaiah, or Paul, or John- what if these men did not know they were being used till after the fact?

I don't know.

Speaking nonsense, again, I know.

No, don't ask me about Isaiah, yet. Ha, I'll let you know when I get there.





On another note!- I am not an excellent reader. I pick up all these books and do not know how to finish them because I've not yet disciplined my mind to maintain peace during reading. I will read a sentence, obsess over it for a day or more (usually more) and wonder how to apply it.

Fiction, non-fiction- I don't know what it is about them that their words can't make me still. I'm jealous of those who can read for hours and hours without moving. I want to be able to do that because, unfortunately, I like to do other things while I read. I always have a pen or pencil in my hand, and a few semi-transparent sticky flags to mark something..

So, thanks be to God that my parents bought the audio series of The Chronicles of Narnia! The other day, do listen, it's frightfully funny, I was listening to The Last Battle when I finally got to the, well, second-to-last battle of the book: when Emeth wants to see Tash, when Eustace is thrown into the darkened shed; I start crying! And I'm driving while I'm listening and crying, which isn't at all safe for me and my fellow drivers, but I'm crying, salty tears stinging my cheeks, blurring my vision which is already impaired by the glow of the setting sun. By Aslan's Mane, I'm surprised I didn't crash. (Haha.)

No, I can't even blame my monthly friend for such emotional tirades.

But when Eustace was thrown in!- I absolutely fell apart! What terror he must've felt! Now, I knew what was on the other side of that door (only because I've read/heard the books over and over again)- perhaps I cried so because I was living in the story as though I'd never read or heard The Last Battle; that in spite of my foreknowledge of its 'ending' (I say 'ending' because you very well know that Lewis only describes the end of Narnia, indeed of all worlds, as the beginning of Chapter One of the Great Story) I wholeheartedly empathized with Eustace. Felt Jill's pain at her loss. Wept with King Tirian.

Now, if only I could weep, feel and empathize so with the people in this world without casually wanting the high and mighty feeling of helping their souls, but never acting upon that high.




This just occurred to me: do you think that if we just let children read the Bible, just as a story, they would later see it as inspired? Do we really need to say it's inspired? Now, don't mistake me: I'm not saying that the Bible isn't inspired, nor am I saying that we should not bring up children in the faith, but, I am saying that, perhaps, the things we emphasize now as important are later diminished as irrelevant because we emphasize the wrong part. When the word 'inspired' is said, we sometimes harp upon the word 'inspire' instead of harping upon what the inspiration actually entails to the Bible's past, present, and future readers.

But this is too much for a blog post.




On another note, a much lighter one, too: I do believe that I can trust Cumberbatch with any beloved character he so chooses to play.

From Ideas to Stories

Lately, I've been thinking a lot of ideas. A lot.

A few weeks ago, July 4th actually, I was with friends out in Chelsea, and jotted this down on my iPhone: "I like thinking many ideas, but I don't know that I'd put many of them into practice, or sincerely believe in those thoughts/ideas. I think of too many [ideas] to indiscriminately accept all of them [as Truth]."

So, I've had all these ideas, but I've yet to bring them to light. Mostly because I don't know how to bring them to light. My ideas are incomplete, and the only way to make them complete, or somewhere near completion, I would have to write them down, or speak them aloud. I hate doing that. I hate speaking before I'm really sure of what I mean; what I really believe.

Of what have I been thinking?

For starters, beginning sentences with prepositions is a great grammar-release!

Okay, okay, okay.

My thoughts have generally leaned towards the state of humanity.

"Oh, how perfectly vague."

"I know."

But if I become any more specific I promise you, I will go back to the state of humanity, which I am sure, as we all observe, is in a constant state of flux and discontent. Those who are content are so because they know what it is to be discontent.

Hello, Humanity. I'm glad to greet you like an old friend.

But since I don't want to overthink, or rethink, or drag on for too long, I've decided it best to illustrate any ideas or thoughts I have with stories. I don't know why it took me so long to acknowledge this. Every other author and writer has!

Whatever made me think I was better at writing essays than writing vignettes or extended metaphors?

Of all that I've thought this past month I am confident in that idea: that the best way to portray the 'state of humanity' is to illustrate it. To gather up its many images, smells, tastes, words, and feelings, not into some neat little box and leave it there, but for the neat little box to be opened!

Like Pandora's box! But without all the sickness and sin, and horrible things--they're already in the world. Ooh, we don't need more of that.

I know that we learn from our mistakes both in and out of our control, but that does not make me wish bad times upon even the worst of my enemies, and even then, I have no enemies. I live life as though all were friends: yes, it is denial, and yet confirmation that these friends, like my thoughts, though I entertain them, are no less real, or lost, or hungry, or wishful, than I am.

I may not re-open Pandora's Box, but I'll label it for you.

Plain and Cluttered: How much stuff is too much stuff?

A few weeks ago I visited a new friend's home. I got to see her bedroom, and what a lovely bedroom it was. Everything was white, save the blue, black, or gray accents that dotted the room. I felt I could breathe easy in that room. Then I took a look at her bookcase only to be struck with jealousy. "Oh," I thought, "She only owns the books that mean something to her." Immediately inspired I decided that it was about time I get rid of my clutter.

The very next day I attacked my bedroom. Well, actually. I wasn't attacking it. I was...healing it. The days and weeks before I'd been attacking it with my carelessness so...

The very next day I brushed away my bedroom's dusty wounds. I refolded clean clothes that had become a new rug over the rug I already had. I couldn't make my bed because it had to serve as a filing cabinet. There's a lot of stuff I have that may or may not be needed! Hey. Getting rid of things takes time. I mean, what if I accidentally throw out my social security card because it's stuffed in an old journal I didn't check?! HORROR!

Before I could touch my books I had to file away important documents, including sentimental trinkets, cards, etc. I picked out more clothes to donate. Then it was time to tackle the bookshelves and their books. And the floor's books. And the closet's books. Books, books, books. Everywhere. I don't even know why I own all these. Some of these books deserve to be burned.

I know. I'm a heathen. But seriously.

I was able to get rid of three trash bags worth of clothes, and four boxes worth of books. (I donated most of my children's literature and ESL textbooks to an English teacher I know.)

I looked at my books and clothes and was disgusted. Ah! I have so much crap.

Not that Anna Karenina is crap. It isn't! I love all things Tolstoy, but really, I haven't touched that book since I bought it. I would've been much better off borrowing it from the library or a friend. I don't need to own all the books recommended to me.

Yeah, I still want to have a personal library, but as of now, I've neither the space nor income to merit starting a library now.

All my donation bags are still sitting in the back of my trunk, waiting to be donated. My bedroom still isn't entirely clean.

I told my friend (with the inspirational bedroom) about my cleaning adventure. She thought it was a great idea. How she'd done that a couple years back. Then she asked this: "How is it that I still have to buy new [things, like clothing]? How is it that I still have to get rid of stuff after already getting rid of stuff?"

I immediately thought of third world countries, well, not just third world countries. Just as every third world country may entertain first world conditions, every first world country ignores its third world citizens.

How much stuff is too much stuff?

In spite of third world conditions some of those families are much happier with little to nothing than people who live in penthouses. They don't seem to have to hashtag their first world problems.

Now, I'm a bit of a pack rat. As much as I admired my new friend's simple, plain bedroom I also admire my old friend's thrift shop bedroom. When I walk into my old friend's bedroom I feel as though I find new treasures every time. I'm a lot like my old friend: sentiment overwhelms us. But I'm a lot like my new friend: clutter is still clutter.What sentiments do I still want? Besides, some sentiments were set on fire (by those with whom I share the sentiment) before I could even decide whether or not I should maintain sentimental feelings.

Sentiment has no practical value. But practicality without sentiment is still cold enough to burn.

There are still things I want to buy that I'll probably donate again, so...why do I want to buy them?

"How is it that I still have to get rid of stuff after already getting rid of stuff?"

I am in constant excess. I cannot possibly have so much attachment to so much material that I couldn't remember owning anyway.

No, I'm not entering survival mode. I am aware that I should be grateful I don't have to survive; I should be grateful I can thrive. But I must also live as though I am aware of others.

I ain't keepin' up wit' no Joneses...or Kardashians for that matter.

I don't know how much stuff is too much stuff, but I think it's a telltale sign to get rid of it if I haven't used it in a while. Two years of uselessness is a telltale sign.

Okay. I'm going to finish cleaning out my room now! It'll be Pinterest worthy, I think :D

Phoenixes

My last blog post was depressing, I'll give you that, but from it's depressing ashes I have planted, grown and am now tending to a new experiment! I am finally going to start a youTube channel. Took me long enough! All because of the question: Why not? Yeah. Yeah, why not? If it fails, it fails- then at least I'll know I'm not good with the visual arts and maybe practice to get better at it! 

The topic for my first video will be 'death'. I know, again, depressing, but I promise you it will end happily. Not fairy-tale-happy-ending, but happily. It'll be like the phoenix...like Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes. Seriously: I'm totally brushing off the ashes.

My first video won't be a blockbuster.

People may not even watch it, but I don't like being watched anyway. 

I just want to know what it means to communicate through different medias: portraying something like 'death' in a book is very different from portraying 'death' in a movie. Not that I've mastered writing (barely a yellow belt) but can I act it? Can I find something, record it, and have you know it's 'death' without my saying so, without a billboard that reads 'This! This is what Death looks like!' 

Subtle. Subtle.