Spicy Lives

Generally, when I hear people talk 'variety' they're not very far from adding, "is the spice of life!" Indeed, it is, but just how many spices are there?

To my discredit, I just began dabbling in the arts of the kitchen, not always very well, but I have made a few tasty things, I think, although, note to self: never make family pumpkin-flavored things because they do not like pumpkin.

It's just that lately life keeps surprising me with its variety.

The other day I asked one of my students if she remembered my name, and she answered, "Of course not!" as if I needed a more definite way of saying 'no'. Then this weather- could the clouds dump any more on my icebox-where-my-heart-used-to-be-oh-OH! And this is the variety in my life, not even the variety of the lives I am privileged to interact with and I have been trying to be a part of a few more lives than I'm used to.

This isn't going to be about a post about how to get more empathy, or how to stop being boring, or five easy steps to do something in a more awesome way. No, right now, all I'm talking about is the very beginning: notice, watch, observe because that's all it takes to see variety. Even in 'cookie cutter' homes, like townhouses, maybe right down your street, have you ever really looked in those homes? Now, don't, like, you know, creep on the families, but think of it this way: it's hard to tell apart one bear from another, but it's pretty easy to tell apart one person from another, even with twins, Doppelgangers, and wannabes, everyone is different. And all those differences live in, generally, the same communities, or at least on the same planet.

Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent. We would not dare to conceive the things which are really merely commonplaces of existence. If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs and peep in at the queer things which are going on, the strange coincidences, the planning, the cross-purposes, the wonderful chain of events, working through generations and leading to the most outer results, it would make fiction with its conventionalities and foreseen conclusions most stale and unprofitable. -Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes: A Case of Identity

How many spices are there? I don't know, but let me tell you, apparently salt is not one of them and if salt is not one of them, goodGod, I haven't even grazed the surface of the variety of Life- these lives I am privileged to interact with.

I can't wait to dig deeper.

See, snow days can be good for something.

republished.

'talk less; listen more' -FB note (31 July 2012)

distracted by my dignity

there's nothing left but misery.

so swollen with my pride

now i've nowhere left to hide.

i am terribly frightened

although i've been slightly enlightened;

not breaking barriers

and certainly not creating warriors.

just getting warier.

i'm afraid my innocence is indecent,

playing too close to ignorance

blissfully choosing mediocrity,

adding doses to my hypocrisy,

pretending to understand

making everyone believe i can.

so now i'm lying through my teeth

and feel so sorrowfully beaten.

but any pity you think you owe me

reserve for the ones who beg for it.

because now i am overstepping my limited limits

and proceeding without delay into the great, wide world--

not to correct it,

nor to restore it,

and hardly to be it,

but to watch it, learn from it and, most certainly, enjoy it

but enjoying does not mean deploying my morality.

for instead of protection inside a bubble i'll wear Otherworldly steel

to combat everything that claims to be real.

this is more than a feeling,

more than a thought.

it's the possession of a hoe: watch me as i till the earth!

feeling!

tilling!

feeling!

tilling!

i am tilling with feeling!

i am hearing with beating!

i am watching and coming!

i am learning and teaching!

i am caring and nursing!

feeling!

tilling! tilling! tilling!

i am enjoying and discerning.

planting and watering,

but not always tilling, tilling, tilling!

because this world also requires harvesting and tending!

so no distraction ought to ever sanction

my dignity's overarching plea.

my Otherworldly armor will never fail me--

for it is not just my protection 

it also serves as a weapon

against the joys that i might worship

the treasures i might covet

and the people i might murder.

feeling!

tilling!

harvesting!

tending!

O, i am being! 

i am called onward!

now i must move

away from my depression!

away from my conceit!

away from the bacteria that insists upon obscuring everything that's created me:

the Bad and the Good,

for sometimes the Bad becomes Good 

and the Good becomes Bad.

never a matter of balance--

always a matter of discernment

which leads to

dignity as a distraction, misery and pride,

of course i've no where left to hide!

because learning always requires reviews:

i pardon the lesson learned fifty times;

i do not pardon the lesson never learned.

so with steel as armor and hoe;

so with seeds as lessons and dirt as the road

thus begins the journey into Eternity.

birds and paper planes

for emily

----

there are faces i see that i truly admire.
the mouth, the eyes,
but what is behind them?
i'm not sure i know what's behind my own.
oh, i feel as though i'm soaring-
i'm riding the wind.
but as a bird
or a paper plane?
birds can die.
they eat worms,
build nests- they live outdoors;
some shriek more than sing.
paper planes can't die,
which means
they can't
live.

birds and paper planes.
which one sees the faces that i truly admire?
the mouth, the eyes?
which one sees behind them?
now i see behind my own
and no longer see flight,
but only a flimsy sheet of directionless chance-
living, but refusing life.

i have loved your face,
but i have not loved you.

paper planes cannot love.
birds might feel pity.
paper planes cannot live.
birds might feel pity.

birds might feel.

i have seen my face-
i sometimes like it.
i do not pretend to wear or read it well,
but
my mouth, my eyes
are not yours for the taking.

now
i soar.

vicariously

re-posted from my Facebook notes (15 October 2012). i have a lot of poems that are sitting unread and un-criticized- would you like to have a turn at them?

----

simple math.

simple truth.

there is no reason why 1+1 can't equal 2.

but as i stand here,

driven mad up the wall,

i think of all the possibilities waiting for me outside the front door.

i only need to step out and it could be raining or sunny--

all that in the midst of my shallow humdrum!

in the midst of my shallow humdrum

i remember that all

around

the 

world

people are living,

earning their deaths.

they are making, creating

paintings,

books,

music,

sculptures,

chocolate,

homes,

and jewelry--

and in all the humdrum of my life

i cannot forget that this hour is not an eternity

and one day i will be living...

well, i am living!

there is a beat in my chest!

but am i earning my death?

will the dash between my DOB and DOD be full of stories?

especially full of privileged stories that none but my closest friends ought to hear?

(else they were already there with me!)

will the dash between my DOB and DOD be more like

a square-ten inch block?

part ii-

will i live for those who cannot?

who, not forgetting to earn death,

were given death too early,

and missed the chance to lengthen the dash between their most important days?

will i live for those who cannot?

who, stuck behind the bolted door,

ignored the key in their pockets,

and missed the chance to remember that one hour is not an eternity?

that by their lives others could have lived,

because others wish desperately for their lives,

wishing after your mediocrity,

thinking it the life of a celebrity!-

but were too busy scratching at their clothes, patched and dirty,

to notice others' nakedness, depressed and unhealthy.

will i live for those who cannot?

and will i meet them in streets?

and when they ask me what 1+1 equals

will i say '2',

or give them 2?

OR!- will i take that 1 and add it to 2,

making three,

and give them three meals they daren't foresee?!

will i- 

rich in heart,

rich in mind,

rich in body-

give all i have to others?-

poor in heart,

poor in mind, 

poor in body.

will i show them that math, while true,

can do them no good,

until i can first remind them

that they can live?

for if life is what you make it,

i suppose you could make it rock,

but

if life is what you make it

then i will make it,

and give it to others

who do not know they possess their own tools in their own hands.

i will live for those who cannot.

even behind this dusty cash register.

"i can help whoever is next!"

Ask Me Something.

As a twentysomething, there are two questions I cannot avoid: (1) What's on your face? (2) Do you have a boyfriend?





Children will ask anything. Anything. They will say anything, do anything- anything. They're children, the only limits they recognize are cookies on the very top shelf and, trust me, children are intuitive and innovative- they will find a way up to that top shelf. You read Calvin and Hobbes!

So, I got a new teaching job (I use the term 'teaching' loosely) where all the students are allowed to call their teachers by their first names. This, of course, relaxes the teacher-student relationship. In some ways this is no different than students calling their teachers by their last name, especially if they are not used to the former version (the students I instruct are in Kindergarten, and 1st grade)- when you are used to one way of life, any other way is odd, yes? Yes. So, I don't hear, "Miss. Triunfo, why-?" I hear >>

"Justine? What's on your face?" (It's like I'm talking to a peer.)

"Acne. Sometimes when you grow up you get...you know, I don't actually really know what acne is."

"It looks like chicken pox."

"It's not red enough for chicken pox."

"...BURGUNDY!"

"Are you getting married?"

"No. I don't have a fiance. In fact, I'd have to have a boyfriend in order to even have a fiance."

"If you had a fiance would you marry him?"

"That's the idea of a fiance."





Now, when children become adults their questions about my complexion and romantic life are subtle, if not passive aggressive. I may not be socially graceful, but I'm pretty aware of when someone wants to offer beauty advice- it's in their eyes (is it not always?)- because it's an imitation of my dermatologist's look and tone: matteroffact and concerned. "Aren't you self-conscious?" / "More than you know."





I understand the importance of aesthetics and rules and blah blah blah. I do. I get it. Yay. My understanding, however, does not tend to override my emotional stability, if anything, it's the other way around. (Don't ask me if I'm self-conscious. Who, on this Godforsaken planet, isn't self-conscious?!)

When I am asked questions about my complexion and romantic life I only allow myself to answer as directly as I possibly can. Frankly, why can't you ask me, "Oh, have you read anything interesting lately?" / "Do you enjoy cooking?" / "Can you help me with my math homework?" / "What's the meaning of life?" / "Do you want to build a snowman?" / "HOW DID SHERLOCK SURVIVE?"

I am not incredibly smart, and I don't do many interesting things but honestly, so I can't imagine why you want to talk to me in the first place, so it boggles my mind even more than when you do talk to me you assume, "So? Anyone special?" is an okay question.

This is not entirely your fault. I guess that question bothers me in the same way it bothers tributes that everyone focuses on Katniss' love interest. You're kidding me, right? Can we think of nothing else? Are we really that hormonal?

Sorry, now I'm ranting.

Long story short: never grow up.

The Friend and Stranger

i could not have seen you coming.
i certainly saw you coming in that i saw you moving toward me-
i saw you walk on the sidewalk-
i saw you with your friends.
i did not know that you'd be such a friend to me.

i could not have seen you coming.
had i known you would mean so much to me-.

had i known you would mean so much to me
i might have wanted to stop my heart sooner.

but i am glad i did not know.

----

quick, furtive glances of strangers.
unparalleled.
the highest unspoken compliments,
or the most perverse, greediest intentions.
i think i know which is which
but i'm so unused to the former
i expect the latter.
but these, your eyes this time were too quick for mine.

i didn't know i'd want you when i saw you.
have you seen me before?
did you have a feeling i existed?
or did you spot an empty seat, sit down, then hear me laugh?
were you beguiled by my smile?
did you hope i'd note you, too?
or did you only need an un-returned glanced?
matchless the feeling, indeed;
too eager to be mimicked.

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