The apartment is quiet. So quiet… so I’m taking this opportunity to write a little bit. Bear with me, it probably won’t make sense. I wish I could say I learned much from my self-imposed silence. The truth is I have barely had the time to write anything– and my thoughts seem more muddled than they have ever been.

I have plunged myself headlong into the world of escapism, of putting off things for another day. The other day, I learned that a cheetah can change his/her direction mid-leap. What a nifty skill to have. I suppose that being the fastest land-animal does that to you– one evolves and adapts to make up for a gift that can also be a fatal flaw. It makes me wonder that if we humans can also evolve like this– that the things that make us so terribly strong can make us so terribly vulnerable as well– our hearts, our intelligence come with their own fail-safes. Or perhaps– that is why one has both.

I could use a change in direction.

It is high summer here. The air has that redolent feel to it, calling for siestas and slumber, of dreaming. Outside my windows, tan, leggy Californians speak in rolling Spanish, much like their gait. I envy their purpose, their momentum towards their own unseen dreams. Me– my dreams are vague things, snatches of what could have been and of how things use to be.

My existence is so different now, so alien, so uncertain. My parents came by to visit– and their familiarity comforts me more now. More than when I left them to explore my roots, more than when I took my time in the snowy slumbering town of South Hadley as a college student. Funny how that is.

Perhaps the only thing I have learned is this: our mortality holds our hand everyday of our lives. I know this, because the girl next door to us, one of those proto-Californians, Blondie, with bleached hair, sexy curves, and requisite skin art is slowly wasting away– most days she is too weak to carry her own groceries. I know this because the family across the way is shattered because of a careless driver cutting off their car on the freeway– leaving shattered bones, shattered hearts, shattered lives. I know this, because I lost one of my own, my aunt– who also slowly wasted away from a mysterious disease that turned her body weak and paralyzed like stone. She could’ve encountered a Gorgon for all we know, so little did we know about her illness.

And like everything and everyone that deigns to stay close to us– Mortality is a great teacher. It tugs on your hand and nudges you with an elbow and says Look. There is that little boy relearning to walk again– turning his metal walker into an imaginary race care or spaceship, enthusiasm barely dampened. There is Blondie, reconnecting with her mother after so long. And there is your aunt, leaving her prison of a body to embark on some new adventure. Look.

Taking a break from this blog while in pursuit of creativity and happyness… new entries probably won’t surface until June… see you then.

Street Art Along Chandler Bike Path

Every time I sit in front of this computer to write, I can’t. The thing is, I’ve been blocked, writer-blocked, creativity-blocked, wonder-blocked for a long time now. I have these ideas floating around in my head– great ideas that I could get behind you know? But somehow the spark escapes me. Daily life runs me down, tackles me , and most days I feel like I’ve got my face in the dirt, and I’m too tired to turn over to look at the stars and dream of something better.

Don’t worry about me though– I am quietly happy. I guess. Well, there’s a part of me that is. The lazy slacker me who wants to read books under the covers and watch TV ad nauseaum is happy. The avoidant couch-potato part of me, is infinitely happy. The homebody quietly puttering around in her pajamas and slippers is happy.

It’s not even like I’m taking joy in the little things. I mean I am, sort of, kind of. I think I may be a bit jaded. Coming out on the other side of things, my viewpoint feels a little bit tarnished. Which doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing– it could add a certain texture, and nuance to my artwork. Perhaps.

The truth is I don’t know. I feel like– I’m just waiting things out. The way that I’ve been thinking about my life lately is in terms of Before and After. If I sit down and be honest though– I don’t think I was much happier in the Before. I thought I was. Maybe it was more exciting, higher highs, and lower lows (or is that the After?) but I think I’ve just traded in one set of trials and triumphs for another set.

Maybe– what I’m trying to say is, we expect that the events, the circumstances, and the trapping of our lives to elevate us somehow, but maybe all that external doesn’t really matter in the first place, what matters is the landscape of one’s soul, the spirit with which one’s life is lived. Or maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about.

Chandler Bikepath. Picture courtesy of The Boy.

I spent my 26th birthday in PJ’s chilling with my family. It was low-key in a good way. No hullabaloo. A lazy morning, some cleaning… and then an afternoon walk to the dollar store to pick up some essentials, and slowly wound down to the Chandler Bike Path. This street is pretty awesome– tons of street murals, little sneak-peeks into quiet cul-de-sacs with small houses and overgrown gardens. It runs between Noho and Burbank, but the real goldmine is The Iliad Bookshop, a used bookstore, newly expanded with tons of titles. I treated myself to a book, and then back to Noho for a big dinner and chocolate cake.

So now, I’m 26. Twenty-six. Huh. Twenty-five was a blur of life changes. Deep, profound life changes. Stuff I wasn’t necessarily ready for– but as a friend told me once– “we are only given as much as we can bear.” Can I say that I’ve changed much? Sometimes I feel much younger that I am and that I am totally out of my element. But I’m learning. Learning, learning, learning.

There are times, I will admit that I look back on my time in NYC with longing. Nights of partying, hanging out, shopping sprees. No responsibilities whatsoever. That life, in comparison to my life now, was decadent. Even if my usual hangout were dive bars. Life has become simplified and distilled. I’m learning to appreciate the tiny delights and joys that permeate daily existence.

I’m hoping in my 26th year, that I’ll make more progress. Try to be more authentic, reconnect with creativity, and maybe learn to let go of the girl I used to be, and step into the shoes of the woman I’ve become.

Spread One: Wings & Roots, originally uploaded by RadMadHatter.

{image from  Carol Hummel}

you find that you live your life on the edges.
sometimes this means the periphary
sometimes this means the knife edges between freefalling and control.
you find that you have made your way alone through this world
even if you are holding on to someone else’s hand as you walk.
even if you are carrying someone else.

you find that you use to not think like this,
you, who peer through blinds and turn the lights down low,
no one home.
you who curl in on yourself pile of blankets and pillows for camouflage.
you who used to see the gossamer spiderweb connections between things:
fragile.
but oh so beautiful:
especially when sunlight hit it.

these days, she thinks of mornings elsewhere, in some other time. that time of day when the day hadn’t hit its stride in terms of heat, but there was sunshine aplenty. there was always bustle– her grandmother sweeping anything and everything with a walis ting-ting– before she headed out to market. Grandpa up and showered, biking off to some town meeting or other.

Breakfast was churned out en masse from the kitchen— fried rice, scrambled eggs, tomatoes, fried banana fritters, or fresh hot pandesal with Star Margarine. And instant coffee– Nescafe– with Carnation milk and lots of sugar served in hefty brown mugs. The chickens would still be crowing, and the dogs and cats would weave between legs underfoot in hopes of being fed.

Her cousins had time to bathe, bucket bath style– coming out smelling effusively of fruity shampoo and baby powder to keep the heat at bay. They all had hankerchiefs, and umbrellas– the hankerchiefs to stanch the flow of sweat and preserve their immaculate school uniforms, and umbrellas used as portable shade from relentless sun and the occasional afternoon shower.  But before the bathing and the grooming– there were the chores, the rolling up banigs, the folding of blankets, the stowing away of pillows. The polishing of wooden floors with half a husk of coconut.

While the older schoolchildren were away, their mothers took the time to do the endless mountains of laundry. The women would take up their posts by the pump– pouring a trickle back into it– a little superstitious magic trick to get it started. And they would begin, armed with metal basins, bottles of bleach, and corrugated bars of laundry soap. For the youngsters it was a game, as they dallied around the womenfolk– attempting to play with any water that came their way, blowing bubbles, sailing tiny boats, and generally getting soaked. Finally, resigned– after a load of laundry had been soaked, and soaped and rinsed– the women would give in and fill up their tubs with fresh clean water and haul in their children to be bathed.

those morning  would end with the onslaught of heat, and her grandmother’s return from the market– towing a basket usually carrying a couple chickens, and mangoes amongst other things. It was a ritual– to hear the thrum of a tricycle, and the children running to the gate to see what treats lay in store for them.

She wonders if she will be able to bring her own children back, back to this point of origin– a pilgrimage to a fast dying way of life. For even in this dusty town of Cuyapo, seemingly crystallized in on itself– progress infiltrates. Noveau-riche manses sprout up, cars trundle past, and even real estate developments begin to encroach. The woven mats (banig) are replaced by real matresses, the rusting pump by showerheads, the laundry has been given over to a washing machine– grandmother’s prized posession after her sewing machine.

A photo! Something worth posting. A glimpse at my creative space at the moment. Wish I could post a work in progress but I haven’t hit my stride yet.