Starlings and swallows

The violets explode inside me
When I meet your eyes
Then I'm spinning and I'm diving
Like a cloud of starlings

Every time I hear the word "starlings" or picture the flight of a swallow, I feel as if I've touched something beautiful.

When an Elbow song began playing the other day and I heard the phrase "A cloud of starlings," I stopped to dwell on the word, thinking on how it ranks fairly high on my list of favorite words. Perhaps it's the "star" that's nestled in the name or the "ling" suffix that makes it seem like a small, perfect bell that would fit in my palm.

Another bird that enthralls me is the swallow. The name is just a tad less beautiful but the image it conjures within me - the flight of a slender bird with long wings and a deeply forked tail - never fails to inspire me. Its French name is even lovelier - "hirondelle." I once read a book about a girl who was fascinated by poisons and mysteries; she also loved riding about town on her mother's bicycle and it was called "l'hirondelle."

Sous le vieux pont, les hirondelles
Deux fois l'an bâtissent leurs nids;
Le bonheur nous les rend fidèles
~ Charles Grandmougin

Starlings, by Elbow
When The Swallows Come Back To Capistrano, by The Ink Spots
Birds of a Feather, by The Rosenbergs

Moving backwards

I've worked more eleven-hour days than I can count (or rather, so many that I've given up counting). A slow death, I'm certain. To stay alive - barely - I've been stealing minutes to read an old book about chiasmuses. It relaxes me, amuses me, reminds me of the old job I had when I first read this book (a decade ago; a few lifetimes ago).

Between yellowing pages, I found a chiasmus that really hit home -

Is this not the true romantic feeling - not to desire to escape life, but to prevent life from escaping you?" ~ Thomas Wolfe

I've often asked myself, where does it go, this life? Where indeed.

I can't wait to take it back.

Life's A Bitch, by Shooter
Lust For Life, by Kay Hanley
Life On Mars, by Anggun

The originals (it's been a long time since I last listened to these classics; am happy to have found them again):
Lust For Life, by Iggy Pop
Life On Mars, by David Bowie

Songs are re-made. TV shows too. "Life On Mars" is a current favorite (yes, and it features that David Bowie song). The original UK version, that is. There's a US version, and even a Spanish one too, but I have a thing for the BBC production (and the superb John Simm who plays DCI Sam Tyler).

A postcard from Buenos Aires

In December 2008, a friend and I were strolling through a flea market in Buenos Aires when I spied a small shop selling old postcards. I became fascinated, wondering about the writers and the recipients. What stories did the cards hold, what secrets did they reveal? I felt like an intruder, reading someone else's private words, or rather, having them read to me by my friend (I had not learned Spanish yet then). I ran my fingers along the scores of cards; I knew already that I wanted to take one home. The idea of carrying home someone's postcard from another century - and another country, in another language - made me giddy with delight. Did the writer and recipient stay friends? Or lovers? Did they drift apart, never to see or write each other again?

There were too many to pore over; I couldn't choose. Instead, I decided to select one based on the picture, wanting to let chance dazzle me with whatever story the picture accompanied.

I picked one with a sprig of Lily-of-the-Valley, a flower I adore but have never touched or seen in person. I flipped it over and tried to read the message. To my horror, the handwriting confounded me. It was too cursive and I couldn't fathom some of the letters! So I found it difficult to translate; I could only determine the words that were written clearly enough and that I could recognize from what rudimentary Spanish I had picked up. But the choice had been made; I paid the shopkeeper and tucked the card into my bag.

Last week, I picked up the card again to have another go at reading the message. There was mention of a "Carnaval," a major one, I reckoned. That day, I had also read in the newspaper about the seven-year-old girl selected to be Rio's Carnival queen; it was the time for Carnivals in South America, the height of summer. Summer carnivals probably took place around the same time many years ago as they do today. And my writer had gone to one.

On the front, I could read easily "a thousand kisses" and "soon enough." There were other words too - written among the small bell-shaped flowers - but the card had darkened with age and it was hard to make out what those words were.

I suppose my little card will retain its mystery. It sits on the dining table, leaning against a tray of candles, taunting me with its spidery words and mottled patches.

Today, on February 14, it is exactly a hundred years old.

Postcards From Far Away, by Coldplay

Postcards, by Alexandre Desplat

Inspired

"Human beings are divided into mind and body. The mind embraces all the nobler aspirations, like poetry and philosophy, but the body has all the fun."
~ Woody Allen.

Not by me. I wish I had a shot as beautiful as this.

Your Body Is A Wonderland, by John Mayer

A note from the past

A few weeks ago, I began clearing some boxes in my study and found a stack of farewell notes from teachers and classmates. They were written just before I left secondary school in the mid 90s.

Right at the top was the one my desk partner wrote me. That desk partner was DSD.

"Dearest V______,

This paper is too nice to write on. I almost felt like keeping it for myself. Anyway, the time has finally come for us to go our separate ways. From the bottom of my heart, I would like you to know that it has been wonderful knowing you. Truly a great joy. Though I didn't know you very well in Sec 1 and 2, I got to know you a little better in Sec 3, and got to know you well in Sec 4, I want to say that you're very pleasant, responsible, talented (both in your musical and literary skills) and that you've been a great friend. Come to think of it, we've been classmates for 4 years.
All the months seemed to have passed by in a flash. In this year, I've gotten to know you a whole lot better, and I never knew that we have quite a lot of common interests and similar views on certain issues.
You're a great person to work with coz I've found it very enjoyable working together with you on projects and assignments. We seem to get things done easily and quickly. (Don't know whether you felt the same way. Or I am just very thick-skinned). Anyway, maybe in the future, we could start a business together, after obtaining our degrees in Mass Communications (let's hope we get them. Maybe even with first-class honours). For all you know, it could happen.
Remember to keep in touch after graduation, and let's hope we'll be able to make that backpacking trip of ours materialize in two years' time. Remember to tell me when you're going to Canada. I'll always remember you as the girl who's absolutely nuts about unicorns, mythical stuff, books, writing and in love with Canada. When you write your first book, don't forget to dedicate it to your friends!
Finally, good luck and all the best in your "O" Levels and I am sure you can pass with flying colours!"

Well, I didn't major in Mass Communications or move to Canada. I stayed in Singapore for junior college, then went to Michigan where I majored in English. DSD, though, received her degree in Mass Communications. We never did go backpacking together but DSD and I made many journeys of our own, collecting memories and experiences as if they were the only things worth having (many times, they were). We never started a business, but we worked for the same editor, though at different times in our careers, and at different publication houses. We still have many common interests and eerily similar experiences and the same views on a good number of things.

While we were never schoolmates or classmates again, I like to think that DSD and I never quite went our separate ways. For over a decade - and then some - we remained close: writing to each other, enthusing about music and books and dreams, calling international when we needed to hear a friendly voice, taking a rock-climbing course together, rising early to enjoy the quiet of an empty beach, treading water in the sea while we gazed at the clouds and ships, and perhaps in the near future, we will travel to a distant country. It would be our first journey together. The one we spoke of 16 years ago.

Don't forget, DSD. And please remind me often too.

Friend Like You, by Josh Radin

All kinds of time

I've certainly had my share of making a mess of time. There were occasions when my timing was incredibly off or when I missed the boat by just a few days, hours or seconds; and then the times when I was late or too early or just never showed.

When I think of those times, I wish I could go back and re-do it all. I wish I did that something earlier, or waited a bit longer for that other thing or seized that damn day on that day itself.

Oh, well. Tough.

Right now, I wish I could stop time: that the world would be still - put on hold - while I get all the things I need to do, done (and at a pace of my choosing), and then start it up again without anyone or anything noticing the pause.

Oh, well. Tough.

I can see that time can only be dreamed of with longing or lost like a passing lover. And on this day, written about as if it were a muse. Sometimes, it really is one.

Yesterday, Fountain of Wayne's "All Kinds of Time" popped up on a playlist that I hadn't played in a while, and my first thought became a leap back in time, back to the football games I attended when I was at Michigan. After a bit of reverie, I re-played it (at least we can do this with songs!) and focused on the football player in the song, marveling at this guy who never panics. He isn't rushed or pressured; he copes with the situation. And he thinks of his family and fiancee, knowing that all the people who matter to him are supporting him right at that very moment. "The whole world is his tonight" - I heard that line and I thought, I want that kind of feeling.

Then I found another old - quite a bit older - song about time. George Michael has been derided quite a lot, but it's hard to knock "Praying for Time." The lyrics get to me every time.

And now, it's time for the new week to begin.

Cheddar chuckles

A seriously cute rodent, delicious cheese, familiar 80s tunes: what's not to like? This ad made Sunday evening pretty damn sweet.

Some Bach and a lexicographical mystery on a Sunday

Saturday mornings are often bright and brimming with possibility, possibility of all the things I could and would like to do. Often, I get to do a number of them and then I save the rest for another weekend. I go to bed quite content with that knowledge, though it is not without a sliver of moodiness because Sunday approaches swiftly, a clear sign of the end of my weekend rest.

I try to spend Sundays doing a bit of work so I won't be too frazzled on Monday itself, but I make sure to also indulge in a book or some music, and maybe a walk since it's been so breezy lately. I do so love a good lazy day, or a series of them.

Today, I finished a novel, The Broken Teaglass, a fun novel I began reading last weekend. Lexicographers, definitions, word nerds, a mysterious confession in bits and pieces hidden within the office's citation files: the book was right up my alley. It certainly was a treat this past week. And since it'd been a while since I listened to Bach, I put some on the music player. The grandiose and slightly dark phrasings of "Toccata and Fugue" lent some suspense as I flipped through the final pages of my novel, and then Gabriela Montero's clever and moving improvisation of "Prelude #1 in C" from "The Well-Tempered Clavier" left me thoughtful and yearning for something I could not articulate - I was certainly melancholic at this point - when I closed the book. Without my noticing, the afternoon had slipped by, giving way to evening.

I do wish they'd last a little longer, these Sundays.

A Sunday Kind of Love, by Beth Rowley

2010's show

A friend of mine said that according to his geomancer, 2009 was awful for horses but 2010 will be brilliant for us. Skeptical as I've always been, I have no expectations that it will be. In fact, I began the new year with mixed feelings. But I do like to dwell in possibility. So I'm putting up two pieces of writing to mark the beginning of 2010, both of which capture these dual - these dueling - emotions.

"Riveted"
by Robyn Sarah

It is possible that things will not get better
than they are now, or have been known to be.
It is possible that we are past the middle now.
It is possible that we have crossed the great water
without knowing it, and stand now on the other side.
Yes: I think that we have crossed it. Now
we are being given tickets, and they are not
tickets to the show we had been thinking of,
but to a different show, clearly inferior.

Check again: it is our own name on the envelope.
The tickets are to that other show.

It is possible that we will walk out of the darkened hall
without waiting for the last act: people do.
Some people do. But it is probable
that we will stay seated in our narrowed seats
all through the tedious dénouement
to the unsurprising end - riveted, as it were;
spellbound by our own imperfect lives
because they are lives,
and because they are ours.

"I was afraid of wanting anything. I figured wanting would lead to trying and trying would lead to failure, but now I find I can't stop wanting. I want to surprise myself. I want to lose and get over it. I want to define myself instead of having others define me. I want to win and have people be happy for me. I want to be the best person I can be. I want to not be afraid of the unknown. It’s not that I think that I'm going to get all these things, I just want the possibility of getting them. The possibility that things are going to change."
~ from "Friday Night Lights"

And I'll be playing this song on the way to work tomorrow, determined to enjoy the show.

The Show, by Lenka

My passage through India

A friend of mine in Tamil Nadu wrote me today, and I remembered that I needed to write about India before the year ends, before work absorbs me once more and turns me into either a manic lesson-planner or a sad-eyed grader of English essays or both (very likely).

I'll start with the antique store in Madurai, where my friend, Zubi, works. Zubi is originally from Kashmir, and so fair that I could not place him at first. He doesn't speak English very well (his written English is even worse, and he doesn't quite understand punctuation, nor does he use it much) but we got on very well when we first met and were soon trading stories. He told me he couldn't get a visa anywhere because he was from Kashmir, and thus a presumed terrorist. I was pretty sure he wouldn't make a very good terrorist. He didn't seem to be a very good salesman either. I told him I couldn't afford the camel-bone paintings in the section of the store he was assigned to and that I wasn't planning to buy anything. He showed them to me anyway, more paintings than I could count. He held them up carefully against a small lamp and I watched the soldiers and musicians and lovers come to life. I held them gingerly in my hands, listening to Zubi explain each scene and the story behind it.

I wandered through the store, from room to room, like a wide-eyed Alice, admiring large ancient-looking rings, boxes made of camel bone, enameled perfume bottles, paintings with scenes of war and images flushed with music and the tenderness between lovers, and heavy brass statues of Saraswati, a Hindu goddess who represents intelligence, consciousness, creativity, education, enlightenment, music, the arts, and power. She held me fast. I stared at her four arms that represent - among other things - the four Vedas, which are the primary sacred books for Hindus, and these Vedas symbolize the three forms of literature: poetry, prose and music. A goddess who blesses books and musical instruments? I was smitten. But I couldn't find a statue that was small enough to carry home or one with a price I was willing to pay. Contemplating what I learned about her, I decided to pass over physical renderings of her image - Saraswati is known for her preference of knowledge over worldly material things. And knowledge of her and what she represents is already a treasure.

Spending a small measure of time in India - just two states in southern India, Kerala and Tamil Nadu - increased my meager knowledge of the country. We traveled by plane, bus, jeep, and house-boat, and I paid attention to the skies, the trees, the people and their words, their names, the air, which was warm and heavy in the cities and then brisk and biting when we reached the mountains. While riding the bus from Munnar to Madurai (crossing the state border between Kerala and Tamil Nadu), I listened to Ravel's "Introduction et Allegro" which perfectly reflected the pastoral scenes that unfolded through the bus window. The orderly tea bushes of Munnar - they formed an impossibly green carpet that stretched for miles - the mist-filled valleys, the craggy rocks and steep cliff faces, gray and brooding. I loved even more the regal silver oaks that stood amidst the tea plantations. And then the huge African tulip trees with their startling red blooms.

Everywhere I went, I felt compelled to talk to people. Perhaps because a good number of them wanted to talk to me too. They also wanted to have their picture taken or wanted to take my picture(!). So I spent a lot of time talking to museum guards and weavers and shopkeepers, and a young couple - all of 21 years - sharing a snack by a river. I took many photographs. And some of my subjects took pictures of me. Somewhere in India, on some young man's phone, there is a photograph of me smiling in a temple, with one eyebrow cocked above bewildered eyes. I have pictures of elephants and goats and one bright green parrot. I was standing on a bridge trying to photograph the ramshackle houses below when I heard a shout. Far below, two men were washing themselves, and one of them began waving his arms, trying to get my attention. He grinned and pointed to a cage beside him. I leaned over for a better look. He then took out a rather large green bird and held it high, as proud as a father of a newborn babe. I obliged and focused my camera on the parrot.

And did I say how much I enjoyed playing with the kids (both baby goats and children)? I've always loved baby lambs and goats; they have the most innocent expressions and seem so gentle (most of the time!).

Speaking of animals, I felt like one during my Ayurvedic massages. I had two, and both involved what seemed like bucket-loads of herbal oil. I chose to have a Shirodhara massage, during which herbal oil was drizzled on my forehead (the "third" eye) and into my hair. The therapist said she used half a liter of oil for my head because of my long hair. That was very relaxing. The body massage, on the other hand, made me feel like a terrified pig being prepared for a sacrificial ritual. I was oiled from top to toe and as the small Indian woman squeezed my limbs and tapped the soles of my feet with her strong fingers, I slid about on the wooden table in a daze. I nearly laughed out loud.

I laughed a lot during my brief journey in India. Laughed, gambled, ate with my hands, read, did yoga, drank copious amounts of tea - masala and my favorite, Kashmiri tea, made with saffron, cinnamon, and cardamom. I had my lazy days drifting down the river in a house-boat and then some whirlwind periods moving from place to place via bus. And when I came home, I thought about going off again. One of the books I read on the trip was Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love, and like the writer, who spent a year living in India, Italy, and Indonesia, I felt a strong desire to be away from everything that is familiar and easy. But not in this coming year. Not yet. Soon though.

Introduction et Allegro (Ravel), by The Kodaly Quartet

"Sinnerman" on my phone

My new phone (not so new; it's actually a few months' old now) isn't a smartphone. However, it's smart enough to let me make calls, send messages, take photos, and customize my ringtones, and that's all I really need. It's also a clamshell model, something I've wanted since I got tired of slider phones.

Yeah, I wanted a clamshell phone even though everyone else seems to be toting one of the many smartphones on the market. I wasn't tempted by the iPhone and I doubt I'll be swayed by this HTC phone either, but the ad really got to me. Especially the remix of Nina Simone's "Sinnerman." I'll have a new ringtone, at the very least.

Sinnerman (Felix Da Housecat remix), by Nina Simone

India: I dream of gods and teas and running rivers

"As soon as she landed in India, it seemed to her good, and when she saw the water flowing through the mosque tank, or the Ganges, or the moon caught in the shawl of night with all the other stars, it seemed a beautiful goal and an easy one."
- from A Passage to India, ch. 23, by E.M. Forster

River life in Tamil Nadu

Exploring one of the long halls in the Meenakshi Sundareswarar Temple

Lying among tea leaves in Munnar

Remnants of an old palace in Kerala

Another world through the wall