Hello Philippines (How can I help you?)

Theater By July 5, 2009 Tags: , , , No Comments

hello philippines

The UP Repertory Company Alumni Association and the UP Repertory Company presents its first joint offering for 2009: Hello Philippines!

Hello Philippines, a one act musical, is a humorous take on call center culture. Team leader Tiffany tells five agents from his team that one of them is going to get axed. The twist, however, is that he will leave that decision to the five agents. So now, it’s up to ex-tibak Anton, clueless rich girl Berni, the slutty Toni, the probinsyanong Brichi, and the overly religious Elsa to do whatever it takes to keep their jobs. Whatever it takes.

Hello Philippines is viciously funny and holds nothing sacred as it skewers the “call center lifestyle”, a life cycle born out of fast money and desperation, shifting body clocks, and too much coffee, beer, and cigarettes. It attempts to put into perspective all the sacrifices one makes to stay in such an environment, albeit in an entertaining manner.

The Story behind “Hello Philippines!”

Before “Hello…”, there was Chupacabra

Hello Philippines! traces its origin from the play Chupacabra, written by UP Rep alumnus Abet Cruz.  Chupacabra was written as part of a minor productionback in 2007 that saw the play staged at UP’s dormitory circuit.  The dorm tour, centering on call center lifestyle, was a smashing success thanks to the sheer hilarity of Chupacabra.

Even at its earliest incarnations, Chupacabra was a powerful, rollicking, laugh-a-second satire that got the message across.  Since those stagings, there has been talk of restaging Chupacabra due to the overwhelming popularity of the play.  The interest flagged down a bit though; with UP celebrating its centennial, UP Rep decided to do a more UP-centric production for AY 2007-08.  And so, Chupacabra was shelved.

But you can’t keep a good play down.  When the UP Rep alumni started talking about what play they could stage for their inagural offering, quite a few suggested we take a look at Chupacabra again.  Two years since its last staging, Chupacabra was still every bit as funny and irreverent as we remembered it to be.  But, if we were serious in staging this play, we would need to make changes to the play.


Pimp my play

We all loved Chupacabra, but the play needed work.  Chupacabra was very raw and experimental, and we needed to give it a bit of a polish.

With that, Abet revisited his script and started retooling everything.  We also agreed to make the play longer by turning it into a musical.  And we also felt that we couldn’t keep the old name Chupacabra anymore.  That title, more than anything, was an inside joke.  We settled on calling it Hello Philippines!.

***

Watch HELLO PHILIPPINES at Aldaba Hall Dance Studio, UP Diliman on August 12, 13, 14, 15, & 16, and at Tanghalang Julian Felipe, De La Salle University РDasmari̱as on August 27 and 28!

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Dead Stars by Paz Benitez Marquez

Theater By July 4, 2009 Tags: , , , 1 Comment

THROUGH the open window the air-steeped outdoors passed into his room, quietly enveloping him, stealing into his very thought. Esperanza, Julia, the sorry mess he had made of life, the years to come even now beginning to weigh down, to crush–they lost concreteness, diffused into formless melancholy. The tranquil murmur of conversation issued from the brick-tiled azotea where Don Julian and Carmen were busy puttering away among the rose pots.

“Papa, and when will the ‘long table’ be set?”

“I don’t know yet. Alfredo is not very specific, but I understand Esperanza wants it to be next month.”

Carmen sighed impatiently. “Why is he not a bit more decided, I wonder. He is over thirty, is he not? And still a bachelor! Esperanza must be tired waiting.”

“She does not seem to be in much of a hurry either,” Don Julian nasally commented, while his rose scissors busily snipped away.

“How can a woman be in a hurry when the man does not hurry her?” Carmen returned, pinching off a worm with a careful, somewhat absent air. “Papa, do you remember how much in love he was?”

“In love? With whom?”

“With Esperanza, of course. He has not had another love affair that I know of,” she said with good-natured contempt. “What I mean is that at the beginning he was enthusiastic–flowers, serenades, notes, and things like that–“

Alfredo remembered that period with a wonder not unmixed with shame. That was less than four years ago. He could not understand those months of a great hunger that was not of the body nor yet of the mind, a craving that had seized on him one quiet night when the moon was abroad and under the dappled shadow of the trees in the plaza, man wooed maid. Was he being cheated by life? Love–he seemed to have missed it. Or was the love that others told about a mere fabrication of perfervid imagination, an exaggeration of the commonplace, a glorification of insipid monotonies such as made up his love life? Was love a combination of circumstances, or sheer native capacity of soul? In those days love was, for him, still the eternal puzzle; for love, as he knew it, was a stranger to love as he divined it might be.

Sitting quietly in his room now, he could almost revive the restlessness of those days, the feeling of tumultuous haste, such as he knew so well in his boyhood when something beautiful was going on somewhere and he was trying to get there in time to see. “Hurry, hurry, or you will miss it,” someone had seemed to urge in his ears. So he had avidly seized on the shadow of Love and deluded himself for a long while in the way of humanity from time immemorial. In the meantime, he became very much engaged to Esperanza.

Why would men so mismanage their lives? Greed, he thought, was what ruined so many. Greed–the desire to crowd into a moment all the enjoyment it will hold, to squeeze from the hour all the emotion it will yield. Men commit themselves when but half-meaning to do so, sacrificing possible future fullness of ecstasy to the craving for immediate excitement. Greed–mortgaging the future–forcing the hand of Time, or of Fate.

“What do you think happened?” asked Carmen, pursuing her thought.

“I supposed long-engaged people are like that; warm now, cool tomorrow. I think they are oftener cool than warm. The very fact that an engagement has been allowed to prolong itself argues a certain placidity of temperament–or of affection–on the part of either, or both.” Don Julian loved to philosophize. He was talking now with an evident relish in words, his resonant, very nasal voice toned down to monologue pitch. “That phase you were speaking of is natural enough for a beginning. Besides, that, as I see it, was Alfredo’s last race with escaping youth–“

Carmen laughed aloud at the thought of her brother’s perfect physical repose–almost indolence–disturbed in the role suggested by her father’s figurative language.

“A last spurt of hot blood,” finished the old man.

Few certainly would credit Alfredo Salazar with hot blood. Even his friends had amusedly diagnosed his blood as cool and thin, citing incontrovertible evidence. Tall and slender, he moved with an indolent ease that verged on grace. Under straight recalcitrant hair, a thin face with a satisfying breadth of forehead, slow, dreamer’s eyes, and astonishing freshness of lips–indeed Alfredo Salazar’s appearance betokened little of exuberant masculinity; rather a poet with wayward humor, a fastidious artist with keen, clear brain.

He rose and quietly went out of the house. He lingered a moment on the stone steps; then went down the path shaded by immature acacias, through the little tarred gate which he left swinging back and forth, now opening, now closing, on the gravel road bordered along the farther side by madre cacao hedge in tardy lavender bloom.

The gravel road narrowed as it slanted up to the house on the hill, whose wide, open porches he could glimpse through the heat-shrivelled tamarinds in the Martinez yard.

Six weeks ago that house meant nothing to him save that it was the Martinez house, rented and occupied by Judge del Valle and his family. Six weeks ago Julia Salas meant nothing to him; he did not even know her name; but now–

One evening he had gone “neighboring” with Don Julian; a rare enough occurrence, since he made it a point to avoid all appearance of currying favor with the Judge. This particular evening however, he had allowed himself to be persuaded. “A little mental relaxation now and then is beneficial,” the old man had said. “Besides, a judge’s good will, you know;” the rest of the thought–“is worth a rising young lawyer’s trouble”–Don Julian conveyed through a shrug and a smile that derided his own worldly wisdom.

A young woman had met them at the door. It was evident from the excitement of the Judge’s children that she was a recent and very welcome arrival. In the characteristic Filipino way formal introductions had been omitted–the judge limiting himself to a casual “Ah, ya se conocen?”–with the consequence that Alfredo called her Miss del Valle throughout the evening.

He was puzzled that she should smile with evident delight every time he addressed her thus. Later Don Julian informed him that she was not the Judge’s sister, as he had supposed, but his sister-in-law, and that her name was Julia Salas. A very dignified rather austere name, he thought. Still, the young lady should have corrected him. As it was, he was greatly embarrassed, and felt that he should explain.

To his apology, she replied, “That is nothing, Each time I was about to correct you, but I remembered a similar experience I had once before.”

“Oh,” he drawled out, vastly relieved.

“A man named Manalang–I kept calling him Manalo. After the tenth time or so, the young man rose from his seat and said suddenly, ‘Pardon me, but my name is Manalang, Manalang.’ You know, I never forgave him!”

He laughed with her.

“The best thing to do under the circumstances, I have found out,” she pursued, “is to pretend not to hear, and to let the other person find out his mistake without help.”

“As you did this time. Still, you looked amused every time I–“

“I was thinking of Mr. Manalang.”

Don Julian and his uncommunicative friend, the Judge, were absorbed in a game of chess. The young man had tired of playing appreciative spectator and desultory conversationalist, so he and Julia Salas had gone off to chat in the vine-covered porch. The lone piano in the neighborhood alternately tinkled and banged away as the player’s moods altered. He listened, and wondered irrelevantly if Miss Salas could sing; she had such a charming speaking voice.

He was mildly surprised to note from her appearance that she was unmistakably a sister of the Judge’s wife, although Doña Adela was of a different type altogether. She was small and plump, with wide brown eyes, clearly defined eyebrows, and delicately modeled hips–a pretty woman with the complexion of a baby and the expression of a likable cow. Julia was taller, not so obviously pretty. She had the same eyebrows and lips, but she was much darker, of a smooth rich brown with underlying tones of crimson which heightened the impression she gave of abounding vitality.

On Sunday mornings after mass, father and son would go crunching up the gravel road to the house on the hill. The Judge’s wife invariably offered them beer, which Don Julian enjoyed and Alfredo did not. After a half hour or so, the chessboard would be brought out; then Alfredo and Julia Salas would go out to the porch to chat. She sat in the low hammock and he in a rocking chair and the hours–warm, quiet March hours–sped by. He enjoyed talking with her and it was evident that she liked his company; yet what feeling there was between them was so undisturbed that it seemed a matter of course. Only when Esperanza chanced to ask him indirectly about those visits did some uneasiness creep into his thoughts of the girl next door.

Esperanza had wanted to know if he went straight home after mass. Alfredo suddenly realized that for several Sundays now he had not waited for Esperanza to come out of the church as he had been wont to do. He had been eager to go “neighboring.”

He answered that he went home to work. And, because he was not habitually untruthful, added, “Sometimes I go with Papa to Judge del Valle’s.”

She dropped the topic. Esperanza was not prone to indulge in unprovoked jealousies. She was a believer in the regenerative virtue of institutions, in their power to regulate feeling as well as conduct. If a man were married, why, of course, he loved his wife; if he were engaged, he could not possibly love another woman.

That half-lie told him what he had not admitted openly to himself, that he was giving Julia Salas something which he was not free to give. He realized that; yet something that would not be denied beckoned imperiously, and he followed on.

It was so easy to forget up there, away from the prying eyes of the world, so easy and so poignantly sweet. The beloved woman, he standing close to her, the shadows around, enfolding.

“Up here I find–something–“

He and Julia Salas stood looking out into the she quiet night. Sensing unwanted intensity, laughed, woman-like, asking, “Amusement?”

“No; youth–its spirit–“

“Are you so old?”

“And heart’s desire.”

Was he becoming a poet, or is there a poet lurking in the heart of every man?

“Down there,” he had continued, his voice somewhat indistinct, “the road is too broad, too trodden by feet, too barren of mystery.”

“Down there” beyond the ancient tamarinds lay the road, upturned to the stars. In the darkness the fireflies glimmered, while an errant breeze strayed in from somewhere, bringing elusive, faraway sounds as of voices in a dream.

“Mystery–” she answered lightly, “that is so brief–“

“Not in some,” quickly. “Not in you.”

“You have known me a few weeks; so the mystery.”

“I could study you all my life and still not find it.”

“So long?”

“I should like to.”

Those six weeks were now so swift–seeming in the memory, yet had they been so deep in the living, so charged with compelling power and sweetness. Because neither the past nor the future had relevance or meaning, he lived only the present, day by day, lived it intensely, with such a willful shutting out of fact as astounded him in his calmer moments.

Just before Holy Week, Don Julian invited the judge and his family to spend Sunday afternoon at Tanda where he had a coconut plantation and a house on the beach. Carmen also came with her four energetic children. She and Doña Adela spent most of the time indoors directing the preparation of the merienda and discussing the likeable absurdities of their husbands–how Carmen’s Vicente was so absorbed in his farms that he would not even take time off to accompany her on this visit to her father; how Doña Adela’s Dionisio was the most absentminded of men, sometimes going out without his collar, or with unmatched socks.

After the merienda, Don Julian sauntered off with the judge to show him what a thriving young coconut looked like–“plenty of leaves, close set, rich green”–while the children, convoyed by Julia Salas, found unending entertainment in the rippling sand left by the ebbing tide. They were far down, walking at the edge of the water, indistinctly outlined against the gray of the out-curving beach.

Alfredo left his perch on the bamboo ladder of the house and followed. Here were her footsteps, narrow, arched. He laughed at himself for his black canvas footwear which he removed forthwith and tossed high up on dry sand.

When he came up, she flushed, then smiled with frank pleasure.

“I hope you are enjoying this,” he said with a questioning inflection.

“Very much. It looks like home to me, except that we do not have such a lovely beach.”

There was a breeze from the water. It blew the hair away from her forehead, and whipped the tucked-up skirt around her straight, slender figure. In the picture was something of eager freedom as of wings poised in flight. The girl had grace, distinction. Her face was not notably pretty; yet she had a tantalizing charm, all the more compelling because it was an inner quality, an achievement of the spirit. The lure was there, of naturalness, of an alert vitality of mind and body, of a thoughtful, sunny temper, and of a piquant perverseness which is sauce to charm.

“The afternoon has seemed very short, hasn’t it?” Then, “This, I think, is the last time–we can visit.”

“The last? Why?”

“Oh, you will be too busy perhaps.”

He noted an evasive quality in the answer.

“Do I seem especially industrious to you?”

“If you are, you never look it.”

“Not perspiring or breathless, as a busy man ought to be.”

“But–“

“Always unhurried, too unhurried, and calm.” She smiled to herself.

“I wish that were true,” he said after a meditative pause.

She waited.

“A man is happier if he is, as you say, calm and placid.”

“Like a carabao in a mud pool,” she retorted perversely

“Who? I?”

“Oh, no!”

“You said I am calm and placid.”

“That is what I think.”

“I used to think so too. Shows how little we know ourselves.”

It was strange to him that he could be wooing thus: with tone and look and covert phrase.

“I should like to see your home town.”

“There is nothing to see–little crooked streets, bunut roofs with ferns growing on them, and sometimes squashes.”

That was the background. It made her seem less detached, less unrelated, yet withal more distant, as if that background claimed her and excluded him.

“Nothing? There is you.”

“Oh, me? But I am here.”

“I will not go, of course, until you are there.”

“Will you come? You will find it dull. There isn’t even one American there!”

“Well–Americans are rather essential to my entertainment.”

She laughed.

“We live on Calle Luz, a little street with trees.”

“Could I find that?”

“If you don’t ask for Miss del Valle,” she smiled teasingly.

“I’ll inquire about–“

“What?”

“The house of the prettiest girl in the town.”

“There is where you will lose your way.” Then she turned serious. “Now, that is not quite sincere.”

“It is,” he averred slowly, but emphatically.

“I thought you, at least, would not say such things.”

“Pretty–pretty–a foolish word! But there is none other more handy I did not mean that quite–“

“Are you withdrawing the compliment?”

“Re-enforcing it, maybe. Something is pretty when it pleases the eye–it is more than that when–“

“If it saddens?” she interrupted hastily.

“Exactly.”

“It must be ugly.”

“Always?”

Toward the west, the sunlight lay on the dimming waters in a broad, glinting streamer of crimsoned gold.

“No, of course you are right.”

“Why did you say this is the last time?” he asked quietly as they turned back.

“I am going home.”

The end of an impossible dream!

“When?” after a long silence.

“Tomorrow. I received a letter from Father and Mother yesterday. They want me to spend Holy Week at home.”

She seemed to be waiting for him to speak. “That is why I said this is the last time.”

“Can’t I come to say good-bye?”

“Oh, you don’t need to!”

“No, but I want to.”

“There is no time.”

The golden streamer was withdrawing, shortening, until it looked no more than a pool far away at the rim of the world. Stillness, a vibrant quiet that affects the senses as does solemn harmony; a peace that is not contentment but a cessation of tumult when all violence of feeling tones down to the wistful serenity of regret. She turned and looked into his face, in her dark eyes a ghost of sunset sadness.

“Home seems so far from here. This is almost like another life.”

“I know. This is Elsewhere, and yet strange enough, I cannot get rid of the old things.”

“Old things?”

“Oh, old things, mistakes, encumbrances, old baggage.” He said it lightly, unwilling to mar the hour. He walked close, his hand sometimes touching hers for one whirling second.

Don Julian’s nasal summons came to them on the wind.

Alfredo gripped the soft hand so near his own. At his touch, the girl turned her face away, but he heard her voice say very low, “Good-bye.”

II

ALFREDO Salazar turned to the right where, farther on, the road broadened and entered the heart of the town–heart of Chinese stores sheltered under low-hung roofs, of indolent drug stores and tailor shops, of dingy shoe-repairing establishments, and a cluttered goldsmith’s cubbyhole where a consumptive bent over a magnifying lens; heart of old brick-roofed houses with quaint hand-and-ball knockers on the door; heart of grass-grown plaza reposeful with trees, of ancient church and convento, now circled by swallows gliding in flight as smooth and soft as the afternoon itself. Into the quickly deepening twilight, the voice of the biggest of the church bells kept ringing its insistent summons. Flocking came the devout with their long wax candles, young women in vivid apparel (for this was Holy Thursday and the Lord was still alive), older women in sober black skirts. Came too the young men in droves, elbowing each other under the talisay tree near the church door. The gaily decked rice-paper lanterns were again on display while from the windows of the older houses hung colored glass globes, heirlooms from a day when grasspith wicks floating in coconut oil were the chief lighting device.

Soon a double row of lights emerged from the church and uncoiled down the length of the street like a huge jewelled band studded with glittering clusters where the saints’ platforms were. Above the measured music rose the untutored voices of the choir, steeped in incense and the acrid fumes of burning wax.

The sight of Esperanza and her mother sedately pacing behind Our Lady of Sorrows suddenly destroyed the illusion of continuity and broke up those lines of light into component individuals. Esperanza stiffened self-consciously, tried to look unaware, and could not.

The line moved on.

Suddenly, Alfredo’s slow blood began to beat violently, irregularly. A girl was coming down the line–a girl that was striking, and vividly alive, the woman that could cause violent commotion in his heart, yet had no place in the completed ordering of his life.

Her glance of abstracted devotion fell on him and came to a brief stop.

The line kept moving on, wending its circuitous route away from the church and then back again, where, according to the old proverb, all processions end.

At last Our Lady of Sorrows entered the church, and with her the priest and the choir, whose voices now echoed from the arched ceiling. The bells rang the close of the procession.

A round orange moon, “huge as a winnowing basket,” rose lazily into a clear sky, whitening the iron roofs and dimming the lanterns at the windows. Along the still densely shadowed streets the young women with their rear guard of males loitered and, maybe, took the longest way home.

Toward the end of the row of Chinese stores, he caught up with Julia Salas. The crowd had dispersed into the side streets, leaving Calle Real to those who lived farther out. It was past eight, and Esperanza would be expecting him in a little while: yet the thought did not hurry him as he said “Good evening” and fell into step with the girl.

“I had been thinking all this time that you had gone,” he said in a voice that was both excited and troubled.

“No, my sister asked me to stay until they are ready to go.”

“Oh, is the Judge going?”

“Yes.”

The provincial docket had been cleared, and Judge del Valle had been assigned elsewhere. As lawyer–and as lover–Alfredo had found that out long before.

“Mr. Salazar,” she broke into his silence, “I wish to congratulate you.”

Her tone told him that she had learned, at last. That was inevitable.

“For what?”

“For your approaching wedding.”

Some explanation was due her, surely. Yet what could he say that would not offend?

“I should have offered congratulations long before, but you know mere visitors are slow about getting the news,” she continued.

He listened not so much to what she said as to the nuances in her voice. He heard nothing to enlighten him, except that she had reverted to the formal tones of early acquaintance. No revelation there; simply the old voice–cool, almost detached from personality, flexible and vibrant, suggesting potentialities of song.

“Are weddings interesting to you?” he finally brought out quietly

“When they are of friends, yes.”

“Would you come if I asked you?”

“When is it going to be?”

“May,” he replied briefly, after a long pause.

“May is the month of happiness they say,” she said, with what seemed to him a shade of irony.

“They say,” slowly, indifferently. “Would you come?”

“Why not?”

“No reason. I am just asking. Then you will?”

“If you will ask me,” she said with disdain.

“Then I ask you.”

“Then I will be there.”

The gravel road lay before them; at the road’s end the lighted windows of the house on the hill. There swept over the spirit of Alfredo Salazar a longing so keen that it was pain, a wish that, that house were his, that all the bewilderments of the present were not, and that this woman by his side were his long wedded wife, returning with him to the peace of home.

“Julita,” he said in his slow, thoughtful manner, “did you ever have to choose between something you wanted to do and something you had to do?”

“No!”

“I thought maybe you had had that experience; then you could understand a man who was in such a situation.”

“You are fortunate,” he pursued when she did not answer.

“Is–is this man sure of what he should do?”

“I don’t know, Julita. Perhaps not. But there is a point where a thing escapes us and rushes downward of its own weight, dragging us along. Then it is foolish to ask whether one will or will not, because it no longer depends on him.”

“But then why–why–” her muffled voice came. “Oh, what do I know? That is his problem after all.”

“Doesn’t it–interest you?”

“Why must it? I–I have to say good-bye, Mr. Salazar; we are at the house.”

Without lifting her eyes she quickly turned and walked away.

Had the final word been said? He wondered. It had. Yet a feeble flutter of hope trembled in his mind though set against that hope were three years of engagement, a very near wedding, perfect understanding between the parents, his own conscience, and Esperanza herself–Esperanza waiting, Esperanza no longer young, Esperanza the efficient, the literal-minded, the intensely acquisitive.

He looked attentively at her where she sat on the sofa, appraisingly, and with a kind of aversion which he tried to control.

She was one of those fortunate women who have the gift of uniformly acceptable appearance. She never surprised one with unexpected homeliness nor with startling reserves of beauty. At home, in church, on the street, she was always herself, a woman past first bloom, light and clear of complexion, spare of arms and of breast, with a slight convexity to thin throat; a woman dressed with self-conscious care, even elegance; a woman distinctly not average.

She was pursuing an indignant relation about something or other, something about Calixta, their note-carrier, Alfredo perceived, so he merely half-listened, understanding imperfectly. At a pause he drawled out to fill in the gap: “Well, what of it?” The remark sounded ruder than he had intended.

“She is not married to him,” Esperanza insisted in her thin, nervously pitched voice. “Besides, she should have thought of us. Nanay practically brought her up. We never thought she would turn out bad.”

What had Calixta done? Homely, middle-aged Calixta?

“You are very positive about her badness,” he commented dryly. Esperanza was always positive.

“But do you approve?”

“Of what?”

“What she did.”

“No,” indifferently.

“Well?”

He was suddenly impelled by a desire to disturb the unvexed orthodoxy of her mind. “All I say is that it is not necessarily wicked.”

“Why shouldn’t it be? You talked like an–immoral man. I did not know that your ideas were like that.”

“My ideas?” he retorted, goaded by a deep, accumulated exasperation. “The only test I wish to apply to conduct is the test of fairness. Am I injuring anybody? No? Then I am justified in my conscience. I am right. Living with a man to whom she is not married–is that it? It may be wrong, and again it may not.”

“She has injured us. She was ungrateful.” Her voice was tight with resentment.

“The trouble with you, Esperanza, is that you are–” he stopped, appalled by the passion in his voice.

“Why do you get angry? I do not understand you at all! I think I know why you have been indifferent to me lately. I am not blind, or deaf; I see and hear what perhaps some are trying to keep from me.” The blood surged into his very eyes and his hearing sharpened to points of acute pain. What would she say next?

“Why don’t you speak out frankly before it is too late? You need not think of me and of what people will say.” Her voice trembled.

Alfredo was suffering as he could not remember ever having suffered before. What people will say–what will they not say? What don’t they say when long engagements are broken almost on the eve of the wedding?

“Yes,” he said hesitatingly, diffidently, as if merely thinking aloud, “one tries to be fair–according to his lights–but it is hard. One would like to be fair to one’s self first. But that is too easy, one does not dare–“

“What do you mean?” she asked with repressed violence. “Whatever my shortcomings, and no doubt they are many in your eyes, I have never gone out of my way, of my place, to find a man.”

Did she mean by this irrelevant remark that he it was who had sought her; or was that a covert attack on Julia Salas?

“Esperanza–” a desperate plea lay in his stumbling words. “If you–suppose I–” Yet how could a mere man word such a plea?

“If you mean you want to take back your word, if you are tired of–why don’t you tell me you are tired of me?” she burst out in a storm of weeping that left him completely shamed and unnerved.

The last word had been said.

III

AS Alfredo Salazar leaned against the boat rail to watch the evening settling over the lake, he wondered if Esperanza would attribute any significance to this trip of his. He was supposed to be in Sta. Cruz whither the case of the People of the Philippine Islands vs. Belina et al had kept him, and there he would have been if Brigida Samuy had not been so important to the defense. He had to find that elusive old woman. That the search was leading him to that particular lake town which was Julia Salas’ home should not disturb him unduly Yet he was disturbed to a degree utterly out of proportion to the prosaicalness of his errand. That inner tumult was no surprise to him; in the last eight years he had become used to such occasional storms. He had long realized that he could not forget Julia Salas. Still, he had tried to be content and not to remember too much. The climber of mountains who has known the back-break, the lonesomeness, and the chill, finds a certain restfulness in level paths made easy to his feet. He looks up sometimes from the valley where settles the dusk of evening, but he knows he must not heed the radiant beckoning. Maybe, in time, he would cease even to look up.

He was not unhappy in his marriage. He felt no rebellion: only the calm of capitulation to what he recognized as irresistible forces of circumstance and of character. His life had simply ordered itself; no more struggles, no more stirring up of emotions that got a man nowhere. From his capacity of complete detachment he derived a strange solace. The essential himself, the himself that had its being in the core of his thought, would, he reflected, always be free and alone. When claims encroached too insistently, as sometimes they did, he retreated into the inner fastness, and from that vantage he saw things and people around him as remote and alien, as incidents that did not matter. At such times did Esperanza feel baffled and helpless; he was gentle, even tender, but immeasurably far away, beyond her reach.

Lights were springing into life on the shore. That was the town, a little up-tilted town nestling in the dark greenness of the groves. A snubcrested belfry stood beside the ancient church. On the outskirts the evening smudges glowed red through the sinuous mists of smoke that rose and lost themselves in the purple shadows of the hills. There was a young moon which grew slowly luminous as the coral tints in the sky yielded to the darker blues of evening.

The vessel approached the landing quietly, trailing a wake of long golden ripples on the dark water. Peculiar hill inflections came to his ears from the crowd assembled to meet the boat–slow, singing cadences, characteristic of the Laguna lake-shore speech. From where he stood he could not distinguish faces, so he had no way of knowing whether the presidente was there to meet him or not. Just then a voice shouted.

“Is the abogado there? Abogado!”

“What abogado?” someone irately asked.

That must be the presidente, he thought, and went down to the landing.

It was a policeman, a tall pock-marked individual. The presidente had left with Brigida Samuy–Tandang “Binday”–that noon for Santa Cruz. Señor Salazar’s second letter had arrived late, but the wife had read it and said, “Go and meet the abogado and invite him to our house.”

Alfredo Salazar courteously declined the invitation. He would sleep on board since the boat would leave at four the next morning anyway. So the presidente had received his first letter? Alfredo did not know because that official had not sent an answer. “Yes,” the policeman replied, “but he could not write because we heard that Tandang Binday was in San Antonio so we went there to find her.”

San Antonio was up in the hills! Good man, the presidente! He, Alfredo, must do something for him. It was not every day that one met with such willingness to help.

Eight o’clock, lugubriously tolled from the bell tower, found the boat settled into a somnolent quiet. A cot had been brought out and spread for him, but it was too bare to be inviting at that hour. It was too early to sleep: he would walk around the town. His heart beat faster as he picked his way to shore over the rafts made fast to sundry piles driven into the water.

How peaceful the town was! Here and there a little tienda was still open, its dim light issuing forlornly through the single window which served as counter. An occasional couple sauntered by, the women’s chinelas making scraping sounds. From a distance came the shrill voices of children playing games on the street–tubigan perhaps, or “hawk-and-chicken.” The thought of Julia Salas in that quiet place filled him with a pitying sadness.

How would life seem now if he had married Julia Salas? Had he meant anything to her? That unforgettable red-and-gold afternoon in early April haunted him with a sense of incompleteness as restless as other unlaid ghosts. She had not married–why? Faithfulness, he reflected, was not a conscious effort at regretful memory. It was something unvolitional, maybe a recurrent awareness of irreplaceability. Irrelevant trifles–a cool wind on his forehead, far-away sounds as of voices in a dream–at times moved him to an oddly irresistible impulse to listen as to an insistent, unfinished prayer.

A few inquiries led him to a certain little tree-ceilinged street where the young moon wove indistinct filigrees of fight and shadow. In the gardens the cotton tree threw its angular shadow athwart the low stone wall; and in the cool, stilly midnight the cock’s first call rose in tall, soaring jets of sound. Calle Luz.

Somehow or other, he had known that he would find her house because she would surely be sitting at the window. Where else, before bedtime on a moonlit night? The house was low and the light in the sala behind her threw her head into unmistakable relief. He sensed rather than saw her start of vivid surprise.

“Good evening,” he said, raising his hat.

“Good evening. Oh! Are you in town?”

“On some little business,” he answered with a feeling of painful constraint.

“Won’t you come up?”

He considered. His vague plans had not included this. But Julia Salas had left the window, calling to her mother as she did so. After a while, someone came downstairs with a lighted candle to open the door. At last–he was shaking her hand.

She had not changed much–a little less slender, not so eagerly alive, yet something had gone. He missed it, sitting opposite her, looking thoughtfully into her fine dark eyes. She asked him about the home town, about this and that, in a sober, somewhat meditative tone. He conversed with increasing ease, though with a growing wonder that he should be there at all. He could not take his eyes from her face. What had she lost? Or was the loss his? He felt an impersonal curiosity creeping into his gaze. The girl must have noticed, for her cheek darkened in a blush.

Gently–was it experimentally?–he pressed her hand at parting; but his own felt undisturbed and emotionless. Did she still care? The answer to the question hardly interested him.

The young moon had set, and from the uninviting cot he could see one half of a star-studded sky.

So that was all over.

Why had he obstinately clung to that dream?

So all these years–since when?–he had been seeing the light of dead stars, long extinguished, yet seemingly still in their appointed places in the heavens.

An immense sadness as of loss invaded his spirit, a vast homesickness for some immutable refuge of the heart far away where faded gardens bloom again, and where live on in unchanging freshness, the dear, dead loves of vanished youth.

This is the 1925 short story that gave birth to modern Philippine writing in English.

***

This text is directly lifted from “The Best Philippine Short Stories“.

***

This is filed under Events|Theatre as it is supplemental reading for the theatre production, “Dead Stars, 1925/Sepang Loca.”

***

Ryan tells me we took this short story up in our class together, Humanities I, back in 2000 but I cannot remember. Yes I must be getting all amnesia-ed. 😐

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Marisol

Theater By July 4, 2009 Tags: , , 2 Comments
Poster design by Lex Marcos.

Poster design by Lex Marcos.

In celebration of the 60th Anniversary of the Fulbright Program in the Philippines, the University of the Philippines – Diliman, Department of Speech Communication and Theatre Arts and the Philippine – American Educational Foundation (PAEF) present Rody Vera’s Filipino Adaptation of José Rivera’s Marisol.

Marisol is a surreal tale of an apocalyptic Philippines, a Manila on the verge of collapsing from the pressures of poverty and violence. The play revolves around the character of Marisol, whose guardian angel leaves her to survive in a world that is dangerous and falling apart, without the protection of her faith. The themes in Marisol ring true to a present-day that is local as well as global.

To commemorate six decades of international exchange and mutual understanding between the United States and the Philippines, Krystal Banzon, 2007-08 American Fulbright Student Scholar directs this original adaptation of Rivera’s Puerto Rican/American play, in collaboration with an entirely Filipino cast, design, and production team. The cast is made up of eight talented artists, Marjorie Lorico, Mailes Kanapi, Nicco Manalo, Sigrid Bernardo, Virgie Sorita-Flores, Tao Aves, Miela Sayo, and Chic San Agustin. Set design and poster design by Lex Marcos, technical direction and lighting design by El Abquina, sound design by Roxanne Pagdanganan, costume design by Sigrid Bernardo, and the stage manager is Hazel Gutierrez.

Marisol runs from May 14-17, 2008, 7pm at the Teatro Hermogenes Ylagan, Faculty Center, UP Diliman, Quezon City.

***

This is just for documentation purposes.

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Dead Stars, 1925/Sepang Loca

Theater By July 4, 2009 Tags: , , , , No Comments

deadstars poster

Celebrating the centennial of Department of English and Comparative Literature and the 50th anniversary of the Department of Speech Communications and Theatre Arts, UP Playwrights’ Theater (UPPT) on its 21st theatre season (2009 – 2010) proudly presents a stellar twin-bill offering: an adaptation of Paz Marquez Benitez’s celebrated Philippine short story in English, “Dead Stars” (1925) as adapted by Anton Juan, and “Sepang Loca,” Amelia Lapeňa Bonifacio’s landmark theatre piece.

After his successful Hinabing Pakpak ng Ating mga Anak, last July 2008, Anton returns with his dramatic adaptation of the short story, Dead Stars, 1925 – acknowledged as the first Filipino modern short story written in English. The play centers on hypothetical love in a colonial state, collapses time and point of view in impressionist dramatic narrative. Paz Marquez Benitez, author of this celebrated short story was the mentor of many Filipino literary masters and national artists.

In Sepang Loca, from the depths of a village well rises the cruelty of a village and the damnation of a village fool by its religious but self-righteous folk.

The cast are joined by some of Philippine Theatre’s renowned theater actors like Teroy Guzman, Ana Abad Santos, Judy Ick, Earl Ignacio, Edna Mae Landicho, Fonz Deza, Ces Aldaba, Lexie Schulze, Lillibeth Nacion- Puyot and the Dulaang UP ensemble. Joining Juan in his artistic team are emergent artists like Patrick Valera, (Dramaturgy and Assistant Direction) and Meliton Roxas Jr. (Set and Lights Design). Dead Stars and Sepang Loca will open on July 21, 2009 and will run until August 1, 2009.

Dead Stars and Sepang Loca will run at the 130 seater Teatro Hermogenes Ylagan, 1st Floor, Faculty Center, University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City. Weekday shows at 7 p.m.; weekend shows at 10 a.m. and 3 p.m.

Tickets at Php 250.00 but special group and student discounts may be availed of. For inquiries and ticket reservations please visit Dulaang UP office, Room 136, Palma Hall, University of the Philippines, Diliman, Quezon City or contact (+632) 981-8500 local 2449 / 2451 or (+632) 926-1349 or telefax at (+632) 433-7840 or contact Ms. Ozette Manguerra- Cauilan, Marketing Director at(+63919) 4281399 or email at infinite_supply@yahoo.com.

You may also visit Dulaang UP official website at www.upd.edu.ph/~dup.

***

The last time I was in U.P. for a theatre performance was to watch my friends’ thesis productions, “110: The Musical”, and that was last March. I was still very much pregnant then. I have missed all other theatre performances, well.. because I was busy being in all other places.

The last time I performed at the Teatro Hermogenes Ylagan was May 2008, for Krystal Banzon’s Fulbright Scholarship output, “Marisol“.

I will be coming in to watch on a weekend, either at 10am or 3pm, depending on the baby’s mood. 🙂

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Digging the 70s – Now and Then OST

Music By July 3, 2009 Tags: , , , , No Comments

I did not really think the movie was all that great. I actually do not remember much about it but the soundtrack must have touched me in some way because I went out and bought it.

It was of mid-90s so I got it in cassette tape. I remembered that I had it because Michael Jackson died and there were two songs in the soundtrack by the Jackson 5.

I am now listening to it a lot again these days and I hope to somehow, sometime get the tracks in mp3 format. 🙂

Now and Then OST cover

Click here to listen to samples of the whole album or to purchase.

Now and Then on imdb.

now-and-then movie poster

What is nice about this movie is that it has the Christina Ricci and Thora Birch as (still) little girls and they are absolutely so cute! lol.. Brendan Fraser is also in this movie looking like he does now so. Does that mean he’s been looking like 40 forever..?

70s music is so nice. I love the 70s. It must have been fun growing up during the 1970s. Well, at least in terms of music and fashion. After all, it was also the time of the Marcos dictatorship and Martial law. 😐

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Serendipity

Movies, Music, Musings By July 2, 2009 Tags: , , , No Comments

We finally made it back to our old condo to get some of our things that we left behind when we did our move last January. These included the ceiling fan lamp, one of the very first things we bought as a couple when we moved into the condo in January of 2007, three buildings away and three floors down too from the condo unit where I have been living alone for three years. It also included our fins, snorkel and mask sets, as Ryan and I both have our own. I got mine at a really discounted price from the resort back when I was living in El Nido in 2005. Since El Nido Resorts order their equipment by the bulk, they of course getdiscounts. I and all the other teachers included our orders in theirs so we could get a discount too. The diving-worthy fins came in three colors: black, blue and green. I didn’t mind what color mine was so I got the green. (Though if I had my way, I would have opted for flaming pink or flirtatious purple.) Ryan got his from a dive shop along Julia Vargas Ave. in Ortigas sometime two or three years later. It was double the price of mine though. I also got about fifteen of my cassette tapes. Yes, cassette tapes. Those words remind me of the days of betamax and

VHS along with once a week trips to Video City. I had intended to get one or two, particularly one by Wendy Matthews because she had a “Happy Day” version that I was reminded of when I saw License to Wed on HBO last week. I also wanted to get my Now and Then OST because I wanted to listen to songs there by The Monkees and The Jackson 5.

While I was going through my stuff which I still have considerably a lot in there, like almost all of my books, DVDs, rolls of film and CDs. I came across my Serendipity OST and was pleasantly surprised that I still have my Serendipity VCD.

serendipity movie poster

I have seen this movie so many times but I always feel the same way about it. I am not entirely sure that I am a romantic at heart but the thoughts of soul mates and destiny have always been on my mind.

There are so many things I love about this movie. For one, it has wonderful soundtrack. Another is that one of my favorite books by one of my favorite South American writers, Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s Love in The Time of Cholera plays an important part in the movie. I am not really a John Cusack fan but I certainly love Kate Beckinsale. Bridget Moynahan, who I thought was really sexy when I first saw her in Coyote Ugly and has quite fascinated me for a time, also plays a small role in it.

The movie over-all is cheesy, as romantic-comedies generally are, but all these little things in the movie just touch me.

Serendipity is the effect by which one accidentally discovers something fortunate, especially while looking for something else entirely.”

Perhaps my affinity with this film is the fact that I have always been looking for something. I always somehow felt there was something out there that would make me whole. I have always been running here and there and almost everywhere, chasing after an idea, an experience, a feeling, perhaps an object, but not necessarily a person, that would finally tell me, “This is it. This has been what I have been looking for all along.”

Some of us spend our lives looking yet never finding. I have been one of those fortunate human beings who have been able to and for that, I am grateful. I am at peace… and most importantly I am whole.

What are soul mates?

Soul mate is a term sometimes used to designate someone with whom one has a feeling of deep and natural affinity, love, intimacy, sexuality, spirituality and/or compatibility….

A related concept is that of the twin flame or twin soul – which is thought to be the ultimate soul mate, the one and only other half of one’s soul, for which all souls are driven to find and join.”

I have always believed in soul mates. I have read once in a book somewhere (now hidden away in some library or perhaps a used bookstore or simply in the clutters of the many places I have unfortunately made some sort of home in in the constant search for that idea, that experience, that feeling or that object but not necessarily a person) that a person in this world may have more than one soul mate. I have spent my life counting those soul mates in the fingers of my hands, and they take the shape of father, brother, friend, but in one serendipitous event, I have finally found that one thing – the embodiment of that idea, that experience, that feeling, that I have been searching for.

The world is a big place and it has billions of people in it. What are the chances of finding your one true twin soul, in the many races, nooks and crannies of this planet we call Earth? What are the chances of twin souls being at one place at the same time? What are the chances of their realizing that what they have been searching for is standing right there on the opposite side of some bar in a restaurant in some little town?

Unlike in movies, the real world does not always provide for happy endings.

It would have been simpler if you could put your life on hold until you have found that person, but lives have to be lived. Food has to be put on the table, money has to be made, careers have to be established and children have to be born. The world does not stop for anyone and you keep on living.

When you finally find that one person, and you realize you are twenty years too late, what do you do? You don’t and you can’t just turn your back on the life you have been living. The only thing you can do is ask, “I have finally found what I have been looking for all my life… Now is that enough?”

***

Serendipity Soundtrack:

  • Never a Day – Wood

  • Moonlight Kiss – Bap Kennedy

  • January Rain – David Gray

  • Waiting in Vain – Annie Lennox

  • The Distance – Evan & Jaron

  • Like Lovers Do – Heather Nova

  • When You Know – Shawn Colvin

  • Northern Sky – Nick Drake

  • Cool Yule – Louis Armstrong

  • This Year – Chantal Kreviazuk

  • (There’s) Always Something There to Remind Me – Brian Witman

  • 83 – John Mayer

  • Fast Forward – Alan Silvestri

  • Someone Like You – Van Morrison

Click here to listen to samples or purchase.

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White Flag

Musings By July 1, 2009 Tags: , , No Comments

Today is a momentous day. Today commemorates (well sort of) the day I finally succumb to the demands of housekeeping and motherhood. Today I put up a white flag and said, okay I (finally) give in. Today, I finally got a maid. Well I suppose I actually put up a white flag when I told my mother please get me a maid, sooner than September – and that was a week ago.

408-family-cartoon

September was the month I was going to get house help, simply because September is supposedly the start of the surfing peak season and I thought I was going to definitely need a maid to help me keep an eye on my little one.

But as it is, I’m only human, and more importantly, I am a human that gets depressed every now and then. When I get depressed, I do not feel like doing anything, anything at all. And when I do not feel like doing anything at all, housework pile up; and when housework pile up, I get even more depressed. Being the (sort of) obsessive-compulsive person that I am, I do not like it when the house is messy.

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Today, I started the day early to help Sionie (or however her name is spelled, I can say its Shonie or Shunie or Shawny for that matter) prepare breakfast. In addition to my husband being sick, my mother also spent the night here and I thought it would be good for her to start her day with a good nice breakfast of sunny-side up eggs, hotdogs, rice and a good cup of brewed coffee from Papua New Guinea. *funky laugh goes here*

Then the rest of the day was spent showing her how I wanted my housework done. I thought it was best to show her how I wanted the housework done, and that of course meant, ‘done my way’. We spent the day doing laundry, cleaning the floor, vacuuming window screens, beds and sofas, changing the sheets and beddings as well as ironing my husband’s clothes. *straight face goes here*

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That was of course in addition to taking care of my baby. The supposed rule is, no one is supposed to touch the baby as long as I am here or I stop doing any kind of housework when the baby needs me. I think though that it will take two to three weeks before I have everything running smoothly, the OC person that I am.

When I told my mother I needed house help, I told her I was okay with whatever skills she does or does not have. What mattered the most was that she knew how to cook because I can do almost everything on my own, except cook. What mattered the most was that I get to eat lunch because during lunch time my husband is away at work and I just spend my days missing lunch because I do not cook or cooking is the last thing on my mind.

So actually, today commemorates the day of non-missed lunches, of me and my husband being able to eat together… and of being able to go out to get a facial. 😐

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Preoccupations on things

Musings By June 30, 2009 Tags: No Comments

From CCP, we made our way to Shopwise Libis which, the depraved all-around mother that I am, have become my clothing store aside from supermarket, bookstore, furniture store, appliance store and even sports store. I went to get me some cool sandos that have been put on sale at fifty percent less than its original price. I got two of them two weeks ago and am almost bitter that I got them when they were not on sale. I have always loved sandos (and who doesn’t love sales), even when I was in college, and I think one can never have too many especially if you are always aiming to hit the beach. I also wanted to check out some utility shelves for freeing some much needed floor space in my workroom but at buy one take one at P999.00, they were already sold out. I got two shelves though at P645.00 each. Though they are not in the dimensions I needed for storing my baskets from Dapitan, they are probably better than having a carpenter build us one, especially since we do not personally know any.

 shelves

Then we started looking at baby stuff: cribs, strollers, walkers, car seats, high chairs, play pens, clothes and toys, and I swear one could just get lost in that area for hours. We got the baby a bath tub foam because she will soon be graduating from her net bathing supporter. We still could not find a bath tub with the bottom drainage plug and for the meantime will have to endure ours. I personally think baby bath tubs without bottom drainage should be phased out or deemed obsolete, never to be seen again in department and supermarket store racks as well as street stalls in Divisoria and Quiapo.

I finally got the baby a mobile. I have always been thinking of getting one, but we simply could not find the time to go out. This Sunday though, my in-laws came over to baby-sit for us so that we could go watch the play as well as do some shopping. Due to the lack of choices, we got a musical mobile that I personally think is quite ugly but that which the baby seems to love anyway.

 Since I am preoccupied with mobiles, I found this interesting website that “has been designed to provide information on everything that you need to know about baby mobiles.”

 Take note that it only provides information. Do not expect to see any photos. True to its word, there is nothing here except [useful] information on everything you need to know about baby mobiles.

I wish I had something like this. Oh dear, one can just get lost in the musical mobile choices, but then who has that much money?

 fisher price musical mobile at $40

I found some interesting things that I think I would like to hang in that mobile, aside from Babo’s green bird of course. In my box of what-nots I found these key chains that I was supposed to include in that mixed media art I was supposed to make, but like all other things in my mind (origami included), I never seem to find the time to do.

 

 

This makes me think about my room in Marikina during my college days which I filled with metallic fishes hanging all over the ceiling as well as my old condo unit with capiz shells and paper mache gold sun, moon and stars. Ah, gone are the idle days.

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Things I learned when I had the baby

MOMents By June 28, 2009 Tags: , , No Comments

You will get stretch marks, no matter how much cocoa butter or shea butter lotion or body oil you lather on. But that is not reason to not do it, for all you know, there could be more.. or in my case, there could have been more.

There is no such thing as no (or “narrow” for that matter) hips. One male friend used to make fun of me, “How are you gonna have kids when you don’t have any hips?” I had normal delivery. What was only important was that we made sure the baby was between 6 and 6.5 lbs. If it was too big, then I would have to seriously consider having a C-section. But still, not after going through trial labor.

  • You can control your weight. Or most importantly, your baby’s. You can eat all you want, just make sure you eat healthy. Soda and ice cream are of course to be had in moderation.

  • The size of your baby at birth in no way foretells how big he/she will be as an adult. So don’t make the baby too big. Unless your goal is to have a c-section. A small person will still be a small person, as pre-programmed by the genes, even if he/she was born 8 lbs.

  • Some people simply look pretty pregnant, but that is not in keeping with: “You’re blooming! You’re so pretty! You must be carrying a girl!” Some un-blooming and un-pretty preggies are carrying a girl. Some preggies carrying boys do not look uglier than their pre-pregnancy days. That’s just how it is.

Congenital scan at 16 wks

  • In some first-world countries like the U.S. and Germany, congenital scans and ultrasounds are unheard of. Thus, feature stories on miracle babies in the Oprah show. To which I said, “How come the parents didn’t know their son did not have legs?”

  •  There is no such thing as small breasts. Big breasts, small breasts, previously non-existent breasts have the same capacity for milk production. Invest in a good breast pump if you intend to breastfeed (and really, I hope you do).

  • Speaking of breasts, though this may not be the fastest nor the cheapest way to jump from cup A to cup B or even cup C, at least you get to jump.

  • Get a good OB-Gyne. Someone who is willing to hold your hand while you’re having contractions and willing to be your lamaze partner, because your husband will not be at the labor room. Unless you get the expensive ‘birthing room’. Preferably someone who will be there to see you through to that 10cm. Some doctors just show up at the delivery room._5152156

  • Don’t go crazy shopping for baby clothes and baby stuff. Accept all hand-me-downs from your sisters, relatives and even friends. Or borrow. Or buy second-hand from other moms who do not or will not need baby stuff anymore and can make use of extra storage space in their own homes. After all, these things are expensive and your baby will outgrow them before you can say ‘whoahreallyididntknowthatbutiwishididbeforeiwenttosm!’

These are just some of the things that come to mind right now but I am sure there will be more as I go along..

When a child is born, a parent is born.” – Anonymous

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All my friends

Musings By June 26, 2009 Tags: , No Comments

Sitting on my twisted-abaca chair, bought from the flea market that is Dapitan, at eleven in the quiet evening of this village in the heart of the metropolis where everything becomes deathly still except for the sounds of the motor of the occasional tricycle passing by, the engine hum of a car on its final way home ,at least for the day, and the barking of a dog disturbed in the middle of its deep sleep, I think of my friends.

Travel friends

Artist friends

Graduate school friends

Teacher friends

Doctor friends

Biology but non-doctor friends

High school friends

El Nido and Coron friends

The past days have not been so good on me. Sitting in the middle of the night with no one but myself and my thoughts, back aching, head throbbing and arms sore, I thought about things I can be happy about. It helped to think about all my friends.

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Caught watching TV

MOMents By June 26, 2009 Tags: , , , No Comments

No she isn’t really watching TV. I may come off as an irresponsible parent half the time but I do not make the baby watch tv. She’s just funny here.  I just made her sit there, so like the overzealous parent that I am, I can document her first unassisted sitting experience. Or is that another irresponsible parenting thing to do? She just turned two months after all. 😐

And here she is, obligingly posing for the camera with a smile. As if to say, “Now go print that picture and post it in that baby scrapbook you always say you’re gonna make but never do.”

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Laughing Lia

MOMents By June 25, 2009 Tags: , , , No Comments

 

I remember when Cheekay and Joan went to our house in Pili while I was there visiting my parents last May 20-June 6. Cheekay was playing with Lia who was then unresponsive. She said, “It will be so much more fun when she reaches three months. When she reacts and smiles and squeals and giggles.” Well, here she is.

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Virgin Labfest 5

Teatro Pilipinas, Theater By June 25, 2009 Tags: , , , No Comments

VL-Poster

Venue : Tanghalang Huseng Batute, Bulwagang Amado Hernandez, Tanghalang Aurelio Tolentino, Tanghalang Manuel Conde
Time : No set time
(But usually 3pm and 8pm)
Date : Jun 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 30 2009
Jul 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 2009

Tickets to the Virgin Labfest are at P200 for main exhibition sets, P100 for the symposium and “Pay What You Can” for play readings.

For more details, please contact Tanghalang Pilipino at 832-3661, or the CCP Box Office at 832-3704.

Untried, untested, unpublished and unstaged plays from playwrights emerging and established find barebones staging in this theater festival of new works now on its fifth year; Directors, actors, designersand staff from various theater companies in Metro Manila converge in this two week festival that also features a Workshop for first time playwrights, talkbacks, and the book launch of the “Best of the Virgin Labfest”.

To check out the specific schedules, click here:

You can also download festival guide and/or calendar here:

 

Since the poster print is too small as well as for your easy reference, here are the sets:

SET A – School of Life

(Mga Dulang Walang Pinag-aralan)
June 23: 3pm, 8pm
July 4: 8pm
July 5: 3pm

MPC
by Job Pagsibigan, to be mounted by Sipat Lawin Ensemble

Ang Huling Lektyur ni Misis Reyes
by Tim Dacanay, directed by Hazel Gutierrez

Isang Mukha ng Pandaraya
by Oggie Arcenas, directed by Roli Inocencio

 

SET B – It’s Complicated

(The Buhul-Buhol Trilogy)
June 24: 3pm, 8pm
July 3: 8pm
July 4: 3pm

Salise
by J. Dennis Teodosio, directed by Roobak Valle

Ang Mamanugangin ni Rez
by Clarissa Estuar, directed by Paolo O’Hara

So Sangibo A Ranon Na Piyatay O Satiman A Tadman
by Rogelio Braga directed by Riki Benedicto

 

SET C – Blood Sports (Trilohiyang Dinuguan)
June 25: 3pm, 8pm
July 3, 3pm
July 5: 8pm

Kitchen Medea
by Kiyokazu Yamamoto directed by Yoshida Toshihisa

Doc Resurrecion: Gagamutin ang Bayan
by Layeta Bucoy, directed by Tuxqs Rutaquio

Asawa/Kabit
by George de Jesus III, directed by George de Jesus III

 

SET D – The Family That _______s Together (Tatlong Dulang Walang Diyos)
June 26: 3pm, 8pm
June 30: 3pm
July 2: 8pm

Boy-Girl ang Gelpren ni Mommy
by Sheilfa Alojamiento, directed by Carlo Pacolor Garcia

Maliw
by Reuel Molina Aguila, directed by Edna Vida

Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White
by George Vail Kabristante, directed by Paul Santiago

 

SET E – Life is a Trap

(Three Plays in Search of Escape)
June 27: 3pm, 8pm
June 30: 8pm
July 1: 3pm

Isang Araw sa Peryahan
by Nicolas B. Pichay, directed by Chris Millado

Paigan
by Liza Magtoto, directed by Sigrid Bernardo

Hate Restaurants
by David Finnigan, directed by J. Victor Villareal

The Virgin Labfest 4 Revisited
June 28: 3pm, 8pm
July 1: 8pm
July 2: 3pm
 
Ang Kalungkutan ng mga Reyna
by Floy Quintos, directed by Floy Quintos

Ang Bayot, Ang Meranao at ang Habal-Habal sa Isang Nakababagot na Paghihintay sa Kanto ng Lanao del Norte
By Rogelio Braga directed by Nick Olanka

Uuwi na ang Nanay kong si Darna
Job Pagsibingan’s adaptation of Uuwi na ang Nanay Kong si Darna by Edgar Samar, directed by Catherine Racsag

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STAGED READINGS
Bulwagang Amado Hernandez (Conference room)

June 25, 6pm
Kataksilan
Tim Dacanay’s adaptation of Harold Pinter’s Betrayal, directed by himself

June 27, 6pm
Breakups and Breakdowns
by Joel Trinidad, directed by himself
Dingdong! Death Is At The Door!
SPIT

June 30, 6pm

July 2, 6pm
Noong Minsan May Nanungkulan sa San Lazaro
Joshua Lim So’s adaptation of Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi
Directed by Dennis Marasigan

 

July 3, 6pm (Tanghalang Manuel Conde)
American Huangup
directed by Chris Millado

July 5, 6pm
Creative Writing Workshop showcase
Facilitator: Glenn Sevilla Mas

 

A Book Launching was also held:

VIRGIN LABFEST ANTHOLOGY
June 23, 6pm Little Theater
The anthology, which includes 15 plays from years 1-4 of the Virgin Labfest, will be launched on the opening day of the Virgin Labfest.

***

Since I completely missed last year’s Labfest, whether as audience or performer (or whatever for that matter), I will be coming in to see Labfest Revisited to watch Ang Bayot, Ang Meranao at ang Habal-Habal sa Isang Nakababagot na Paghihintay sa Kanto ng Lanao del Norte, along with the two other plays on its set.

It is written by our dear friend Ogie Braga, who also wrote the play I did for U.P. Repertory Company in the Labfest 3, Sa Pagdating ng Barbaro. It is directed by another dear friend Nick Olanka, who is also from the U.P. Repertory Company and also directed Sa Pagdating ng Barbaro.

I, along with other friends from the U.P. Repertory Company, will be watching Ang Bayot.. along with the two other plays on its set on June 28 either at 3pm or 8pm (but most likely 3pm).

It’s been quite some time since I last set foot on CCP…

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