Move On

It's not Bernadette Peters. Surprisingly I like this more than the video I saw of her and Mandy Patinkin performing the same song (heresy I know). I'm a sucker for clean harmonies.

What fresh hell is this?

People use this quote a lot--I heard it on The Big Bang Theory once--and think that it's Shakespeare, not knowing that it's from American Poet and satirist Dorothy Parker. Apparently she said it whenever she was interrupted by the telephone, and took to using it in place of "hello" whenever someone rang.

This picture of her, to the left, is very pretty--and also gives you no idea of what a pessimistic person she must have been. As a teenager I took to the sarcasm, man-bashing, and blatant self-deprecation in her poetry. She was famous for short, poetic witticisms like "Men never make passes / at girls who wear glasses." Her poetry was sometimes irreverent, sometimes uneven in quality, but always interesting. I remember picking up Marion Meade's biography of her (called--guess what?--"What Fresh Hell is This?") and thinking excitedly that her life must have been as interesting as her poetry. I was, in a sense, disappointed--not because her life was uninteresting, because it was (and very bohemian too), but because Dorothy Parker's dim view of life was almost palpable in every page. You can always take poems as a joke, and assume in poems like this--

By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying--
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.

--that the author is merely making fun of the world and can't really mean it. But reading the biography, I think she kind of did. She died of a heart attack in 1967, having had an unhappy childhood, a string of affairs, three marriages (twice to the same man), and an increasing dependence on alcohol.

I'll always be fond of her poetry, anyway. She was famous for her wisecracks, but some of her poetry on love and friendship is actually really painfully spot-on and sincere and beauitful. Here are some that I either really like or could relate to at one point in time. My emo friends will like them.

But Not Forgotten
I think, no matter where you stray,
That I shall go with you a way.
Though you may wander sweeter lands,
You will not soon forget my hands,
Nor yet the way I held my head,
Nor all the tremulous things I said.
You still will see me, small and white
And smiling, in the secret night,
And feel my arms about you when
The day comes fluttering back again.
I think, no matter where you be,
You'll hold me in your memory
And keep my image, there without me,
By telling later loves about me.

Distance
Were you to cross the world, my dear,
To work or love or fight,
I could be calm and wistful here,
And close my eyes at night.

It were a sweet and gallant pain
To be a sea apart;
But, oh, to have you down the lane
Is bitter to my heart.

Anecdote
So silent I when Love was by
He yawned, and turned away;
But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings,
I have so much to say.

The False Friends
hey laid their hands upon my head,
They stroked my cheek and brow;
And time could heal a hurt, they said,
And time could dim a vow.

And they were pitiful and mild
Who whispered to me then,
"The heart that breaks in April, child,
Will mend in May again."

Oh, many a mended heart they knew.
So old they were, and wise.
And little did they have to do
To come to me with lies!

Who flings me silly talk of May
Shall meet a bitter soul;
For June was nearly spent away
Before my heart was whole.

The Lady's Reward
Lady, lady, never start
Conversation toward your heart;
Keep your pretty words serene;
Never murmur what you mean.
Show yourself, by word and look,
Swift and shallow as a brook.
Be as cool and quick to go
As a drop of April snow;
Be as delicate and gay
As a cherry flower in May.
Lady, lady, never speak
Of the tears that burn your cheek-
She will never win him, whose
Words had shown she feared to lose.
Be you wise and never sad,
You will get your lovely lad.
Never serious be, nor true,
And your wish will come to you-
And if that makes you happy, kid,
You'll be the first it ever did.

Intellectual Honesty

Reposted from my comment to a friend's link:

http://opinion.inquirer.net/inquireropinion/editorial/view/20101126-305535/Becoming-human

Much as I hate it when RH bill opponents spout outdated evidence about the harmfulness of contraceptives (cancer etc. Modern contraceptives [except abortifacients] are just about as biologically harmful as any other kind of drug....), the whole premise of the article is dangerously silly. Pope BXVI quote taken horrendously out of context. 'the Pope now says using condoms can, in some cases, be “a first step in the direction of a moralization, a first assumption of responsibility"' --> refers to male prostitutes with HIV who are *deliberately* infecting their clients without full disclosure, plus those incidents where the use of a condom is intended to protect against disease (but, always in the context that sex for Catholics is only correct and moral whenever it's 1) within marriage and 2) with one partner of the opposite sex). There is no "titanic shift" in "his thinking" and to say that is just plain ridiculous.

I don't know if you're pro or anti or whatever (I'm anti myself), so I don't know your intent in posting this link, pero maaaan, nakakairita ang articles na walang intellectual honesty to completely ignore the context of the people it's quoting. It further muddies the issue of the RH bill and makes intelligent debate impossible.

"I'll take a whack at it!"

Closure

I never really understood
What they mean by it.
Nothing has been left ajar. A door
Has been closed, and irrevocably.
The veil drawn between us allows

Nothing.

Tao rin pala!

The happiest times of my whole week are when we get together in the SSWC and sit down (or kneel down or lean against the wall or whatever) and practice our TRP song. Time just flies by and before you know it, it's seven o'clock and you have to go home. But those two hours are glorious. I love singing now as much as I did when I was this small:


(I know I don't look much like her. But I do know that little kid in the sailor dress could rock Basia's "Time and Tide" like there was no tomorrow.)

And I'm always happiest when singing. Which is why, when I discovered I had a laryngeal nodule in November 2008, I was devastated. The doctors--now my teachers--were cautious. I convinced myself that I could still recover, that it could spontaneously regress. Well, it didn't. And what followed was a year that was like being in a long, dark tunnel with no light at the end. It wasn't merely the vanity of having a talent taken away from you, but the sharp sting of having to find another way to express yourself, and to know that things that had once been easy are now impossible.

My speech therapist said that an operation was out of the question, because to wound my vocal cords to take out the nodule would be harming my voice even more. So I despaired. Goodbye, dreams of live performances! Good-bye, Tahilan Christmas carolling and singing in the June 26 choir. Good-bye, performing for birthdays, and good-bye, singing to Sondheimian musicals in the shower ("We DO NOT beloooooong to-GE-ther...."). But then, in late 2009, we broached the idea of an operation with my long-suffering ENT doctor, and he agreed and set-up an appointment for the last week of 2009. (This webpage has a cool video on the kind of operation performed on me; it's called a micro-direct laryngoscopy with micro-flap mass excision).

And after not speaking for three weeks... there it was. I woke up the day after my doctor told me it was okay to speak, and I started singing songs from Jason Robert Brown's "Songs for a New World," and there it was. I remember bouncing into Dane's bedroom in Tahilan to wake her up for mass, so happy and ecstatic that I could sing again. Sometimes God giveth, and He taketh away--then He giveth it back!

And this is why, dear TRP, I'm giving you my all this year. Last year I was morose and couldn't even be bothered to memorize the piece, and I took offence at the well-meaning advice of this classmate of mine when she'd give me pointers on how to sing (My ego was swimming in a soup of indignation: You're teaching me how to sing? How dare you?), and mostly it was a terrible experience. But now, this year, I can actually sing, and I'll never take that for granted again. Maybe one day I'll join a choir again--who knows?--but for now, I just want to say, get ready for us, college of Medicine, 'cause you ain't seen nothing yet.

Through a glass darkly

Videmus nunc per speculum in enigmate, tunc autem facie ad faciem; nunc cognosco ex parte, tunc autem cognoscam sicut et cognitus sum.

There are things that, even when you bring them to prayer, you can't understand. The only solution is to bow your head and say, fiat voluntas tua. But Most Esteemed Lord Father, when I finally see you face to face, I will spend a long time asking you questions about these things I do not understand--the weakness of my nature, the funny nature of "coincidence," the vicissitudes of my own heart. I shall cease to wonder why--for Christ will explain each separate anguish in the schoolroom of the sky.
And I want to ask you lots of questions about why we hurt the people we care for the most.

You--not my esteemed Lord Father, but another person--probably don't even remember this incident. Or maybe you do, but because you're just so nice, you've chosen to forget it in a way that I'd find hard to do. But I read something today that reminded me about it quite forcefully--it felt like a blow to the stomach. I will apologize to you, probably over Christmas, because despite my ham-handed way of dealing with you and my all-around b*tchiness, I do count you as a great friend, one of the best, and I promise to never do that again. And I will keep doing nice things for you so that, one day, you can look back on that incident (because I didn't mean what I said, honest...), and not feel even a pang of resentment. So that one day, you'll forgive this stupid misanthropic idiot who always says the first thing she thinks and has "no filter" (words you used to refer to someone else, 2009). So that, one day I can be even half the friend you have been to me.

Dancing Shoes

This evening, in between bouts of working on our group thesis, I want to burden my few but dedicated readers (Hi mom!) with a book review.

On my birthday, my mom and I finally did something we've been longing to do forever: to relive that scene in You've Got Mail, when Meg Ryan's Kathleen Kelly, feeling bereft because her bookstore shut down, wanders into the competition's store, Fox Books. She sits in the children's section and watches the customers move around in this "homogenize-the-world mochaccino land"--this airconditioned monster of a bookstore--so different from her quaint little shop, which was "valuable, but small" (a metaphor for her life, really). She hears a customer ask a salesperson:

"Do you have the Shoe Books?"

She continues, "My friend told me my daughter has to read the Shoe Books."

The salesperson is obviously clueless, so Meg Ryan, half in tears, butts in: "Noel Streatfeild. [...] Noel Streatfeild wrote Skating Shoes, and Ballet Shoes, and Dancing Shoes... I'd start with Ballet Shoes first, it's my favorite. Though Skating Shoes is completely wonderful--" (and here her voice breaks) "--but it's out of print."

So my mom and I, with a sense of schoolgirl mischief not befitting our respective ages, wandered into Fully Booked and asked the girl in Customer's service: "Do you have the shoe books?"

Well, after a few faux pas (she bought us a collection of fashion books on SHOES. As my generation likes to say... FAIL!), she presented us with this book:

My mom and I were both a little stunned--we never expected the store to actually have any of the Shoe Books--and so, after the fuss we'd both made and the salesperson's repeated trips to the shelves, we both felt a little forced into buying the book. Not that we weren't excited. Kathleen Kelly, we knew, had "excellent taste--she's famous for it"--so we had pretty high expectations.

They weren't disappointed. This is hard to believe about a children's book, but I never knew what to expect next. In the story, two girls--Rachel and her adopted sister Hilary--are sent to live with their Aunt Cora and Uncle Tom after the death of their mother. Aunt Cora is the famous Mrs Wintle, who runs a dancing school and produces row upon row of Wintle's Wonders, little girls who find jobs as dancers for shows, musicals, troupes, you name it. It ought to be the perfect fit for Hilary, who's a dancer who was being groomed to go to the Royal Academy of Ballet, but Rachel (who isn't a dancer herself--not at all!) knows that what Mrs Wintle teaches is the wrong kind of dancing! How will she ever arrange for Hilary to get to go to the Royal Academy, and how will she avoid becoming a Wintle's Wonder herself?

Children's books, we all know, tend to be a bit one-dimensional on the character front. Usually rather plain characters are dressed up with capabilities or super powers and thrust into a wonderful plot. (The first Harry Potter book comes to mind. Harry himself, if we're to trust the narrator, has the personality of a paper bag--it's his situation that gains our sympathy; Dumbledore is all good, and Petunia and Vernon are all bad.) Noel Streatfeild reminds me of Diana Wynne Jones' better books, because each character has a set of flaws and perfections. Rachel and Hilary are not all goodness and sweetness, though you love them because they are really a figure of sympathy; Rachel can be headstrong and stubborn and self-centered, while Hilary can be spectacularly lazy and self-centered too.

The adults--Cora Wintle, Uncle Tom, Pursey who is like a matron figure, Mrs Storm who runs the classroom and gives the lessons--are written solidly and beautifully; Cora Wintle whose devotion to her daughter Dulcie makes her pretty awful, but at the same time sympathetic; Uncle Tom, who may be praised for the way he handles Rachel and Hilary with affection and genuine respect, but who may be faulted for the poor way that he's bringing up his spoiled daughter, queen of Mrs Wintle's school, Dulcie; Pursey, who listens to Rachel and Hilary and who loves them, but who never really takes a firm stand on anything; and Mrs Storm, who loves Rachel but who doesn't understand dancing well enough to know why her ambition is what it is. You just want so much for Rachel and Hilary to be loved and for their dreams to be supported, and sometimes you don't get that consolation because the adults can be sympathetic in this aspect and completely obtuse the next, but these little disappointments are what make the book realistic and substantial. You know, like real life.

I would love to read the other Shoe Books. Including Skating Shoes though, as Kathleen Kelly says with a catch in her throat, "It's out of print!"