I was watching an old tennis match last night and got fascinated once again by the colorful language of the commentators. Most of those “behind-the-curtain” voices are former pros and champions so their love for the game and their first-hand experiences make for an interesting analysis of what is going on inside that small rectangular space. My fascination with tennis possibly goes beyond its being a competition but more on its being an art. To borrow the lines of someone else who wrote about this very same idea,

the beauty of the game is seeing, then trying to remember, the way a ball travels around the court during a point…Strategy entails mapping out and resolving combinations of lines — patterns — just as an artist maps a drawing. The fan’s pleasure comes in redrawing the lines as a memory.

Within sameness there can be endless variety. Artists have proved this over centuries. It’s the art of tennis, too — or part of the art, because there is beauty to the sound of the game and to its passage through time. Call it the music of the sport. Which is to say nothing of its drama, offcourt and on, or of the ballet of Federer’s footwork …

-Michael Kimmelman, NYT 9/06

In tennis, you follow these simple rules – keep your eye on the ball; keep the ball on or inside the lines. This reminds me of an entry on mordsith‘s blog about following rules and brought me to the realization that I’m not really someone who colors outside the lines; mostly, I’d rather paint the lines.

People talk a lot as if the most important thing in life is to always see things for what they really are. But everything we do, every plan we make is kind of a lie. We’re closing our eyes and pretending the day won’t ever come when we won’t need to make any more plans. Hope is the biggest lie there is, and it is the best. You have to keep going as if it all mattered, or else we wouldn’t keep going at all

- from Steven Spielberg’s Taken (2002)

One thing about me, I hate to give advices. Another thing about me, I rarely ask for one. Sounds fair enough? Detached, is what it is. A friend told me “Sometimes, I wish I can be like you.” “Insensitive?”, I asked. “Yes,” she agreed. Before we all agree on that, I’d like to make it clear that I’m talking about life decisions, not mundane things. When I was younger, I thought that I know a lot of things. Would you believe that I even dreamt of having a radio show ala Joe D’ Mango, thinking that coming up with solutions to other people’s problems can be a self-satisfying career. That was when I haven’t got any real problems of my own to solve. A few years into being an adult, I realized that such endeavor is ultimately that: self-satisfying. You give “smart” advice, peppered with words that are more or less superfluous, when all you really want to say is “Do the right thing,” because what else should anyone do in any case?

At any rate, I know the danger of keeping to oneself too much. That is why I’m not trying to say that let’s stop listening to each other; let’s stop venting out to each other; let’s stop encouraging each other and telling each other that everything will turn out right. Who knows? It just might. When things go haywire, some people just need a sympathetic ear or two that will listen. The mouths that go with those ears may sometimes come up with wise words; sometimes, empty words. It doesn’t matter because such exercise builds friendships whichever way, and for some that’s a worthy accomplishment in place of resolution.

But what is it about hope? Why do we give it although there are times when we don’t even have it in ourselves? I guess the quote said it well – “else, we wouldn’t keep going at all.” I don’t think there’s any better motivation than that.

It’s actually more like “Can I still do this?” panic I’m having. No, I’m not going back to college to take advanced studies. My little brother’s about to enter college and I worry that I might have made the choice for him in a way that would backfire big time. You see, with the steep tuition rates in his prospective school (Php1,000 per unit) and the other expenses that come with it, he’s been telling me he’ll pass the opportunity to study in this school and instead look for other options; that is, find other public schools in the city.

I’ve shared how I loved my college life. My two sisters went to the same school and when our brother passed the entrance examinations to the surprise of everyone, most especially himself, I’m only too glad to support him on this endeavor. He was never one to enjoy studying. But he’s a good boy; very reliable on things that matter. That’s not only why I’m taking this responsibility of sending a sibling to college for the third time. I want him to have the best education he can get within the limits of our options and financial capability, which I fear may not be currently existent. But with the help of my sisters, one who’s proving to be better than I am in surviving the corporate world and the other who’s been finding ways to make herself useful while still keeping good grades at school, I’m allowing myself to bravely take on this not so new responsibility. My mother sent me an SMS just today, asking, “Hindi ka ba napasubo?” To which I can only reply, “Bahala na po.”

And that has been the ongoing saga of my life – the many “Bahala na” in the face of tough decisions over limited choices. So far I can’t say that I did very well, but I have no regrets. I may have made a gargantuan problem to solve out of the choices that I’ve made, but I can’t see myself doing things any other way. If this is to be my life’s purpose, then so be it. Maybe when I’m done with all this, I’ll leave everything behind, go back to my parents’ house, and do nothing but count every next sunrise and sunset, and take the longest rest of my life.

“For verses are not, as people imagine, simply feelings (those one has early enough), -they are experiences. For the sake of a single verse, one must see many cities, men and things, one must know the animals, one must feel how the birds fly and know the gesture with which the little flowers open in the morning.” – Rainer Maria Rilke, Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge

And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

Poetry

by Pablo Neruda

From Perfect Girl (see last post) to Train Wreck.

Truth is, I typed the last post’s title supposedly to feature a song of the same title, but I realized I can’t really relate to the song lyrics at all. Pressed for time and ideas, I left it as it is and went on to relate an incident I’m about to share anyway here.

Now this one’s more like it:

Cause I’m a train wreck waiting to happen
waiting for someone to come pick me up off the tracks
a wild fire born of frustration
born of the one love that gets me so high
I’ve no fear at all

I just really love this concert. I think the backing band is awe-some!

“If I were a guy, you’d be the type that I’ll marry.”

That’s what someone told me over late dinner last Saturday after our badminton routine. Knowing that my hair was still sticky from sweat and I didn’t even bother to put some powder on my face before dining, I’m pretty sure that wasn’t an impromptu statement based on looks. Ven noted that this person has developed quite a fascination with me. Once, she even offered to help me get a makeover. I guess she believes making me a little more worldly is the answer to the “being single” question. As always, I just smiled. Which most possibly gave the impression that I was just too shy to do anything about it.

I’m not writing this to bash the subject of that story. (I actually think I understand where she’s coming from.) Those who don’t know me personally might even wonder as to what this whole brouhaha is about. What I’m trying to say is that I think I grew tired of hearing people judge me based on what they perceive me to be. Which shouldn’t quite add up because I never tried to defend myself anyway because I never felt the need to. Call it arrogance – because I think that might be it – I allow them to keep their impressions of me, thinking that it will be better for their sakes. And I don’t want to expound on that.

Going back to the first line of this post, when she said that, I wanted to retort, “That’s the idea.” But then she followed that up by saying that if, someday, she’ll learn that I got married and then committed infidelity, she’ll be thoroughly shocked. That made me go, “Well, she’s saying a good thing so let’s leave it at that.” I don’t remember exactly when the conversation around the table shifted to full racy mode, but it somehow brought me back into the loop because of my supposed “conservativeness.” An idea came to me to say something along the lines of “If I tell you I have a very dirty mind, would that make you happy?” I know it would be mean, at least by the way I intended that to be, so I controlled myself and, well, just smiled.

Some people display themselves as an open book; others prefer to keep to themselves. Ultimately, neither way is better because we want different things in life. On our way home, PJ commented that I’m actually the type who’s conservative for myself but is quite liberal for others. Which means I find it OK for other people to have a different value system than my own. That’s true, because who am I to judge? I’m not perfect; no matter how much I try to be.

Just checking my video plugin capability.

Someone made a video with one of my most favorite couples. Not Keira and Matthew. Lizzy & Darcy. And one of the earliest Mariah Carey songs – Music Box.

I’m definitely flipping over this cool new gadget from Amazon, Kindle.

It’s a good thing its full functionality is not available outside of the U.S., though. I can flip right back now.

Last month, National Bookstore had a sale and I got myself two new books – Ian McEwan’s The Innocent (at 40% off) and Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin (at 20% off). I started with McEwan’s and I reached chapter 3 before realizing that I’m not in the mood for a modern-day thriller. Atwood’s , I haven’t even taken out of the plastic yet. Instead, hoping to read something along the lines of the fantastic, I dug out my copy of Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrel – one that I’ve always enjoyed reading, and rereading the first chapters of, but couldn’t quite finish because I’m having a hard time with the (approximately) size 7 text font of my mass paperback copy. The book is filled with tons of multiparagraph footnotes, which you can imagine have a still smaller font.

I’m moving at a very slow pace, partly because I barely have time to do anything after I go home every night at past 11 pm, and partly because I’ve gotten so used to spending my pre-sleeping hours on attending to my blogs and hopping on to others’. But this time, I’m hoping to finally be able to get through this one and start a serious schedule to finish everything else I have on queue. Even if my main motivation right now is to get back the worth of the money I’ve spent on these volumes, I also want to try to bring back the reading habit I’ve lost since the Internet took my fancy.

I’m also sharing this to help control myself from being pulled into the direction of yet another book sale happening next week. The truth is, I almost got myself another title, Michael Gruber’s The Book of Air and Shadows, one that I ordered online because the hardbound copy was offered at about P265 from the P1000+ regular price. The website said that the book will be delivered within 3 to 4 days, depending on the availability. I wasn’t too keen on having it ASAP anyway, so it was after 2 weeks since I placed my order that I inquired about the status. I was told the book was actually out of stock and if I’m willing to wait for new stocks, I’ll then have to pay the original price. Eh, I just cancelled it. And that became sort of a wake up call:

I promise myself not to buy a single book again until I’ve read every unread book I already have in my shelf. I repeat: Promises are meant to be broken.

An essay on The New York Times last month dealt with what the author called literary dealbreakers – what would make you dismiss a potential romantic partner on account of the books he or she appreciates.

I am with the lot of people who commented on the same author’s blog that judging a person by what he or she does (or does not, for that matter), read is, to a large extent, foolish. Not to mention snobbish for those who claim to be of highbrow literary tastes.

That being said, I probably won’t have lasting attraction to someone who will tell me that he doesn’t read anything without pictures on it. More so if he doesn’t read, period. First, I say probably because I’m talking theoretically here. But I can’t imagine having someone who’ll get bored by me sticking around the bookstores at the mall or who wouldn’t be excited by the idea of discussing new literary finds and engaging authors over a cup of coffee or tea. Let us widen our imaginations for a while and consider, if, by some stroke of luck, I’ll get to publish a book in the future. I imagine it would a be much more rewarding experience to share it with someone who understands, and have a deep appreciation for, the beauty and power of the written word. Intellectual snobbery? I’m calling it a relative measure of compatibility.