Monthly Archives: April 2010

give ‘em the old razzle dazzle

i’ve been wondering how to put into words my random thoughts now that my birthday’s here. i’ve always tried writing thoughts down to mark this day. past entries include one about gifts, another one about my distaste towards my previous company and yet another for my fascination towards red umbrellas.

and what hit me while i was washing dishes was a line from the musical Chicago — give ‘em the old razzle dazzle, razzle them. it then amazed me how i razzle dazzled my way last year and this year. i quit a deadweight of a job, i fell in love, i’ve met different types of people, i volunteer for a gender advocacy, i write for a radio show, i manage a magazine and i’ve re-evaluated ties with some people. i’ve even started taking up ballet lessons for adults. i know they’re not much but these are what make me grounded.

speaking of grounded, i’ve been humbled by works and people i’ve been encountering. and as if on cue, my good friend drakulits posted a poem by louise glück on the day i was composing this blog entry. incidentally, glück’s birthday is april 22. don’t you just love April? it celebrates the births of william shakespeare, hans christian andersen, mark russell, joseph pulitzer, liz phair, charlotte bronte, daniel johns, and oh! adolf hitler and saddam Hussein (what an equalizer). i am reposting the poem below.

Birthday

Amazingly, I can look back
fifty years. And there, at the end of the gaze,
a human being already entirely recognizable,
the hands clutched in the lap, the eyes
staring into the future with the combined
terror and hopelessness of a soul expecting annihilation.

Entirely familiar, though still, of course, very young.
Staring blindly ahead, the expression of someone staring into utter
darkness.
And thinking—which meant, I remember, the attempts of the mind
to prevent change.

Familiar, recognizable, but much more deeply alone, more despondent.
She does not, in her view, meet the definition
of child, a person with everything to look forward to.

This is how the others look; this is, therefore, what they are.
Constantly making friends
with the camera, many of them actually
smiling with real conviction—

I remember that age. Riddled with self-doubt, self-loathing,
and at the same time suffused
with contempt for the communal, the ordinary; forever
consigned to solitude, the bleak solace of perception, to a future
completely dominated by the tragic, with no use for the immense will
but to fend it off—

That is the problem of silence:
one cannot test one’s ideas.
Because they are not ideas, they are the truth.

All the defenses, the spiritual rigidity, the insistent
unmasking of the ordinary to reveal the tragic,
were actually innocence of the world.

Meaning the partial, the shifting, the mutable—
all that the absolute excludes. I sat in the dark, in the living room.
The birthday was over. I was thinking, naturally, about time.
I remember how, in almost the same instant,
my heart would leap up exultant and collapse
in desolate anguish. The leaping up—the half I didn’t count—
that was happiness; that is what the word meant.

i am 28 years old this 26th of April. 28 has a defining ring to it. granted i still feel sad over some very old issues, but i’ve committed to give some new razzle dazzle, be it in words, in deeds or in ideation.

to razzle dazzle them? nope. to razzle dazzle myself. “and they’ll never catch wise”.

wink.

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a pointe of view

I was on the second floor, my chin resting on my arm. At the first floor studio, advanced dancers were practicing sets with their pointe shoes on. This shoe type enables ballet dancers to rise up and maintain balance on their toes to appear taller, nimbler and weightless. The girls must have been in their early teens to mid-teens, and I knew they must have started primary ballet in their childhood years.

Ballerinas reach this stage after years, for some even a decade or more. It depends on one’s strength and dedication and last but not least, to pain tolerance.

I am enrolled in an adult ballet class for beginners. Stress on the phrase ‘for beginners’. My dream to move and dance like a ballerina is but a seed kept in a recycled shoe box. I take it out thrice a week and polish it until it catches the noon light. I know I will spend hours, days, weeks, months and years nurturing this seed.

Just yesterday, I learned how to do a spin (yes, I forgot the French term for this). My brain is jogged every ballet session recalling warm-up exercises. I have a bad memory, but just look at me absorb choreography-it’s like teaching driving skills to a lamp post.

There are routines I begin to dislike after a period. But there are routines that I cherish. Like cleaning the bathroom every so often. Or taking out the trash. I am praying my ballet routine becomes part of me as if it were my new skin. Regardless of pain. Regardless of memory lapses. Regardless of the commute. Regardless of the racket my muscles make the morning after a session. Regardless of the questioning look I get from others when they learn I am taking up ballet.

Maybe when I reach that point when I appear weightless, I may feel the birth of flight in me.

Listening now to: Feist’s I Feel It All
Mood: Grateful

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flick review here

http://evagubat.com/?p=43

if you haven’t watched garden state and you want to torture yourself with spoilers, go to my other website.

if you’ve watched it, i am so proud of you. welcome to our world. 🙂

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amazing things that ease things a bit

– bass riffs in The Beatles’ While My Guitar Gently Weeps
– memories of good fun times with former office friends (special mention to drakulits, cy-sigh and suju fangirl)
– tangy taste of mangorind on my tongue
– first line of any murakami book
– last line of my secret favorite author’s books
– a wishing feather’s languid dance
– a poetry verse and a rush of revelation
– lady gaga’s wardrobe
– a dog’s breath on your face after a rowdy greeting
– songs from my bygone years (meaning 90s and early 2000)
– remote control weekends of NU 107