I'm beginning to reconsider a number of things... the answers are quite surprising even to me!

I grew up in a household in which I had around 5 mother figures and 3 father figures. My mother figures were: my grandmama, her sister, and my two aunts. Then there was my mom who visited when she could. My father figures were my granddad and then two uncles removed by marriage. My father and I were pen-pals.

My parents, who were far too busy working all the time, were occasional guests. It worked this way: whoever was free to spend time with me and help me with homework spent time with me. As a result, I hardly felt any resentment at having to take care of me every day; yet I suppose as a parent myself, I don't seem to have achieved any focus at parenting 'solo' either.

One thing is quite true to all this, of course: it really takes one village to raise a single child well. A study that needs more in-depth analysis asserts that where a child has at least two paternal figures, the child would grow up a better person, to put it plainly.

This is why I wouldn't mind my children having more than one parent-figure in their lives. Our closest friends (child's godparents) are regarded by S (at present), and later when I have more children, as back-up parents of our offspring and thus should be treated with the same respect.

Westerners don't always get it; I don't expect them to.

It is said that a child first-language drawers begin to close at age 8. Before that, a child's tendency towards bilingualism or multi-lingualism can be encouraged by exposing the child to different sounds. It is quite a blessing for my daughter to have been raised in a multi-cultural environment where she is exposed to different world languages: Chinese, French, Tagalog, Spanish, English (of course) and Japanese. I'm so glad that she has a lot of friends from different countries so that her preference for languages may perhaps be informed by her friends' first languages.

Years ago it was Spanish, because of Dora the Explorer. On most Sundays, it is Mandarin, because she sometimes talks to her father in Mandarin. This year, it is French--because her best friends are French.

My daughter has a listening understanding of Tagalog (esp when she makes Nana cross) and a few words here and there. Unless I find a good Batibot DVD, I fear my little girl may lose interest in Tagalog. I used to think that Spanish just might be the right doorway to appreciating Tagalog's syntax and borrowed vocabulary, but this is not enough.

Until I've found a solution, I'll concentrate on other languages to teach her, like music. I bought her a kiddie 5-octave keyboard when she was 2. That instrument became one of her activity 'stations,' if you will, in order to keep her busy during the day. If she wanted to scribble or draw, she had her desk beside the front door; if she wanted to watch television (her dads doing, not mine), she could sit in the armchair and; if she wanted to surf the child-friendly web, she could set aside her writing pad to use her laptop. If she wanted to listen to her CDs, she had the CD player beside the armchair if she wanted to read, she could go to her room to choose a book; and if she wanted to play her keyboard, she had space by the sofa to do so.

In recent years, she has memorised notes in terms of 1-7. I've shown her the corresponding notes on musical staves based on her knowledge of Do-Re-Mi. Now I hope she takes the time to draw the notes in a notebook so she could compose a ditty or two. As soon as she learns this, I'll be teaching her dance notation. I think the most fun dance language to learn, because of its swirls and crosses, is Benesh Movement Notation.

My little girl likes to improvise. On some evenings before bedtime, we would take out one of her CDs, play a song or two, and we'd either dance together or she'd watch me dance first. After my turn is done, my daughter would play the same song and take whatever move or step she finds 'new' (she doesn't use the word 'interesting,' for I've not taught her to tell social lies, and don't intend to) and incorporates it into her dance. Some of her dances are quite intricate even for a 4 year old-- because she was 4 when we started this lyrical dance improvisation habit--but she looked like she knew exactly what she was doing...without any hint of self-consciousness at that.

I am determined to teach her dance notation, while I learn it myself. Back in high school, we were taught to document our dances using another language, Laban (though our PE teacher didn't tell us at the time, and I bothered to find out). It would be a crime not to document my little girl's work; as of late, I don't think I've ever thrown away any of her artwork from her Watercolour workshops, mainly because one could just frame them, and marvel at them as one lives with them. And after she was invited by her ballet teacher to join a choreography camp for 9 year olds at age 7 (yes, to choreograph), I cannot help but think--though every mother thinks her child a Wunderkind, and rightly so, for who else would--that my little girl has a spark or two in her that, if kindled right, would earn her place in the grander schemes of Dance. Who knows? Who would have known Pina Bausch, Marie Rambert or Lucrecia Kasilag would change the ways in which people move? One thing I do know: when a teacher spots that spark, parents should do everything they can to develop it. When ignored, and I do know this because my grandparents always said 'No' or 'next time' to everything except piano lessons and, temporarily, choir practice: the light goes out.

All will be dark in the world of ignorance and dreams dashed.

I have been browsing Philippine newspaper archives from 2000-2009, and I often wonder how some names manage to become journalists--especially in the lifestyle sections--without having any marked skill in writing besides the basic requirement of being able to string a proper sentence out of words.

It bothers me how the literate publishing industry of the Philippines tends to favour people whose credentials precede the actual writing.

It is no wonder than that I've found many essays bland or, to say the least on a positive note, merely grammatically sound.

An essay is not a slough [the correct spelling of 'slew' - another word gone awry in the Philippines and trans-Altantic English] of information spelled out like a memorandum or invitation. An essay is necessarily a revelation of the writer's preferences and prejudices, likes and dislikes. No matter how 'objective' one would like to be in presenting information--and this is demanded of the writer in headline news--lifestyle essays need to offer more quirk and character than the customary, perfunctory invitation and embedded advertisement to events and places of interest. Quirk doesn't have to sound like a cheeleader; character doesn't have to be conveyed by way of diatribe.

A lifestyle columnist and essayist is a taste-maker, and it is his or her job to sway the public's consumer options towards that which he or she thinks represents 'the good stuff'.

For this reason, the actual 'swaying' of public opinion requires that the prose should contain the rhythms and impulses of the writer's natural speech. When the prose sound s choppy and when sentences are chopped up into phrases that mistake themselves for sentences, neither ordinary reader cannot nor intelligent reader will not be lured in.

The queen of quirk is, if you might want to know, in my books, is Edith Wharton. Read her novels and you will find the 'dominatrix' of all fashion, art, home-making, gardening and all things related to lifestyle written with vigour and disdain, passion and loathing. Yet unlike those who express their disdain and loathing by blaming others for their lack of refinement, Wharton communicates her preferences and prejudice by description and by a carefully constructed cautionary cause-and-effect caveat, i.e. if she were writing in this era, 'If you don't listen to what I say, how would you, dear reader, expect to walk tall in your new Louboutin shoes?'

The King of character in American writing, in my books, is Mark Twain. I'm sorry, Henry James, but each page costs a tree and a half these days. If publications go on this way--hack-written, muddled in thought and uninspired--then surely, more publishing houses will be in peril.

To the publishers, editors and managing directors of Philippine dailies, do your searching amongst the young in the country's best universities. Be wise, hire them. Then train them immediately to train those who, clearly, want to be writers yet need the opportunity to become writing apprentices, though they be without a college education. Surely, within a generation, there will be more interesting writing that will bleed upon your parchment, because those writing apprentices will bring their lives into their writing, which are far more interesting than your average middle-class, sheltered laptop owner.

Teach them to read the masters of great journalism - literary journalism, please. Fielding, Richardson, Capote, Mailer, Sontag, Amis, to name a few. Those apprentices will have voices resounding with your readers, will have been educated to introduce their ideas properly yet without losing touch with their audience.

This, I think, is how to save the Philippines from illiteracy. Something needs to be done to educate the non-university graduate in the workplace. I think the writing workplace would be the best place to take these risks.

I'm linking my old articles in retrograde here for easy personal reference. Not all articles were published online, but I'm making a list here in order to chart the 'arc,' if you will, of my writing ... and the thoughts my mind seems to preoccupy itself. Who knows where I would be coming out next?

1. Wrapping U.P.

2. The November of the Soul

3. The colour wheel

4. Theatre rules

5. The peace machine

6. Where went Lent?

7. This one is clearly one of my favourites. But if I were to use the rule often used by the likes of Danny Boyle, Samuel Johnson and William Faulkner as described in this article, then this is one of those 'darlings' I'll have to 'kill': The cafe life

8. Mind your body

9. How to be a Phili-phile

10. The time is 9:11 [original title on typescript]

11. In her element. This is a profile about a friend of mine who appeared in a series of short comedies. I wanted to start every sentence with the letter 'L'.

12. The Professional Life-Organiser. I dedicated this to our dear Nana Risa, without whose help none of my projects in Hong Kong would have been realised.

13. Beware the crowd. I was tempted to call this 'Beware the mob,' but it would have offended the sensibilities of those who mobilise people for a living.

14. The love condition. Yes, yes, I was *rather* inspired here. Pining away over nothing, more like.

15. Lessons from Tennis. I'm still a Roger Federer fan, yeah!

16. Living Simply. I do remember giving this article a different title. Pagudpud is one of my favourite places in the Philippines. I wonder how everyone is doing in those parts these days.

17. Aceite de Guzman. The artist's website is here.

I would like to write for a living. Yes, I really would like to. It's time to bag something in the interim...

I was just watching Indian Food Made Easy last night. After the show, I realised how simple it can be to cook Indian food. I've decided to cook dinner for my dear husband tonight. After all that Japanese food in Kyoto and Osaka, I think it's time we have something spicy for a change.

The dishes:

1. Potatoes with Cashew
2. Gujarati Sem
3. Undhiyo
4. Rogan Josh
5. Sweet Lassi

I hope it all works out tonight.

i haven't been blogging because I've been writing. All sorts, actually. Here's a rundown of my current projects:

a. the novel - which requires research (both participative and archival)
b. an important research proposal - wish me luck and great vibes. Yes, I torture myself.
c. music...yes, the notes have been appearing on the staves with some lyrics too!
d. the occasional poem.

You know, all it takes is for a person to sit silently and, in a minute of two of uninterrupted silence, the universe floods that person with everything he or she ought to remember and cherish, to love and fear, to hope for and renounce.

That's a lot to fathom.

Sometime between Feb-Nov 2004, I was in the middle of the most profound grief. At the same time I seem, though I can't quite admit it now, to have been played and then duped by someone I trusted. Eventually all my logical ruminations about why I had to be that person played and duped disappeared when I finally leapt from mere reason and into the realm of faith. I wrote this prayer, and never changed it. I cherish my friendships, but time has given me enough space and distance from events to realise that what had happened was not for naught.
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Dear Lord,
I am a vessel of weakness.
I am a cup with cracks underneath.
I have never carried this much pain in my life.
I have never felt this empty.
I have never felt so broken;
I thought my armour was strong enough.

But all my suffering, my self-inflicted wounds,
And the frustration that comes with fleeting creativity,
All my losses, all my sorrow, all the things I cannot have,
I shall lift up to You,
With all my heart, I shall sing to You.

For you are my refuge and my strength.
You shall help me bear my cross.
This is my cross.

My love –and all I do because and in spite of it - is my cross.

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Now I remember this prayer every time I feel close to that kind of danger...and I know I shall sail through my premonitions and my momentary weakness, because I've carried my share of the weight now. :)

A few nights ago, I heard B say something about 'rough patches' in our relationship, and how comforted he is by the familiar things at home despite them. I am happy that he takes comfort in the stability of our home life, and I would like to take credit for most of it, since I've stayed home for the most part to raise our daughter.

As for myself, whenever I run into a rough patch with B, or anyone, I resolve the matter as quickly as possible via verbal dialogue. I make amends with my partner, and after he goes to bed, I start to visualize my next move.

It is a truth universally acknowledged in the modern world that whenever someone's career goes so bloody well, his family life runs into a rough patch. And vice versa. So I seem to be the person who bears the 'weight' of that success, and so off to my dreams I go.

One thing I do know: I want to lose weight. Tehlin once suggested that I join a marathon. I have something a little more challenging than a marathon:

I shall lose weight because I want to be in a musical. Ha, ha, ha. Yes, I want to be in a musical while I still look young by world standards. When I was in London, my mates couldn't believe I was 34 and with a child. Someone said I looked 19. Which means I can still be in a musical, if only I would lighten up (both physically and figuratively).

Gene Kelly made things happen for himself. He danced his way into Hollywood and directed the very musicals he starred in because no one else had the same visions and standards as he had when it came to filming the dances.

I'll take the Gene Kelly model...and work on something for 2010.

I want to lose weight. And I want to make a big breakthrough on my voice before it ages and starts to crack. I can still sing those great Broadway and West End arias for the female leads in their original keys (a lot of concert divas bring the keys down by two to three notes AND/OR use Autotune), so I should make that final plunge before I grow old. I can sense my voice's timbre changing. Best to do something along the lines of ingenue before I really grow old.

Kaya pa kasi eh. So I'll do it. I just hope that the person I have in mind as a director says 'Yes'.

And I know God watches over me and provides me with everything I need.

I need this. It'll be my Hong Kong parting gift.