The Silence of the Artist's Gate

Seen at some neighborhood. I like this gate very much.

“Husband and cat missing. Reward for cat. “

Meet the Shackler

 Shackles:  (shkl) A metal fastening, usually one of a pair, for encircling and confining the ankle or wrist of a prisoner or captive;

I was looking at the passport of Julienne's dad and all I noticed was the many shuttlings to China. I like making him fed up with some bitchisms... 

"You look like this guy from a Chinese movie..." 

“You ate too much pansit in Guangzhou that's why you already look like Chinese.”

“You ask that Chinese lady at the furniture shop to give us a discount. You understand each other, right?”

“Why do we always go to Chinese restaurants when we're dating?”

 

The shackler turns, shakes his head, “You are the craziest woman in the world. “

I load him up with more insanity.

“Alright. Then go and leave me. By the way,  what is your next Kung Fu movie?”

“You must have been a eunuch in your past life.”

The shackler is passive. “I don't care what you say. I'll court you and marry you again no matter how you push me out the door. Do you understand?””

Talk about being shackled. It's scary. 

stephen chow/kung fu hustle

All Things Bright

There is a certain feeling when you see things as they are so early in the morning. Everything is beautiful.

God Light

 

They have this term in photography called “God light”, a certain look of the sky that seems to place heaven here on earth. It is said to be used in religious pictures, cards – and all other interpretations of God in pictures.

My cousin saw a 'heart' floating in the sky and shot it.

I like looking at the sky no matter how it looks like. Though I don't see God there, the infinity gives me so much hope.

UNDERWORLD

I could never forget that day. The little bun was finally taken out of the oven on  a very rainy afternoon.  It was an experience that quieted so many chatters inside my mind and which  made  me never to see life in the same way again.

We had been expecting all these  nine months that  the child would have a normal birth so we were very relaxed.  I was lying down on the delivery bed of the clinic- dextrose tube and all- then on the last minute of labor the doctor discovered that there was a cord prolapse, a condition where the umbilical cord was constricted at the opening of the cervix, and that if I would move any further, in a matter of minutes  due to the constriction, the blood supply would be cut off from the child and the child could die. So they transferred me to another hospital,  and along the way  calling the hospital to prepare the operating room as fast as possible. The doctor  kept telling me, don't move, don't move.

I thought it could happen only in the movies- and to others- and definitely not to me. But there I was on the steel table, injected with a lot of drugs and tubes – staring at the numerous lights hanging from the ceiling, medical men and women moving about in a haze. Darkness came next. You'd know what happened next- cut me up and pull the baby out. From the moment the operation started, it only took nine minutes until the child was delivered. 

 Good evening, darling baby.

If there was one question I would like to ask the child, I think it would be 'Where have you been?' Really, where have babies been? When I looked at her, her eyes were open as though she had been to a place that I didn't know. Tell me, tell me.

But the baby was quiet and has very curious eyes. She was held to me by the attending nurse, and shivering and perspiring (drug- induced)there on a bed on a dark corner all numbed and drugged, I could not reach out so I told her 'Hold her for me'.

 

After birth began what seemed to be the darkest days of one's life- those few days of solitude that seemed to stretch so infinitely. Women know this. I lost track of time, if not drifting into that a drug-induced sleep and dreaming of strange things, then staring at the gray wall outside the hospital window as it got drenched in the rain. There were those lucid dreams of strange places and strange animals and people- street festivals, amphitheaters, a field full of the gold ribbons. Imagine Dali paintings. And because I could not walk but wanted to see desperately my child who was at the nursery room, I had to ask my schackler to push me on a wheelchair to have a glimpse of the kid. I simply could not touch the ground- the pain would be excruciating. There was just too much quiet uncontrollable sobbing in the dark hospital halls. I didn't realize that so many days have already passed.

In our culture there is the belief that a woman who has just given birth must not bathe for ten days. We followed that, so when the tenth day came, a so-called witch doctor (hilot) was summoned to the house to bathe me. She was an amiable woman who seemed to have hidden giggles right beneath her throat.  It was like bathing with hot tea- the bathing water was a dark maroon of fragrant herbs. The baby was bathed first on a tub, and the witch doctor could tell from a child's first bath whether the child would be an obedient or a hard headed child. She said I wouldn't have any problem with the little bun.Then she made me sit down on the toilet seat all naked, the herbs under my feet. She poured the concoction (was very hot- but it was meant that way) all over me, and has been telling me that I should have had my waist-long hair cut before I gave birth. I got a massage afterwards and many hours of sleep.

I didn't get fat during pregnancy but I am aware that my body – nor my soul- would never be the same again. There  is the effect of drugs and the scars to heal, and most of all there is already an individual that needs you. If you're not ready to make sacrifices for anyone, not ready to accept that you have to look after someone  besides yourself, then don't go for it. Don't tie the knot. Use condoms. Celebrate your freedom extremely while you can. But I like the powerful change that such experience brought me just as I like aging and the numerous metamorphosis that a woman goes through in the many stages of her life.

 It is said that there are only three instances in her life when a woman is most beautiful: when you see her naked, when you see her pregnant, and when you see her nursing a child. When a woman accomplishes all of it, she truly has come full circle.

Happy Birthday, Tiger Baby!

Julienne Roux was born September 1, 2010 at 5:24 in the afternoon, a little before sundown.

I could not think of a better metaphoric interpretation for that day than this lady holding sun.

I believe that the moment we breathe air, our initiation, our greatness on earth officially begins.

Or, here is a lady holding sun. Probably a metaphor of a parent's dream for her child, to give her everything she could dream of. Even holding sun. 

Tigers Are-

Hugely generous Well- mannered Courageous Self assured Leaders Protectors Honorable Noble Active Liberal minded Magnetic Lucky Strong Authoritative Sensitive Deep thinking Passionate Venerable

But they can also be ...

Undisciplined Uncompromising Vain Rash In constant danger Disobedient Hasty Hotheaded Stubborn Disrespectful of rules Quarrelsome

Sixth, Naming Names

“We'll call her Marie Fita,” the shackler said, staring at a tub of biscuits at the cupboard.
“No,” I said, “It sounds like the name of a child who gets dragged by the hair by an unkind mother.”
“Then after the two grandmothers: Julia and Rose. Julia Rose. Julie Rose.”
“No. No, no, no. Maria Bonifiacia. We'll call her Bonnie, at least it means a pretty face,” I said.
“No,” he said.
Then this is when the cookbooks come with a second purpose besides helping you how to cook.
“Rosemary?” he asked.
“No.”
“Sage?”
“No.”
“Please don't tell me you'll suggest Parsley and Thyme.”
“Ok. Julienne.”
“And when she has siblings we'll call them Paysanne and Brunoise.”
Silence.
“I like Julienne,” I said.
Silence.
Then I continued. “It should have something short after. Like, Frannie- May. Anna- Lee. Julienne- blank. Hmm... Julienne, Julienne... Roux. Julienne Roux.”
“I like that. Settled, then.”

We asked a Frenchman from Nice how to pronounce the name properly in French.
“Ju-yen Rwoo,” he said, with the scratchy “r” of the language.

Then some weeks later, we took the baby to the clinic for the vaccines. After playing coo-coo with the kid, the nurse finally asked for the records, “What's the baby's name?”

“Juyen Rwoo,”
“What?” The confused look.
“Here, let me write it down for you.”

And that's when the real fun begins.

Fifth, What to Wear to the Party?

Shopping for baby clothes. Those little socks, little mittens... awww. Cute.

Fourth, The Nest

A week after being sentenced, time to start the real life. We moved in to my pad which has been previously rented for a group of students (and I did whine about the mess they did to my house...holes on the wall, broken shower, chipped paints..ugh!) and I stood there helplessly at the door. I didn't know how to get started.  I asked my shackler, "Do you know a little carpentry?"

"I do, a little," he said.
"Fine. And I can paint the walls."

Trips to the hardware. Sawdust. The sound of hammer on nails. The smell of paint. And Julienne Roux is sleeping in her perfect world.

Third, The Sentence

When the news about a bun baking in the oven went out, different reactions surfaced. My mother said, “Plan a simple wedding.” My sister said, “I really don't mind being a single parent”. The boyfriend said, “I'll marry you. And what's more, I want it now.” 

There were many tornadoes that went in my head. Too many that I didn't want to stop them. And if I will become a mom, what about my career? What will happen to me? Does it hurt to give birth? What is the real  plan with me and this man?

 Maybe it was time to get out of that carefree zone or the comfortable bachelor life.  Maybe it was time to learn to dance after all with the strange music that life plays unpredictably. I cannot justify everything but I must have been hypnotized I finally said 'OK' to getting married. Or sometimes I think, the events unfolded like some circus and, too enticed at watching, I didn't know that I was already being taken away.

Five months to prepare. Just a small country wedding. The entourage. The sponsors. The food. The venue. The papers. Everytime I look back everything seemed like a fast-moving movie but when it ended I was too exhausted just by watching it. Anyone who's been into a hands-on wedding would probably agree with me what an exhausting experience the preparation is. And imagine if you're pregnant? You go to Chinatown and haggle for the entourage's wardrobe. Find the right paper for the invitations. The cake design- and bake it too. The wedding banquet- and cook it too. The seminars required by the church. Etcetera.  I could only thank the little bun for holding on to dear life – all that stress and activities would have placed too much distress in her conception.

I can imagine the purists shaking their heads with disfavor.  Not a good example, getting married pregnant.  But whenever I talk with my close friends, I tell them that I wrote it somewhere in my  college diary that I wanted to walk down the aisle already with child. Just like The Bride in the movie Kill Bill. Now I had what exactly I've written down in the diary and my friends look at me with amused disbelief. 

There are many stations talking in my head right now about the decision to get married. The incessant debates, the many musings. But sonmehow it is true that whenever something is over analyzed and dissected, the magic goes away. So I just lean back and listen to Sting's Fields of Gold when it was sung by a male soloist (though that day  it mysteriously sounded like a hundred voices) on that day in May. I walked down the aisle alone- and offered myself to a lifelong sentence.

Second, A Bun in the Oven

 Rewind to January 2010. I was supposed to have an interview in a distant paradise-like island resort as a pastry/ sous chef. I had been interviewed by the chef de cuisine on December of 2009 and I passed, and was hence scheduled for a trade test. He gave me two weeks to prepare, besides, he said, he'd be on vacation. We'd meet when he came back. So for two weeks I had been baking incessantly to refresh my skills on the baking trade, and each time batches and batches of brioche, hamburger buns, feuilletes, and sponge cakes were taken out of the oven, my confidence grew with it. My family and neighbors were just too happy while I sweat myself out in the kitchen. It was Christmas season of '09 and our neighbors really thought that the cookies that arrived at their doorstep were given out of goodwill (not some baker's rehearsal).

January 2010 I went back to the city after spending the holidays in the big house  in the province. The chef called again Thursday and scheduled me in his kitchen on the coming Monday. I said, alright. I was packing my bags when I decided to finally come face to face with what had been bugging me for the last few weeks : a missed period.  And because I might sign a contract to work in a distant island, I have to really make sure. So I ran to the drugstore at nine in the evening. Pregnancy kit, please.

I went home, cold perspiration trickling down the side of my face. This is crazy, I thought. Then read the instructions. Drop a sample of urine... and the band turned purple. Deep purple. Positive. My hands were shaking, my throat dry, and I called who I needed to call-

“Mother, I'm in trouble...”

“Chef, I just found out that...”

“You sucker, look what you've done...”

Mother was passive.

The chef said congratulations, keep in touch.

The sucker was overjoyed.