tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40576402024-03-24T15:11:12.370+08:00razelibraryCatching light since 2003Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comBlogger562125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-41389894254956669402024-01-17T13:28:00.002+08:002024-01-24T06:36:40.965+08:00Truth or DareMy seven-year old niece has just learned to play Truth or Dare, which is a cool way of knowing what goes on in her mind.
<p>
She's been taught to be honest and not keep secrets, meaning I can ask her anything and she'll tell me the truth, no game nor any other incentive required. But putting such dialogue in the context of a game makes me less guilty of asking rather un-innocent questions.
<p>
Like, <i>What do you say to me in your head whenever I don't allow you to touch my stuff (ie the Dalek figure in my book shelf)?</i>
<p>
Nothing and everything is innocent when it comes to children.
<p>
Way before learning Truth or Dare, my niece and I talked about having babies, and I nonchalantly told her that I didn't want one. Recently, while strolling at the mall, she nonchalantly, randomly — as is her way — asked me, <i>But why don't you want to have a daughter?</i> My answer was a different version of the same thing: I like my 'me time'.
<p>
I love my niece, though I get scared when she knocks on my door and I had to turn her away because I would rather be alone.
<p>
There are many articles about people in their dying days regretting not spending enough time with their loved ones. I fear having the same regret, and that every <i>No</i> and <i>Not now</i> that I tell my niece will make her feel less loved. I also fear resenting her for taking up much of my time and energy that it becomes too late and I become too tired to do anything for myself.Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-6559222039461868622023-12-31T14:11:00.005+08:002024-01-17T13:42:48.533+08:00Poem 24<blockquote><b>December</b>
<p>
December walks in
<br>its worn shoes, towards church doors
<br>that open before
<br>dawn, welcomed by the district
<br>choir, brightening old hymns.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-5795099032673535482023-11-30T18:36:00.004+08:002023-11-30T18:38:05.888+08:00Poem 23<blockquote><b>Talking to a stranger</b>
<p>
She was lightning, quiet
<br>quick, electric. The cunning
<br>smile I practised
<br>for years, she flashed
<br>at me and with laughter cut
<p>
the distance
<br>between a child missing
<br>her two front teeth
<br>and a lady who never knew
<br>the harm in talking
<p>
to a stranger. Dried under
<br>her nails were dirt
<br>from sandcastles she built
<br>and toyed with, loved
<br>and ruined.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-6643965121994943712023-10-31T17:11:00.004+08:002023-11-01T07:49:46.098+08:00Poem 22<blockquote><b>Shop</b>
<p>
I walked into the shop
<br>to buy a purse that fits
<br>ten folded bills and coins
<br>for the quick trip to church
<p>
and back. After combing
<br>all the shelves to find none
<br>that I liked, you walked in
<br>plucking bottles like flowers
<p>
that soon laid on the register.
<br>I watched you go back
<br>to friends; stood frozen
<br>on the aisle, unable to solicit
<p>
a name or muster a hi; left
<br>with nothing in my basket,
<br>in my hand: not what I wanted,
<br>not what I found.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-83250597088923186272023-09-30T20:56:00.015+08:002023-10-05T10:59:35.077+08:00Poem 21<blockquote><b>Waiting is what happens</b>
<p>
when you tick every box on the list
<br>but the ones outside the page;
<p>
when mixing flour and water is chore
<br>and dough takes a while to bake;
<p>
the dream car on a wrong turn,
<br>you carry on with the chase;
<p>
a table full of feast and cheers
<br>it disappears like a sick child's appetite;
<p>
Waiting arrives as soon as you catch light,
<br>and instead of star, hold stone in your hand.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-67411177949969362772023-08-13T15:40:00.003+08:002023-10-05T13:14:41.715+08:00Poetry prompt: Write in another's rhymes<blockquote><b>Jack Tells Jill</b>
<p>
Kill your thoughts up the hill,
<br />see the empty skies, saltwater.
<br />Drown in rapture at the crown,
<br />sing new songs of ever-after.
<p>
Upbeat air inspires a trot,
<br />tempts you to a flirty caper.
<br />Bedtime? It's out of your head,
<br />now as pure as blank paper.
<p>
<i>—RE, 13 August 2023</i></blockquote>
This week's poetry prompt: Rather obvious? It's fun, though. To take the rhymes off a popular poem and then use them to create a different poem. Give it a go.
<p>
<u><b>Draft 2 (5 October 2023)</b></u>
<p>
Well it's been a while. The main prompt was a quick exercise on replacing rhyming words. For the revision, my goal was to create something a bit more conrete. Add sense to the sound. Also, I got rid of the lines I hated ("drown in rapture" ; "sing new songs of ever-after" ; "as pure as blank paper") but used just to meet the requirements and deadline.
<blockquote>
<b>Jack Tells Jill</b>
<p>
Kill those doubts up the hill,
<br />see the empty skies, saltwater.
<br />Winds will push you down,
<br /> Push back till you reach the crown,
<br />Crack a world open with laughter.
<p>
Should those sunburnt legs fail to trot
<br />And fumble like your brother's,
<br />Lie a while on the green land
<br /> As if it were last night's bed.
<br />Rise up with fellow dreamers.
<p>
<i>—RE October 2023</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-32674021323394454812023-08-02T18:21:00.012+08:002023-09-30T21:11:29.196+08:00Poem 20 (Poetry prompt: Thematic unity)The second poem that I'm writing for my <a href="https://www.razelibrary.com/2023/07/poetry-prompt-concrete-of-abstract.html" target="_blank">online poetry course</a> will be workshopped. This post will document the evolution of the poem from its first to its final draft.
<p>
Disclosure: What you see below, which is what I have also submitted, is not exactly the first draft. What constitutes a first draft anyway?
</p><p>
To give you an idea, this poem had undergone a major revision in prosody pre-submission. It went from having paragraph-like stanzas (lines grouped per image or idea), to this now musically focused line-cutting.
<p>
<b><u>Draft 1</u></b>
</p><blockquote><b>Flames</b>
<p>
Write your name on top
<br />of your beloved's,
<br />strike the common letters,
</p><p>
count the odd ones out,
<br />and you're left with a number
<br />that tells your future
</p><p>
together or apart.
<br />Matthew and Anna
<br />were meant to be
</p><p>
Enemies. So I tweaked the rules,
<br />wrote full names and nicknames,
<br />till the game declared
</p><p>
Marriage. Twenty years
<br />since high school I lay in bed
<br />alone, playing
</p><p>
with my phone:
<br />Swipe left for the Oh-Nos,
<br />Swipe right for the Why-Nots.
</p><p>
How to outsmart the algorithm
<br />to make it make matches
<br />that catch a flame?
</p><p>
I may not win again or ever,
<br />but I carry on dreaming
<br />new ways of miscalculating fate.
</p><p>
<i>—RE, 2 August 2023</i></blockquote>
<b>Update (30 September 2023):</b>
<p>
I am pretty happy with the draft and so I am labelling this as <i>Poem 20</i>. In fact I kind of knew that I won't budge on this one as soon as I hit submit. Like I said in the intro, this has already undergone several revisions.
<p>
I will be editing this <a href="https://www.razelibrary.com/2023/08/poetry-prompt-write-in-anothers-rhymes.html" target="_blank">poem draft</a> instead for the poetry course. It's a fun verse to write, but lame. Will do my best to un-lame it.Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-71387631356765023742023-07-29T09:22:00.008+08:002023-07-29T09:57:05.026+08:00Poem 19<blockquote><b>The Cup</b>
<p>
An object that cannot speak
<br>is spoken for
<br>by the collector.
<p>
Each night before sleep
<br>he wipes the glass shelf that keeps
<br>the old cup safe.
<p>
Each morning he does the same.
<br>Today he takes the treasure out
<br>of cage to fix the paint
<p>
now faded since
<br>the year he glued together
<br>its body and handle, pieces
<p>
found at a shop owned by another
<br>collector, who shared the story
<br>of how her grandmother
<p>
found the broken vessel
<br>at a neighbor's house
<br>where no one lived.
<p>
The collector tells his visitor
<br>what he was told and all he learned
<br>about the relic, repainting
<p>
history as if heard
<br>for the first time by himself,
<br>from how it must've been made
<p>
to how it must outlive
<br>his own hands, which evey gesture
<br>is in service of the cup:
<p>
soft cloth under the foot;
<br>white light warmed, air cooled;
<br>a final polish on the lip.
<p>
A subject that cannot speak
<br>is spoken for
<br>until it is itself no more.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>
Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-82544556634749299362023-07-28T14:16:00.008+08:002023-08-01T15:36:04.272+08:00Poetry prompt: The concrete of abstract<blockquote><b>The Arms of Rage</b>
<p>
Swung without warning
<br>Rested on no resolution
<br>Reached for the starry night
<br>When they once cradled a child
<p>
<i>—RE, 20 July 2023</i></blockquote>
Am taking a free poetry course online and this is one of their writing prompts. Basically create a title with the formula: <i>The [Concrete Noun] of [Abrstract Noun]</i>, then write a poem based on it. It's a lesson on image, symbol and abstraction.Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-82053150545294745812023-07-20T21:27:00.000+08:002023-07-20T21:27:22.989+08:00If my parents died, I would be stressed out by the inconveniences. Another part of me would feel relief.<div><br /></div><div>But a stronger thought I have is that I might die first and they'd call me stupid for not taking care of myself.</div>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-56028244905224999882023-07-03T19:37:00.003+08:002023-07-04T11:56:07.675+08:00Dream-come-trueSomeone said (from a rather privileged viewpoint) that if you look back, you'll realize that you've already achieved many of the things you used to dream of.
<p>
There was a time when I thought I'd never play a piece as I intended. Beginner piano students know this. Even the shortest, simplest exercise seems difficult to master.
<p>
I came here right after posting my 50th practice video. That means I've already played 50 pieces to my satisfaction, since I won't share anything that's not up to my standards.
<p>
We become good at what we practice. Recording myself — another advice given by another now-forgotten stranger — works well for me since I've yet to find a music community nearby (hello unfulfilled dream).
<p>
The camera serves as a stand-in for an audience and as a second teacher, giving me a sense of accountability, encouraging me to see things through.
<p>
<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/kheoJFnVrvQ" title="YouTube video player" frameborder="0" allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen></iframe>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-27443700583068850592023-06-30T20:20:00.007+08:002024-02-06T08:18:40.421+08:00Incubation, revision<blockquote><b>Curriculum Vitae</b>
<p>
The city is a sickle that cuts
<br>the throat. The dawn a nascent wound,
<br>the dusk a bruise.
<p>
Stars are knives, rain washes crime.
<br>The moon a medicine that goldens
<br>pain. This is my living: inventing
<p>
the limits of this page.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>
Went through my old (read a decade++) drafts. There are poems I've written in graduate school that I still hang onto with the promise that I'd take them to the finish line.
<p>
The poem above is an example. I submitted it in a small workshop, but I can't remember the panel and the participants' feedback anymore; except that they loved the music in the opening line.
<p>
I got stuck subverting the sky cliches. Last night things clicked and now I'm letting this poem go [in Marianne Moore font].Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-47470576410606612612023-06-24T08:57:00.013+08:002023-07-03T21:53:47.082+08:00New old skinI'm making a <i>Steve Jobs Zuckerberg billionaire tech people</i> move. I'll stop worrying about the facade (the way they don't worry about their physical appearance and clothes) to focus on my work.
<p>
Let me explain. I am not ignoring how I look, no, I am not above that. Nor will I dismiss aesthetics, which, if you know me, is top priority.
</p><p>
So what is this contradiction I speak of.
</p><p>
As you can see, my blog theme takes you back to the early 2000s. That's because I don't want to bother anymore with slaving over the tiniest detail. It had been a source of pride and excitement for me, but now I am more excited about <i>actual blogging</i>. This straightforward text-oriented theme fulfills my current need.
</p><p>
Who knows, mayble I'll have the itch to tinker with the design sooner than I expected; but for now I aim to also bring back that new-millennium carefree spirit online by having one less thing to unproductively obsess about.
</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupXy_x_InM8ujpgBXekGLxFkhQ0yoTS0JQlQPF3fmDMzIVK-xHcZosCNTN6MxnigOWbXTzNdWKPcAH90kX-7q70I1jCv7lHYpQVP7q1gkViaAkdRVrkTl40xIwygbQI5KrZ-Q2RYBPrIhCecJsziB_5xNq9AJdaXK1q4pYLJzVFhhqVLsLivbdQ/s1440/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%207.56.20%20AM.png" style="display: block; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjupXy_x_InM8ujpgBXekGLxFkhQ0yoTS0JQlQPF3fmDMzIVK-xHcZosCNTN6MxnigOWbXTzNdWKPcAH90kX-7q70I1jCv7lHYpQVP7q1gkViaAkdRVrkTl40xIwygbQI5KrZ-Q2RYBPrIhCecJsziB_5xNq9AJdaXK1q4pYLJzVFhhqVLsLivbdQ/s600/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%207.56.20%20AM.png" width="600" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Previous blog design</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-52102037260386014412023-05-31T09:05:00.019+08:002023-07-03T16:33:28.073+08:00Poem 18<blockquote><b>The Great Aunt</b>
<p>
All these worn out faces
<br>at my nephew's birthday party.
<br>I can't stop looking at you.
<p>
In the mix are toys, magic,
<br>small shoes and big, wrinkles,
<br>sheen on flesh, wrappers
<br>and you: someone familiar
<br>and too fragile to put a finger on.
<p>
I feel sorry that you are old
<br>in a room trembling from the blast
<br>of seven-year-olds frisking about.
<p>
'Til memory waves a wand:
<br>You took my cousins and me
<br>to our first concert.
<br>We were eleven,
<br>you were invincible.
<p>
While it wasn't the last night
<br>I saw you, it was the last time
<br>you were real in my eyes.
<p>
Like plump balloons, who knows
<br>if we are floating or losing
<br>air once out of reach. The trick,
<br>how clever, is your hollowness
<br>isn't yours but mine.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-81399415559034952552023-04-29T18:21:00.003+08:002023-07-03T16:33:28.075+08:00Poem 17<blockquote><b>Grim</b>
<p>
A happy ending
<br>is a story abandoned
<br>at the right time.
<p>
*
<p>
In a castle where everyone knows their place,
<br>the mouse is happiest.
<p>
*
<p>
Trade fins for feet
<br>for a faster trip
<br>to the funeral.
<p>
*
<p>
How long she guarded
<br>her porcelain heart.
<br>How quick it broke
<br>at the lion's touch.
<p>
*
<p>
Beauty counsels: Put your mask on
<br>and never take it off.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>
Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-34888179729507966452023-03-31T07:30:00.001+08:002023-07-03T21:54:31.326+08:00To care and notSo ryokans. Trainee explained to me that in this traditional Japanese hotel, guests are taken care of from arrival to departure, and every minute in between.
<p>
<i>The bed will be rolled out at the proper time</i>, he said.
<p>
Very different from my experiences and expectations at hotels, where I would simply show up and do whatever I want. Starting with throwing myself in the bed.
<p>
It's an eyebrow-raising way of caring, and yet it totally makes sense. Some strange days I crave that kind of caging. Let others think for me so I can shut my brain off — at least the part of it that worries too much, even about things like how to <i>really</i> have fun.
<p>
Somehow I already do it in the smallest of chunks, when I go to the hairdresser's and the nail salon to tell the beauty technicians, <i>Ikaw na bahala (I trust you)</i>. Then I disappear in the moment without forcing myself to.
<p>
Maybe I should extend the practice. Submit all control and allow things to happen to me. Trust is a special kind of high.Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-20586731035460649172023-03-30T09:57:00.017+08:002023-07-10T14:01:57.924+08:00Poem 16<blockquote><b>Reminiscence</b>
<p>
Long ago a child of five
<br>walked towards me.
<br>She didn't look hungry.
<br>Rather her eyes
<br>betrayed an appetite
<br>for something that the over-priced
<br>café had failed to offer:
<p>
a chance to ask
<br>how vast a world
<br>divides the two of us,
<br>she in her innocence,
<br>me in my negligence to want
<br>what I earned;
<p>
or to make a playground
<br>where we assign new roles
<br>to dining objects over-used.
<p>
The encounter was real, though
<br>details were subject to change.
<br>She could've been wearing white
<br>while I might've been lying
<br>about being alone.
<p>
My habits live on,
<br>like going out mid-morning
<br>to relish a dry town.
<br>Deep into the sky silence,
<br>she visits
<br>as she were — always five,
<br>taking a seat
<br>without permission
<br>at a table inside my mind.
<p>
I wish I was the same ghost to her,
<br>alive in a whisper and fits
<br>into crannies none can feel
<br>nor understand, not at all
<br>a filler but a fullness
<br>briefly possessed.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-83970092292984257922023-02-27T19:05:00.004+08:002023-07-03T16:33:28.075+08:00Poem 15<blockquote><b>The Missing Day</b>
<p>
How curious must it be
<br>that down the endless
<br>reach of time
<br>one was born on the 29th
<br>of February.
<p>
What day in this year
<br>will they call <i>Mine</i>?
<p>
Peeling the month off
<br>the calendar reveals
<br><i>My</i> special day: on the 10th
<br>of March, (dear me!)
<br>I turn 40.
<p>
May I please lose my birthday, too?
<br>Not for reasons of youth
<br>nor of desire to reverse
<br>the phenomenon of my being here.
<p>
Rather to spend the weekend
<br>in peace, free of countdowns
<br>and counting blessings,
<br>meanwhile filling in the invisible
<br>debit column.
<p>
Be rid of history's toy
<br>shackles. How lovely
<br>must it be to measure a life
<br>no more.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>
<iframe id="embedPlayer" src="https://embed.podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-missing-day-turning-40-feeling-it/id1536525790?i=1000618380620&itsct=podcast_box_player&itscg=30200&ls=1&theme=auto" height="175px" frameborder="0" sandbox="allow-forms allow-popups allow-same-origin allow-scripts allow-top-navigation-by-user-activation" allow="autoplay *; encrypted-media *; clipboard-write" style="width: 100%; max-width: 660px; overflow: hidden; border-radius: 10px; transform: translateZ(0px); animation: 2s ease 0s 6 normal none running loading-indicator; background-color: rgb(228, 228, 228);"></iframe>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-2322210875298562842023-01-31T07:46:00.005+08:002023-07-03T16:33:28.069+08:00Poem 14<blockquote><b>Work</b>
<p>
However meager
<br>I was eager to earn
<br>and spend money
<br>on objects that fill
<br>an emptiness.
<br>A table for the sun
<br>to drop light on.
<p>
Last night we talked
<br>about legacies.
<br>Leaving a good name,
<br>so the children
<br>who'll inherit
<br>this funny earth
<br>would know whom to adore.
<p>
I said why care
<br>about what people say.
<br>It's none of my business
<br>to love the living
<br>when I'm dead.
<br>You filled the room
<br>with laughter
<p>
and derision.
<br>I almost quit
<br>when our shouting matches
<br>no longer gave the thrill
<br>of winning,
<br>that I might as well play
<br>tennis with a wall.
<p>
But we've held on
<br>to each other for years.
<br>You putting concrete on dreams,
<br>me disappearing into my own,
<br>hugging the clichéd cup
<br>of coffee with my palms,
<br>at the table
<p>
I bought with my first paycheck.
<br>Birds sing unseen
<br>from where I sit.
<br>From an office building
<br>You are thinking of me.
<br>A loveliness achieved
<br>through a life's work.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-63107472512285913922023-01-18T09:21:00.005+08:002023-01-18T09:32:07.323+08:00The bookstoreA co-trainer once talked about losing her appetite for books — <i>They don't hold the same magic for me anymore</i> — which I thought was sad, if unimaginable. The opposite of death is desire, after all.
<p>
Somewhere between that conversation and a point in time I cannot locate, I, too, had a cooling off with books.
</p><p>
A feeling of betrayal grows. Like turning your back on someone who has given you so much. Even though these books owe me nothing.
</p><p>
Then you miss the self who glows at the sight of a rare copy, and being the first to read a new title.
</p><p>
We are allowed to change. Cut the cords of passion. It is the books themselves, though, that continue to assert their worth.
</p><p>
Bookstores have dwindled in number, and in those few standing, the actual book shelves have become fewer.
</p><p>
Meanwhile, I, force of habit, enter one whenever I'm nearby. There are still authors and series that I look for, though gone is the urgency to buy. To own and be possessive.
</p><p>
A couple of years back I made a conscious effort to read (at least) a book a month. Because we are what we practice (and what we pretend to be), and I want to be a life-long reader.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiActxVXk7d8tU05oA0NNTAYsj7YyMbt17JZpqv-7sVVALxWDlb7iEyQEMuzSoEKBB7xUktHcsoi2Dl02eQK3q3CZz4v-Jh0kP95NscEQlsiJgr9Ivgt-Bp_PTiyL6XrN6dw0hxgd0Efi9cakFAdsMSafKgSaq2Ss4LBdTrgZBJlhq54L9ea_k/s4000/20230115_005945.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiActxVXk7d8tU05oA0NNTAYsj7YyMbt17JZpqv-7sVVALxWDlb7iEyQEMuzSoEKBB7xUktHcsoi2Dl02eQK3q3CZz4v-Jh0kP95NscEQlsiJgr9Ivgt-Bp_PTiyL6XrN6dw0hxgd0Efi9cakFAdsMSafKgSaq2Ss4LBdTrgZBJlhq54L9ea_k/w640-h480/20230115_005945.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My collection's complete</td></tr></tbody></table><br>Last year the fiction and poetry have been heavily replaced by music notations. I also want to be a life-long piano player, an ambition rekindled (as much as I hate to admit it) during the pandemic.
<p>
I am happy to be reading with thoughtfulness, proud that I make sacrifices to carve out hours for this discipline. Incidentally my excitement towards book-hunting returns. It started when I found two old editions of<a href="https://www.razelibrary.com/2021/12/mikrokosmos.html" target="_blank"><i>Mikrokosmos</i></a> after visiting several stores.
</p><p>
Later on I ordered the missing volumes from a local music shop. They were only able to supply me with another two volumes, though both were brand new and from a good publisher.
</p><p>
My fantasy of owning the entire Béla Bartók collection came to fruition three days ago. I tagged along with my sister to a faraway mall in the North. There at the bookstore that shall not be named, I saw a single copy of Volume III, and then picked the least damaged copy of Volume V.
</p><p>
The trip felt familiar. Hope, giving up, managing expectations, digging through piles of paper, hunching over, squatting, efficient sales staff, ignorant sales staff.
</p><p>
Why not just go online-shopping?
</p><p>
Walking to and around a store and being heart-broken (at worst) gives me a rush; waiting for delivery to arrive stresses me out. So do the greater hassles of exchanges and returns.
</p><p>
More importatnly, I need to see if it fits. I need to touch it. Weigh it. Ensure a damage-free product. Ponder how much imperfection I am willing to embrace. What else? For me online shopping — call me conventional — is just less magical.Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-89592068611881593142023-01-10T10:51:00.002+08:002023-02-27T17:40:05.302+08:00The corner rackWhen I mentioned my love for cooking to a trainee, he asked for advice: <i>How can I fall in love with cooking?</i>
<p>
Before we begin: I am no foodie. Neither am I adventurous, perhaps not even as open-minded about food as I wanted to be. The reason I got into the habit of cooking daily is I wanted to eat what I like, how I like it, and when I like it. As the proverb goes, "If you want good service, serve yourself."
<p>
I am no good cook. No way for me to tell, since I don't cook for others. My niece likes my pancake and sunny side up, while my sister eats my saucepan-boiled brown rice without complaint (nor praise). Those are the only feedback I receive.
<p>
My motivation has always been beauty, and that's how I framed my method to my trainee. Maybe start buying quality kitchen tools. Those that look and work so well they almost beg to be touched.
<p>
Marketing has become its own artform nowadays, and this post by Kinto summarizes what I've been trying to say:
<blockquote class="instagram-media" data-instgrm-permalink="https://www.instagram.com/p/CPv2SrwrZ7M/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" data-instgrm-version="14" style=" background:#FFF; border:0; border-radius:3px; box-shadow:0 0 1px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.5),0 1px 10px 0 rgba(0,0,0,0.15); margin: 1px; max-width:540px; min-width:326px; padding:0; width:99.375%; width:-webkit-calc(100% - 2px); width:calc(100% - 2px);"><div style="padding:16px;"> <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CPv2SrwrZ7M/?utm_source=ig_embed&utm_campaign=loading" style=" background:#FFFFFF; line-height:0; padding:0 0; text-align:center; text-decoration:none; width:100%;" target="_blank"> <div style=" display: flex; flex-direction: row; align-items: center;"> <div style="background-color: #F4F4F4; border-radius: 50%; flex-grow: 0; height: 40px; margin-right: 14px; width: 40px;"></div> <div style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; flex-grow: 1; justify-content: center;"> <div style=" background-color: #F4F4F4; border-radius: 4px; flex-grow: 0; height: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; width: 100px;"></div> <div style=" background-color: #F4F4F4; border-radius: 4px; flex-grow: 0; height: 14px; width: 60px;"></div></div></div><div style="padding: 19% 0;"></div> <div style="display:block; height:50px; margin:0 auto 12px; width:50px;"><svg width="50px" height="50px" viewBox="0 0 60 60" version="1.1" xmlns="https://www.w3.org/2000/svg" xmlns:xlink="https://www.w3.org/1999/xlink"><g stroke="none" stroke-width="1" fill="none" fill-rule="evenodd"><g transform="translate(-511.000000, -20.000000)" fill="#000000"><g><path d="M556.869,30.41 C554.814,30.41 553.148,32.076 553.148,34.131 C553.148,36.186 554.814,37.852 556.869,37.852 C558.924,37.852 560.59,36.186 560.59,34.131 C560.59,32.076 558.924,30.41 556.869,30.41 M541,60.657 C535.114,60.657 530.342,55.887 530.342,50 C530.342,44.114 535.114,39.342 541,39.342 C546.887,39.342 551.658,44.114 551.658,50 C551.658,55.887 546.887,60.657 541,60.657 M541,33.886 C532.1,33.886 524.886,41.1 524.886,50 C524.886,58.899 532.1,66.113 541,66.113 C549.9,66.113 557.115,58.899 557.115,50 C557.115,41.1 549.9,33.886 541,33.886 M565.378,62.101 C565.244,65.022 564.756,66.606 564.346,67.663 C563.803,69.06 563.154,70.057 562.106,71.106 C561.058,72.155 560.06,72.803 558.662,73.347 C557.607,73.757 556.021,74.244 553.102,74.378 C549.944,74.521 548.997,74.552 541,74.552 C533.003,74.552 532.056,74.521 528.898,74.378 C525.979,74.244 524.393,73.757 523.338,73.347 C521.94,72.803 520.942,72.155 519.894,71.106 C518.846,70.057 518.197,69.06 517.654,67.663 C517.244,66.606 516.755,65.022 516.623,62.101 C516.479,58.943 516.448,57.996 516.448,50 C516.448,42.003 516.479,41.056 516.623,37.899 C516.755,34.978 517.244,33.391 517.654,32.338 C518.197,30.938 518.846,29.942 519.894,28.894 C520.942,27.846 521.94,27.196 523.338,26.654 C524.393,26.244 525.979,25.756 528.898,25.623 C532.057,25.479 533.004,25.448 541,25.448 C548.997,25.448 549.943,25.479 553.102,25.623 C556.021,25.756 557.607,26.244 558.662,26.654 C560.06,27.196 561.058,27.846 562.106,28.894 C563.154,29.942 563.803,30.938 564.346,32.338 C564.756,33.391 565.244,34.978 565.378,37.899 C565.522,41.056 565.552,42.003 565.552,50 C565.552,57.996 565.522,58.943 565.378,62.101 M570.82,37.631 C570.674,34.438 570.167,32.258 569.425,30.349 C568.659,28.377 567.633,26.702 565.965,25.035 C564.297,23.368 562.623,22.342 560.652,21.575 C558.743,20.834 556.562,20.326 553.369,20.18 C550.169,20.033 549.148,20 541,20 C532.853,20 531.831,20.033 528.631,20.18 C525.438,20.326 523.257,20.834 521.349,21.575 C519.376,22.342 517.703,23.368 516.035,25.035 C514.368,26.702 513.342,28.377 512.574,30.349 C511.834,32.258 511.326,34.438 511.181,37.631 C511.035,40.831 511,41.851 511,50 C511,58.147 511.035,59.17 511.181,62.369 C511.326,65.562 511.834,67.743 512.574,69.651 C513.342,71.625 514.368,73.296 516.035,74.965 C517.703,76.634 519.376,77.658 521.349,78.425 C523.257,79.167 525.438,79.673 528.631,79.82 C531.831,79.965 532.853,80.001 541,80.001 C549.148,80.001 550.169,79.965 553.369,79.82 C556.562,79.673 558.743,79.167 560.652,78.425 C562.623,77.658 564.297,76.634 565.965,74.965 C567.633,73.296 568.659,71.625 569.425,69.651 C570.167,67.743 570.674,65.562 570.82,62.369 C570.966,59.17 571,58.147 571,50 C571,41.851 570.966,40.831 570.82,37.631"></path></g></g></g></svg></div><div style="padding-top: 8px;"> <div style=" color:#3897f0; 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<blockquote> A kitchen you want to spend time in
<p>
Fill your kitchen with things that you love, one plate, one mug, one canister at a time.
<p>
And voila, cooking becomes a pastime, not a chore.</blockquote>
Thing is — and because it all seems a fairy tale (gather nice things, feel nice) — knowing what we love takes time. Your first pan is your test pan. You will eventually want to upgrade. <i>How do people stay married with the same person their whole lives?</i> Upon further reflection, I do continue to use the first and only set of dinner plates I bought for myself. Looking around, yes, a lot of things have stayed with me.
<p>
Because of financial limitations I learn to love objects for <i>what</i> they are, and <i>when</i> they are. The wine glasses, no matter how careful I am, will break. That said, I won't drink Merlot in a ceramic mug.
<p>
It goes without saying that the kitchenette is my favorite and therefore the busiest area in my apartment. And within that space, the corner where everyday ingredients are — spices, soy sauce, vinegar, olive oil, coffee, pasta, dietary supplements — is a sight to behold.
<p>
I don't own any paintings. Chalk it up to my ignorance. I am not equipped to appreciate them. But every day, my eyes are drawn to and are satiated by that corner rack. How it fits in the puzzle that is my home. It's my real-life still life. Except nothing about it is still. Each day it is new. The bottles are moved ever so slightly from yesterday's meal prep. The paper coffee filters, from a thick block of white is now thinning, and will soon need replacing. So does the jar of curry powder.
<p>
My trainee also mentioned how cook books and cooking shows deceive him. The 15-minute breakfast is in fact 40 minutes, and that excludes cleaning up — the task that all cooking fairy tales leave out.
<p>
Do my pretty plates make washing them a pleasure? No. Instead I've developed an acceptance towards these menial tasks. They keep me upright. My body moving. What do I save time and energy for anyway? Sometimes we're not aware that we are already living our dreams, because we fail to account for everything else. My ambition is to live in a beautiful space. <i>This</i> is a beautiful space, and keeping it so constitutes living.Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-31503480347108982992023-01-10T08:59:00.003+08:002023-08-17T07:47:46.174+08:00The letter boxAs soon as she read the inscription, my editor dropped the card in the bin. I was shocked by the act and nonchalance. How could a hand-written note be discarded without thought.
<p>
I expressed my horror, to which she replied with her own amused, <i>What's wrong?</i> Causing me to blurt out, <i>Do you also throw away mine?</i> Not our exact words, though, as this happened years ago.
<p>
What I remember and know for sure is that she is one of the most loving and loyal friends I have, despite her ruthless attitude towards Christmas cards.
<p>
I'm just slower than everybody else.
<p>
Discarding letters is something I forced myself to do when I moved to my own place. I held on for so long to long letters in yellow pads enclosed with photos from pen pals who remained strangers, to doodles from high school friends who turned into strangers, to my first love letter from a secret admirer.
<p>
That was a lot of paper. Private. I was beginning to see the wisdom of my editor. The more these sentimental objects linger, the more they accumulate, the harder they are to destroy. Do I burn them? Is burnt photo paper toxic waste? Should I buy a shredder? How much is a shredder?
<p>
Why do I hold on to them, anyway? It's not like I'm in the habit of rereading or making a conversation piece out of them. This genre of documentation seems like a cousin of FOMO. A fear of losing beautiful memories.
<p>
Last weekend I had to exorcise a box-full of letters again. For a different reason. Nowadays I'm more discriminating with what I keep. Whereas previously I wanted to exercise being free of the past, no matter how happy it was, and in more practical terms, to live in a clutter-free home; now it's about cutting ties.
<p>
Sorting through my smaller letter box brought the right kind of surprise.
<p>
Apparently I was exchanging letters with a former crush who moved to Japan. In my memory the whole affair was one-sided. But if these stamped envelopes and postcards were any proof, somehow we had an intimate connection.
<p>
I also realized that it's clever to have writer friends. Theirs are the letters I should memorialize. I like words; they are good at it. Oh the many eloquent, convincing ways I'm told I'm amazing!
<p>
Then the genuine emotions. There is sincerity in length, a pouring out of unfiltered feelings. There is kindness in brevity, sparing both giver and receiver the burden of feelings, which, for the moment, is best carried by white space.Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-26111778913335876632022-12-26T18:26:00.004+08:002023-07-03T16:33:28.071+08:00Poem 13, 2022<blockquote><b>A Good Job</b>
<p>
To give dignity back to work, a word
<br>sullied by greed and abuse, a route
<br>so wrong and so hard to end
<br>it doesn't amuse
<br>even the hand of power.
<br>I want to work, to finish
<br>a product efficient,
<br>a service so useful it disappears
<br>into everyday. I want to be
<br>a trusted, unmysterious yet complex
<br>machinery, cruetly-free and fit
<br>for heavy duty. I will get tired some times
<br>and rest, and someone else, happy.
<br>Great heroes, like their work, are invisible,
<br>forgotten though we walk on it.
<br>Mine, less humble, cries
<br>for attention,
<br>for you to please —
<br>if you were pleased —
<br>spread the word.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-3854615302228020452022-11-30T10:41:00.004+08:002023-09-03T15:11:00.755+08:00Poem 12, 2022<blockquote><b>None of the Lights</b>
<p>
I answered with reluctance when you invited me
<br>to a bonfire by the beach with young girls and a local
<br>who, despite her kind demeanor, reduced
<br>me to a stranger by the minute.
<p>
"I like nature," I said, while pining
<br>for the city's running water.
<br>"It will be fun," you breathed, letting the waves
<br>and its musical muscle win me over.
<p>
My feet never felt lighter against the rocks,
<br>walking towards hazy faces gathered in a circle
<br>that will soon dismantle as all things do
<br>when built on sand.
<p>
We took our time, understanding
<br>the patience required to start and keep a fire.
<br>We reaped rewards,
<br>for long we lingered at full flame.
<p>
Crackling wood hypnotized and snapped
<br>me back into the moment, safe in the weight
<br>of your voices. Embers each of us I thought
<br>indistinguishable. Inextinguishable.
<p>
That amber night still consumes
<br>my waking days. I struggle
<br>to solve the mystery of how we stumble
<br>upon company so good and with so short a history.
<p>
None of the lights now warm the neck.
<br>Holiday drones fail to dazzle.
<br>Fluorescent tubes reveal diseases.
<br>Marketing firms snuff romance out of candles.
<p>
Gone are our childhood fireflies,
<br>trapped in jars and picture books.
<br>A lover's eyes cast shadows of doubt.
<br>Polished glasses reflect half-truths.
<p>
And what of the sun? Certain
<br>to arrive, to nourish, to harm, to fill
<br>a side of the world with color,
<br>none of which brightens this faraway noon.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>Razel Estrellahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07512286673097828130noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4057640.post-5837694558746245962022-10-30T18:52:00.006+08:002023-07-03T16:33:28.069+08:00Poem 11, 2022<blockquote><b>Pulse</b>
<br>(A love poem)
<p>
In the beginning was a pulse
<br>that came right
<br>before any breath
<br>to birth a song or a word.
<p>
It throbs even as the music
<br>and the argument
<br>take a pause
<br>from asserting themselves,
<p>
unfinished in their wish
<br>to be understood.
<br>It beats underneath
<br>the bones.
<p>
It lives long
<br>after the end, found
<br>in another story
<br>in someone else's voice
<p>
or wrist, like mine
<br>when you touch me there,
<br>you know years ago
<br>and years ahead
<p>
we sail on the same boat
<br>kept afloat
<br>by this inaudible god.
<br>No need to say it,
<p>
whatever we mean.
<br>What matters most is passing
<br>between us
<br>unheard.
<p>
<i>—Razel Estrella</i></blockquote>
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