Ray Bradbury Bullies Me From the Grave

Ray Bradbury is, as Neil Gaiman says, a writer who emerged as a “genre of one.”  A giant of a writer and a creative force whose influenced spanned more than over 65 years of literature, TV, film and even music, Ray Bradbury always had this to say about the life of writer:

“You must write every single day of your life... You must lurk in libraries and climb the stacks like ladders to sniff books like perfumes and wear books like hats upon your crazy heads... may you be in love every day for the next 20,000 days. And out of that love, remake a world.”

Now my favorite part of the above quote is the wearing of books like hats upon your crazy heads, because, let’s face it, we’ve all done it at one point or another – no? Just me? Okay, then.

But the most stressful, and resonant, part of his advice for me is to write every day.  Apparently, from his teens until his death in 2012, Ray Bradbury wrote every single day of his life – sometimes churning out one short story a day.  Even when the words don’t come, when the muse keeps hidden and silent in the walls, Ray Bradbury showed up day after day, sits down and writes and writes and writes. 

This stresses me yet heartens me.  It makes me feel, that though there are days of intense insight and story, of inspiration and transfiguration from idea to words, there are days where a writer, even an insanely gifted one like Ray, my man, needs to hunker down and force himself to write. 

It makes me think, too, about how times have changed since the 1940s when Ray Bradbury’s first work to be published was recognized by a then magazine editor Truman Capote.  Times were tough then -- you had to mail things and type things out and put correction fluid if you screwed up or retype the whole thing altogether.  How so much thought went into it, how much effort and conscientiousness – and on top of that, he was STILL able to write every day.  I got no excuse, man.

And so, I will try my very very darnest to write every single day.  And no, chats and social media statuses really do not count.  

Wouldn’t it be great to churn out a short story every day?  Wouldn’t that be a feat – I mean, more than wearing a book hat.

(Photo credit Pinterest)

I Reclaim My Muchness

Growing up, kids are fairly similar.  We run around, making lots of noise, get caught up in excitement, dance like no one is watching, sing as loudly as we can, dare to jump as high as we can go, eat whatever we want – even dirt.   And then, invariably, as years pass, we get this, this muchness, stamped out of us.  Sometimes it’s scolded out of us, sometimes it’s schooled out of us.  No, giraffes aren’t blue and orange.  No, you can can’t make up your own haiku.  No, girls can’t do martial arts.  And no, making up stories is not a valid way to pass an afternoon by.  And after some time we believe them.

We stop raising our hands, we stop jumping from the third step, we stop drawing, stop writing stories, and stop disagreeing (yes, goddammit, giraffes CAN be blue and orange!!!).  And then we hate our lives, hate our life choices, get bored. 

New years is a great time for me, I super love the entire world’s optimism of the world ahead, a clean slate.  My favorite part is the looking back and regretting the time I wasted, no really, I enjoy it.  It’s not so much FOMO but more of regret for doing things I wanted to do  (an all day nap, goddammit or cartwheeling out the door) because it’s not what grownups do.   

The thing is, more and more I am realizing, and the more I observe other adults I admire, is that this impulse to express one’s muchness is what makes them so successful, outstanding, and just overall happier with their lives.  If they wanna wear red Chucks to work, they’ll do it.  If they feel they need to go to the gym in the middle of the day for energy, they’ll do it.  If they wanna hike in Nepal over a long weekend, they’ll do it.  They toss “adult expectations” to the wind and end up doing what their inner child tells them to do anyways.

So this is the long roundabout way to my “resolution” – for lack of a better term – not just for this year but for hopefully the rest of my life.  To reclaim my muchness.  I’m not quitting my job or dropping my responsibilities to run away with a circus (yes, a long-held childhood dream), but I will stop saying no to the cheery voice inside my head that says, “Hey, WE can do that!”  or “Of COURSE we can have a circus in the training rooms!” and “SURE you can do a headstand everyday!” instead of the dark and judgy voice that says, “Grow UP” or “No one respects an executive who wears white nail polish” or “You CAN’T hire an award-winning independent director to produce a corporate video.”

Moving to a new country, I've tried to keep my head down and not rock the boat for the past two years and I find it makes for a very unsatisfactory work life that gives me neither a strong ownership or fiery passion for the work I churn out everyday.  And that’s my fault.  I’d been wrapped up in some sort of mayonnaise of mediocrity  and fear of failure that I’d been walking in the middle of the well-worn path.  Not anymore.  J  I’m gonna raise my hand and speak my mind.  I’m not just gonna accept the status quo.  I’m not gonna blindly follow directions.

I’m gonna color that giraffe blue and orange.     

I Get Published

A few days ago, a friend from back in Manila asked to reprint a write-up I wrote over 2 years ago.  I had written that piece very quickly but very earnestly.  It's one of those pieces that don't mind re-reading over and over -- and that's a big deal for me.   It's going to come out in a few weeks in a magazine and I'm ever so grateful not just for the experience of writing it but for the opportunity to share it. :

Lost and Found in the Run

I am proud and sometimes a little ashamed to share that running has completely taken over a huge chunk of my life. In my few years of running, I’ve discovered a few life-changing, strange but very real truths. In the run, there is no time, it is just a void. But also, in the run, time is infinite. In the run, you experience everything you are and everything you’re not at the same time. In the run, there is only you, the road and your God. 

The awesome thing about the run is that, while I feel God in it more than any other time in my life, He manifests to me not only in my heart but also in the real world. In training runs, I run alone, but not really. I have my best conversations with God in this time. Parang catch-up lang. Running 8 hours a week gives me and God a lot of QT. It’s the most time I’ve dedicated exclusively to any conversation and they’re the most honest conversations I’ve ever had.  Magsisinungaling ka pa ba eh ikaw and si God lang. I don’t know if it’s the endorphins or runner’s high but when I chika with God in the run, I feel so connected with all His creations and I notice and am grateful for the most mundane and wonderful things – the neighbor’s dog running with me, the 5-minute rain shower that’s a short reprieve from the heat, the little kids that high-five me in support during a race, the smell of pine trees, a full-moon, a scorching sun, the firm Boracay sand under my shoes – everything is alive in the run. As if during the run, God sort of takes my hand and takes me on a tour of the world again and again. Parang, hey, look what I made! It’s all for you, y’know. All of it. 

More than the fact that running lets me kick the ass of my old time or lets me release a lot of the pent up stress of the horrible work day, running gives me a few precious hours na amin lang ni God – solo ko sya, solo nya ako. I hope because of this, He’ll bless me with more time with him, with more time in the run. Oh and I hope He’ll bless my knees. 42km is not kind to knees.

About the Author (Lord, this part was tough to write)
Anama is a corporate communications manager based in Singapore. Apart from being the the 1992 National Bible Quiz Champion, her proudest achievement is her first marathon which she ran-walked-crawled 42.3km in 9 hours. She dreams of someday running a marathon in Marathon, Greece with Eye of the Tiger playing on continuous loop for 4 hours

I Fight and Become a Sun Flower

Capoeira is a fairly obscure martial art that’s been gaining popularity for the past few decades.  The reactions I typically get from those who’ve actually heard of it are “Isn’t it more of a dance?” and “Really? How intimidating can a cartwheel be?”  And yes, it looks like a dance, it was meant to be thought of as a dance since the African slaves who first invented it meant to hide their fighting and training from the slave owners so they wouldn’t be suspected of trying to revolt – which they eventually did, revolted I mean, not uncovered the art. Aha, good job slaves, your ploy worked!  

I have no excuse for the cartwheeling (or au as it’s called).  But I can tell you, it’s crazy fun to do. 

There are a lot of wonderful things about Capoeira and I can go on and on and on about it, but then, that’s what my Whatsapp group is for.  What I can tell you is that what got me sooo excited about restarting Capoeira again (I did it seven years ago with poor results) was getting my name or apelido.  You see in the days of the slaves, fighters never used their real names, they were given names by their teachers to describe anything from how they look, how they acted, how they fought or even a strange piece of clothing they wore during the Roda (or the game) – I have a friend named “headband,” for reals.  This is because back then, if the authorities ever caught you, you wouldn’t get to give the names of your fellow fighters even if you wanted to.  And so, the tradition continues until today. 

My classmates have awesome names, other guys from the other groups had weird names.  My classmates had names like Urso Branco (White Bear), Da Terra (The Earth), Mare (The sea or the tide), Vaidosa (Vain), Malungo (Bro) and so on.  I was so very anxious about my name, because I knew that my Contra Mestre named Tucum (Palm Oil) would give me an awesome name.  I also know he watched all of us very closely and I always felt really exposed and vulnerable in class.  I always felt out of my depth – I’d always been good at picking up new things, learning new songs, learning new dances – but with Capoeira, my learning was tough, my progress slow.

So the months passed and I got a lot of feedback that I looked like I was dancing and not fighting – well I was a dancer for a long long time.  I was too “pretty” in the game, not mean.  I’d never gotten pretty as an anti-compliment before, LOL. Okay, fight uglehhhh. I was too easily distracted and talked too much – well anyone who’s known me for two seconds knows that. What? Bacon? Where?

I started dreading the possible names – Esquilo (or Squirrel) or Chihuahua (self-explanatory).  These were not unreasonable fears, one of our seniors was named Rato (rat).  And there was a mestre in Korea named Esquilo.

Finally the day came, and out of the blue, Contra Mestre Tucum said, ahhh, Anama, I have your name.  I wrung my hands together – which you’re not supposed to do in Capoeira, you block the axé (or I like to think of it, “good vibes”).  He said it’s GiraSol – it sounded fancyyy and tough.  I knew sol was “sun.” He said it’s sunflower  -- due to the fact that I’m always sunny, smiling and positive even when my butt was getting kicked.  He’d seen me suffer and smile and be giddy through the months of hard training.  He said, it’s gonna get tougher and he hopes I don’t lose my sunflower attitude. 

I loved it.  I jumped up and down and smiled my sunflower smile and laughed my sunflower laugh.  I loved how he saw this part of me despite me having a hard time.  Anyone who knows me for two seconds knows that I’m a sunflower through and through. And that I love bacon.  Omigod, thank God he didn’t name me bacon. What’s Portugese for bacon? Lardo?!? Jesus Howard Christ, I dodged a bullet. Lardo is soo not sexy. 

(Photo credit from Visit Brazil on Flickr)

I Try to Find Singapore’s Soul

I moved to Singapore from the Philippines a few months ago and have been happily settling in a wonderful neighborhood outside of what locals call “the city.” 

I come from Manila – and I always say this as if it’s a self-explanatory point.  I had to travel across four cities every friggin day to get from my house to my university in public friggin transport where you could get knifed, oh yes knifed, on any given Tuesday.  But I digress.  When you say “city” to me, for most of my growing up life, it meant scary, unsafe, and on-alert places all the time.  Here in Singapore, when they say you’re not in the “city” it means buildings don’t get higher than 7 storeys and there are more trees.

Now Singapore is a country and a city.  It’s tiny.  I live on one end (the East) and my Capoiera place is on the other end (the West) and it takes me all of 30 mins to get from one end to another – no lie.  It used to take me 45 mins to an hour to get to work everyday, each way.  30 mins does not a width of a country make.

Which is why I always thought, quite optimistically, that when I come here, it wouldn’t take me long to find the soul of the city.  I was in for a little challenge.

Now I may be over-generalizing here but this country has been run like a corporation for the most part of its nearly half a century life.  And because of that, some trade-offs have had to be made for the pursuit of prosperity -- income for spontaneity, competition for play, wealth for adventure, achievement for art.  And altogether, being the awesomely successful and freakishly clean country it is today, that’s not too bad.  But because of all these aggregate trade-offs, folks who come from other places – and apparently we comprise 25% of the population, find it strange and “soul-less.”  A colleague of mine who used to live in Boston and London before that told me, having moved here just 4 months ahead of me, that he has yet to find the soul of Singapore.  He’s gone to all the places you’re “supposed” to go to, Tanjong Beach Club, Kudeta, Pangaea, but he hasn’t found it yet.

I was intrigued.  I too wanted to find it.

But to find it, I had to figure out what it was.  I had just the thing.  I remember traveling around the world – I haven’t been every where but I’ve been to a fair few places – and I always try to leave with a key visual or a specific feeling in my head to take with me as I go.
 

For Melbourne it was the taste of hot chocolate while watching uni students lounge on the lawn in front of the library soaking up the rays on a sunny day that will soon turn into a freezing fall afternoon.  For San Francisco it was the smell of coffee while I walked around Mission taking photo after photo of the graffiti cats and gryphons and llamas colorfully parading down the narrow sunlit alleyway.  For Hong Kong it was the perpetual smell of food that was vaguely dimsum and somewhat duck that hung in the air everywhere and people rushing to, I like to think, find a place to eat. 

For Singapore, what was it?  What was the scene, the smell, the taste?

When I made up my mind to pay attention, I knew I had to put away my iPhone.  It was a distraction.  I realized, everyone was on his or her smartphone, like ALL THE TIME.  Nope, it wasn’t here, not on the train.  I walk around the commercial districts and folks are strolling around rushing from store to store, just like they would in the high-end shopping districts in Manila.  Nope, it wasn’t here, not on Orchard.  Then, while walking towards the wonderful smell of popcorn (it may be in Garrett’s, hey, I’m open), I catch a few strains of music. 

A blind man is busking in the tunnel in between two malls.  He sounds sad, he looks sad – but he’s straining to be heard.  Straining, hey, that may be it.  I look around more,  and I see more bits and pieces of chaos straining to be seen past the very very ordered stoicism of Singapore. 

A young couple cupping each others’ butts on the train ever so discreetly yet obvious to anyone who realizes that, sweetie, that barrier is CLEAR PLASTIC.  There. The edges of tattoos peeking out of shirtsleeves and pants.  I realize that Singapore probably has the most number of tattooed folks I’d ever seen in any city I’d spent an extended amount of time in – more than NY, more than LA.  There.  I see an old man, maybe 60, sporting White Beats by Dr. Dre earphones/headphones on the train.  Two days later, I see another oldie sporting Red ones.  There.   My colleague at work who comes in every couple of months to make videos for us changes hair color every time I see her.  First time it was blonde dashed with fuchsia, last February it was platinum white with chunks of teal and purple.  She said the platinum hurt like hell to get, but it was all worth it.  There.  Even in the most corporate of companies, the soul of Singapore strains through.

It’s there, I know.  I see it sometimes shyly toe-ing its way into the mainstream.  It won’t get there yet, not in this generation.  But for anyone who’s willing to look, it’s there.  In the kid with the sketchbook instead of an smartphone on the train.  In the boy with a huge cello case instead of PSP.  In the grampa with Beats instead of the Straits Times.  It’s there. I found it.  I don’t wanna yell it though, I might get caned.

(photo from Flickr)

I Play the Grownup Who Secretly Wants to Buy an Arcade

Coming from the salon after a very expensive root touch-up and shine treatment (I have to hide the gray), I walk back to my hotel room while contemplating on what I will have for dinner.  Something light maybe – I have a really nice Australian Moscato chilling in the fridge along with some of the best herbed goat cheese I’ve had in a long time.  I look forward to chilling out while catching up on some work when I hear the familiar pinging and cheers coming from my formerly favorite place in the world – the arcade.

There was a time, not so very long ago – around 12 years in fact – when I would give anything to be at the mall on a Tuesday night at 7pm with money to burn and a machine to defeat.  I was a video game addict. 

There was one machine I was particularly in love with – Dance dance Revo (you dance with  your hands, not so much your feet).  It was gorgeous.  It was high-tech.  No moving parts (except for menu selection) and amazing motion sensors that let you sweep, clap and hop your way into the most satisfying game scoring system I’d ever encountered.  If you’re good, you get an A, if you’re absolutely on, you get an S (either for Super or Superior -- I’ll never figure out).  It appealed to the nerd in me.  It appealed to the dancer in me.  It appealed to the gamer in me. 

No other game in my life dominated as much as Dance Dance Revo.  I had an intense but short love affair with Final Fantasy, a drawn out, reliable but ultimately repetitive relationship with Diablo I and II and a sort of unhealthy obsession with Star Craft I (I wanted to be Kerrigan, Zerg Queen).  But nothing, nothing occupied my mind and my arms and my wallet more than Dance Dance Revo.  I can still sing all the songs from memory.

In my adult life, I’ve had a lot of cards that show status, membership, being elite – but the one card I am most proud of is the Gold Time Zone arcade card that I spent years and thousands of bucks on to get.  You couldn't just buy a gold card – you had to earn it.  And earn it I did.   For a brief moment of glory, my name was actually on the top 10 roster of that game.  AMD emblazoned for maybe a day.  If there were camera phones back then, I would have taken a photo and posted it as my cover photo forever.

I said to my naive 20 year old self, if I ever grow up and earn enough money (USD 10,000 to be precise), I’d buy myself my very own Dance Dance Revo machine.  Yes, I actually researched how much it cost. 

And now, more than a decade later, I’d like to think I’m making a decent living.  I’m about to move to another country will I will earn more than enough to buy my own machine.  And I ask myself – honestly and frankly – would I buy a Dance Dance Revo machine if I could. 

I think back to why I was so obsessed with that game in the first place.  At the time, I was a student in a course I wasn’t sure I liked – and later on was working in a job I wasn’t sure was for me.  I needed an out, a way to just let out the pent up music in me, the drive to get a “good job” even if it was from an animated screen or a mechanical voice.  I needed my name on the screen, my name on a list, proof that I did good, that I existed and somehow made a mark – no matter how fleeting or frivolous.

Today, whether by luck or by design, I do all of that and more in my daily life.  Somehow, I’ve found myself in a field that I love.  Working with people who, like me, want to make a mark and a difference.  Working in a place where I can dance and sing and perform. 

I realize that the game was my escape, was my joy.  I pass by the arcade, checking with myself if I feel the tug of the music, the stale  smell of spilled soda and day-old popcorn and sounds of zombies rising from the grave (Dawn of the Dead III – left of the DDR machine).  I don’t feel the tug.  I feel a smile on my face – nostalgia, most like.  I walk, grinning, back to my (temporary) home.  I don’t miss the game.  I’m already living it. 

I'm still keeping the Gold Card though.

(Photo from the Timezone website)

I Finally Get Inked

Approximately a year ago, I went ahead and did something I had wanted to do for a long time, I got myself a tattoo – two tattoos really.  See below. 

A couple of things below about my tattoo that  I tell people who ask.  To note, I prepared it in FAQ format since – for some reason – folks frequently ask the same exact questions.  We really are more alike than we are different.

Question:         What does it say? 

Answer:           It says “give” and “thanks.”  They’re on my left and right wrists respectively.  My best friend wrote it for me – I really like her handwriting.  She and I are not allowed to break up as best friends – apparently white ink tattoos are impossible to laser off.

Question:         Why is your tattoo in white ink?

Answer:           Inasmuch as a tattoo is frequently associated with tendencies to rebel, I’m actually not that rebellious.   I still have to do a job – a job I love – so I still have to appear respectable, hence, not too obvious tattoos.

Question:         Why does it say what it says?

Answer:           I believe that gratitude is the secret to success. That and a walk-in closet -- which I already have.  The more that I have given thanks for things in my life, the more spiritual resiliency I seem to have to face every day with a positive attitude.  Bring it, universe. :)

Question:         Did it hurt?

Answer:           Of course it did (in my head I interject “moron” after this sentence).  It’s a friggin needle going in and out of your skin.  It bled too.  And scabbed.  And peeled.  And oozed fluids.

Question:         Why did you do it?

Answer:           Best question ever.  Best because I answer it differently each time.  It may mean because I was motivated by many things or it may mean that I wasn’t sure of my reasons for getting it.  Whatever the answer I give, my favourite question is the next one

Question:         Are you happy with your tattoo?

Answer:           Damn right I am.  Better yet, I’m thankful for it. 

I want to get new ones soon.  The new ones – when I finally get them – will require their own post and set of Q&As then.