Eleven Minutes - Paulo Coelho

“Eleven Minutes” is the second book by Paulo Coelho that I’ve read.  First was “The Alchemist” which I read many years ago and that I found very philosophical and rich in imagery.  I’ve wanted to read more of Coelho’s work since then, and I’m glad I chose “Eleven Minutes.”

It was truly lyrical and absorbing.  It centered on Maria, a young Brazilian girl who grew up in a small town and who at a young age, had her eyes opened to the pain and disappointment of love.  Still, she dreamed idealistically and kept her hopes up for love.  In search of adventure and the fulfillment of vague but grand dreams of fame and fortune, she travelled to Switzerland where an uncertain future awaits.  There in the land of snow, clocks, and chocolate, circumstances eventually led her to become a prostitute.  In the practice of this profession she constantly questioned her fate, her identity, and the meaning and connection between sex and love.  Eventually she meets an artist who insists on being able to see Maria’s “inner light,” and the relationship that develops between them turns Maria’s world around.  What she believed of herself, her decisions, her destiny, and her understanding of pain, pleasure, and love will all be challenged.  She must then choose – to destroy a beautiful dream by letting it come true, or to let the dream remain as it is, unrealized and perfect.

I love the way the story is told.  It almost feels confessional, and that Maria is talking to you personally.  It also made me deeply admire the author’s insight, sensitivity, and honesty – he spared no punches in this book.  He presented the concept of sex and prostitution without any malice or condemnation.  He was also able to delve into the female perspective quite thoroughly (which I always find remarkable in a man) but also gave a candid and thoughtful male viewpoint.  There are moments in the book that felt almost prayerful; times when it felt like you were reading a history text; and even instances that were graphic and voyeuristic.  It’s amazing how the author put it all together and came up with something so coldly thought-provoking yet deeply emotional at the same time.

This book is not for younger readers, but is definitely worth reading and deserving of high praise.  I almost couldn’t let go of the book once I started to read.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Unscene #6

 

Unscene #6:  A dreamful young person asked me, "What's a kiss like?"  I laughed.

“The Kiss” (a sudden poem) 

I could tell you

love me because

I could taste

the Juicy Fruit

on your tongue. 

Though I could

slightly tell you

enjoyed tinapang bangus

for lunch. 

I don’t mind

if you don’t mind

the bitter

coffee on my lips.

Notes:  Juicy Fruit is a chewing gum; very sweet. 
Tinapang Bangus is fish preserved by salting; very salty and fishy.

Nation - Terry Pratchett

I don’t even know how or where to begin.  This is seriously one of the best books I’ve ever read in my life.  Thank all the gods that I was born at such a time that I am able to read this story.  Terry Pratchett is just… well, there are no words.   This novel is quite the departure from the other ones he wrote.  Although it does have his signature humor and irony, this story is so much more emotional, deep, and thought-provoking.  I loved every word.

“Nation” is set in an alternate world, but quite similar to ours in many ways.  They have kings, princesses, pirates, bureaucrats, island tribes, and even seriously vicious harridans of grandmothers.  I imagine the story happened during a time comparable to the heyday of Christopher Columbus or Ferdinand Magellan, where the European nations were clamoring for claim on “newly discovered” lands, and the sciences were turning the “civilized world” on its ear with its new logic and new discoveries. 

On one of the obscure little islands in the middle of the Great Pelagic Ocean, a boy named Mau was about to row a canoe back to his home island, having completed the trials he needed to pass to qualify for manhood.  At the same time, a girl named Ermintrude (139^th in line to the throne) was aboard a ship called The Sweet Judy.  Then the great wave struck.  Mau’s entire village – including all the island’s dwellers – was wiped out.  It also brought The Sweet Judy crashing onto Mau’s island.  It left Mau and Ermintrude the only two people alive. 

Thus begins a story of survival, friendship, family, respect, politics, religion, and science.  Oh, yes.  I don’t know how Sir Pratchett managed it, but he definitely put all of that into one incredibly enlightening novel for young adult readers.  The book deserves every award and acclaim it got, and it ought to get more.  Every human being should read this book.

I loved all the characters.  Of course, Mau and Daphne (Ermintrude – the book explains how it changed) were my favorites, but you get to love them because their characters developed through their interactions with each other and with the rest of the cast – they learned and they grew because they were not alone.  Mau’s strength and determination was admirable, but I love him just as much for his doubts, his insecurities and uncertainties.  Daphne was just as impressive in her own way.  I love how easily she was able to adapt and let go of her stiff, elitist upbringing because of her open-mindedness and cleverness.  There ought to be more characters like her – young ladies who actually think and act, rather than moon over boys all day.  Even the villains were perfectly villainous – First Mate Cox and Grandmother.  One of my favorite scenes was when Daphne’s father finally gave Grandmother what was coming to her.  I wanted to applaud and cheer and maybe do a cartwheel if I could. 

One of the most striking aspects of this novel for me is that it questions god and religion at the same time that it questions science.  As Mau struggles to cope with the grief of losing his entire family he questions the gods that his race has worshipped since time immemorial.  Even as the voice of his ancestors clamor and scream in his mind, he resists, rebels, and tries his best to reconstruct the history of his people, and piece together the reason behind the existence and the demise of the only life he had ever known.  In the meantime, Daphne grapples with the contradictions she encounters as she tries to survive in a world so vastly different from her own – trying to find a resolution between what she knows to be logical and scientific and what is mystical and spiritual.  How does she rationalize the voices in her own mind, teaching her and guiding her?  There was so much she needed to learn, and she needed to find her own place in a world where she is an alien, a ghost – despised and feared.   For me, more than any other book about religious belief and faith, this book has so much more to learn from.  When much is taken, something is returned.  Isn’t that the central tenet to every religion?  Karma, Do unto others, etc., etc.  Even science itself – For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction (Newton).  Where can we draw the lines between god and magic, magic and science, god and science?  Aren’t they all different words for the same thing?  Seems like it to me.

The ending was – well, I don’t want to spoil it for you.  I thought it was appropriate, given the circumstances.  Let’s just say that many things went well, and there was plenty of hopefulness to go around, which is always a good thing.  I wish more people will get to read this wonderful book.  We all deserve to learn from it.  

UnScene #5

UnScene #5: Teachers encounter blackboard erasers every day. 

Blackboard Eraser

Patty liked going to school.  She’s naturally curious and liked learning new things.  But she didn’t like going to school all the time.  That’s because her greatest fear was to stand alone in front of class and speak. 

When she was six years old, the teacher made everyone memorize a poem about flowers.  She got the poem down alright, but when she finally stood in front of the class and felt the chilling fear of having many eyes aimed at her, IT happened.

“Haha! She’s peeing!” Greggie began to laugh.  The whole class followed suit.

“Patty-pee-panty!” chanted Greggie.  The whole class followed suit.

Patty started crying, and then ran out of the room and all the way home, where her mom gave her a spanking for ruining her almost-new skirt. 

Since then, whenever the teacher made them memorize anything, Patty would be predictably absent the next day.  To her surprise, her mom actually let her, and even conspired with her to come up with excuses (sometimes it’s a toothache, other times a stomach-ache, etc.).  She didn't seem to mind Patty getting a zero for a grade.

Also since then, Patty was known as “Patty-pee-panty,” thanks to Greggie.  That was three years ago.  Things hadn’t changed much in spite of all that time.  

Nevertheless, Patty mostly still liked school.  Some of the other girls were quite nice to her.  And besides, she was good at other things, like Math.  The teacher didn’t tell them to stand in front of the class and recite anything during Math time.

Until one day, when the teacher wrote some Math problems on the board and began calling on students one by one to come forward and answer them.  Patty froze in her seat; cold sweat suddenly broke out her forehead.  She prayed not to be called.

“Okay, last one,” the teacher said.  “Patricia.”

“I know the answer,” she told herself.  “I don’t need to say anything, or look at them.  Just write the answer.”

Patty stood up.  She walked quickly to the blackboard.  When she was about to reach for a piece of chalk, she heard a familiar voice.

“Patty-pee-panty,” stage-whispered Greggie.  The rest of the class sniggered viciously.

And then IT happened.  Patty reached for the blackboard eraser, fully ripe and quivering with chalk-dust, turned to face the sniggering faces, and zeroed in on one.  She threw with all her might.

Her aim proved true.  The eraser hit Greggie right between the eyes with a gratifying “BOMF!” covering his entire face with snowy chalk-dust. 

Patty let out a loud whoop and began to laugh.  The whole class followed suit.

The Education of a Teacher - an excerpt

The following is an excerpt from a paper I wrote for a class while trying to earn a master's degree.  It's about being a teacher and why it's worth it to be one.

And so I continue being a teacher.  It’s not easy, but I’ve learned to love it despite its many frustrating moments.  The salary is never enough – no one ever did get rich being a teacher, not unless you were teaching abroad, earning dollars or some such other first world currency. The paperwork is burdensome, and bringing your work home with you is an unavoidable occupational hazard.  A teacher cannot bring her personal life into the classroom with her – one must always try to face the class with a positive attitude or else ruin everyone’s day.  Dealing with people (especially colleagues) you don’t necessarily like or respect is a daily challenge, but this is something one confronts no matter what career she finds herself in.  And the list goes on.  So why keep at it?

Because it’s worth it.  The students make it so.  It has always been said that teaching is a thankless job – it’s not true.  The students thank you in more ways than just by saying the words.  When you see them enjoying themselves, making new discoveries, learning new skills, and becoming better at what they try to do, you feel rewarded.  When they smile at you, greet you, wave at you from a distance, and let you know that they like having you as part of their day, you feel completed.  When they tell you that they understand your lessons, start asking you smart questions, and share stories about their own lives, you feel gratified.  They let you know that you are doing a good job.  For any professional, what better reward could there be?

Many events have led me to this point, but I appreciate them all – the good experiences and the bad.  I have learned much from being a teacher.  I believe I’m doing something worth doing and that I am especially equipped for.  I feel that I have found my place.  I can only hope that in much the same way that I remember the great teachers I’ve had in my life, my students will also remember me in a pleasant light.  My education as a teacher will not end here, for the irony of being a teacher is “The more you teach, the more you learn.” The lessons that I’ve yet to learn in the classrooms of my future await me, and I eagerly look forward to them all.  

A Great and Terrible Beauty - Libba Bray

I found this book at a used-book store, which is kind of regrettable in a way.  That’s because at that time, I wasn’t aware that it was the first of a trilogy of books, and the other two of the series were nowhere to be seen then.  If I knew it then, I would not have bought this book – because it’s excruciating to think that I might not be able to find the other two anytime soon!  This was such a good read, and the ending, though it did provide enough resolution, left me sorely hanging and hoping against hope that I might find the other two in the series just as cheaply someday.  Searching for them at used-book stores would be similar to the proverbial needle in a haystack.

(You must understand: new books here in my country do not come cheap, and only the very rich have the luxury to put in special orders and such.  Having books readily available to you at any time is as much a dream for a lot of people as is, let’s say, winning the lottery.)

The story is set in Victorian times and centers on Gemma Doyle, a 16-year-old English girl who was born and raised in India.  Her mother refuses to let her go to London to have a “season” but doesn’t give any good reason for her refusal either.  Now Gemma, being too headstrong and stubborn for a Victorian girl, argues openly with her mother and runs away from her and into an Indian marketplace.  As she roams around lost, a vision comes to her – she sees her mother’s suicide – a choice to take her own life rather than end up a victim to a monstrous, dark and malevolent creature.  As Gemma recovers from her vision, she finds that it was not just a dream.  Her mother’s death marks the beginning of her “adventures” as she finally is sent to a finishing school in England, makes new friends and enemies, begins to discover the range of hidden ability she possesses, and uncovers more and more of the horrible truths that her mother tried so hard to hide from her.

I loved the character development the most.  Each of the characters’ personalities was revealed subtly, gradually, and they were all portrayed in such a way that no one was a stereotype, or a flat character.  And you felt that such people could have really existed in such a time and place, and still do exist even now.  The characters were the zeitgeist of their era, facing the conflicts that the times presented, and their interactions with each other and with their environment, their struggles with the demands and “norms” of the society that they lived in, molded them and made them distinct, recognizable, and believable.  Gemma, is of course, central to the story.  She is depicted as a girl who rejects the stifling standards set for girls during those times when girls are meant to be groomed to be wives to the wealthiest husband they could manage to catch.  She even entertains an attraction to the mysterious Indian boy who has an important connection to the inexplicable things that are happening around her – unthinkable in Victorian England!

The novel plays on themes of friendship, bullying, feminism, coming-of-age, the first stirrings of sexual awareness, and the repressive and elitist standards of society in general.  These universal themes give the whole story the feeling of timelessness, no matter that it may be set in a time and place long gone. 

The pacing of the novel was also well-rendered – nothing had been revealed too quickly or too slowly. It will carry you on a sustained eagerness to know what happens next until the very last page.  I also very much appreciated the author’s ability to create good imagery.  You could almost see the somber faces of the girls in the annual class pictures, could almost hear the susurration of corset and crinoline, could almost smell the candle smoke.  Add to that a heavy dose of magic, murder mysteries, and alternate realms, and you have a winner of a book.

I highly recommend this book to everyone but most especially to teen-age girls.  They should be reading such rich and relevant material and not the current trend of popular literature that could only be best described as vapid and shallow.  This book is well-worth reading, and I can only hope I can manage to find the two others in the series, “Rebel Angels” and “The Sweet Far Thing.”  Check it out: http://www.randomhouse.com/teens/gemmadoyle/

Sleeping Beauty - Mirabilia

I love cross-stitch.  I've been at it since high school.  It's my own way of meditation - zoning out the world in order that I might find peace and quiet in my own mind.  This project, "Sleeping Beauty", is my third finished work.  I started working on it in 2005 (such a long time ago, it seems).  I ended up not touching it for about four years.  It just hid in my closet, nearly forgotten (asleep, much like the princess herself).  I picked it up again a couple of years back, and worked on it a little at a time.  I'm so glad I kept going and now I can say I didn't do too badly.  At least my family appreciates it, and I'm grateful.  There really is something quite special about seeing the product of your own hands completed and acknowledged.  I know many other people out there are far, far more skilled at this than I am, but at least this one is my own.

I chose this design because I've always loved fairy tales, and the story of the princess who slept for a hundred years waiting for her destined prince intrigued me the most.  What were her dreams like?  I wonder what it would be like to live only in dreams for a hundred years?

"Sleeping Beauty" designed by Nora Corbett.  The description for this design at www.mirabilia.com:  "The entire kingdom fell asleep, even the mice, and the roses grew wildly over the castle."  Reminiscent of a classic painting or ancient tapestry, our Sleeping Beauty lies in a bed of curling satin ribbons, caressing velvets, and exquisite beaded coverlets.  Prince Charming is on his way."





I've started on my new project, also by Mirabilia, called "The Kiss."  That one also has the feel of a fairy tale to it, and simply looks magical.  I wonder how many years it'll take before I finish that one?  Only time will tell.

UnScene #4

UnScene#4: I had a dog named Axel.  He died in 2005.  I still think about him a lot.

Axel

Gemma hadn’t gone home in a month.  It was a day before the end of the semester.  Nearly all the students were frantic about deadlines, oral defences, exams, and the like.  Gemma decided to put off taking the long trip home until the semester was over and done with.  Besides, she’d be able to get more study and work done with her classmates and dorm-mates at hand to help her.

“Tomorrow,” she told herself.  “I’ll be home by tomorrow night.”

But how she missed home!  She was sick of looking at the same dormitory food, sick of professors and group leaders breathing down her neck.  She missed the TV at home, her books and video games, the laughter around the dinner table. Most of all, she missed her dog, Axel.

For twelve years, she had always been the one in charge of taking care of Axel.  She did everything gladly – feeding, washing, picking up his poop, chasing him down whenever he ran out onto the street to chase some cat or other.  He was Gemma’s best friend.  They were nearly inseparable.  And then she got into the big university.  Her parents sent her off proudly.

Her mom told her not to worry; Axel will be well taken care of.  But of course she did worry.  Axel was an old dog, after all.  So Gemma made sure to come back home every weekend, refusing invitations to go out with her friends, passing up on weekend getaways.  But she didn’t mind missing any of those things. 

The day seemed to pass quickly enough.  Soon Gemma was stepping off the bus, slinging her large duffel bag over her shoulder.  It was a fifteen-minute walk from the bus stop to their house.  Suddenly she was nervous.  This was the first time she came home so late, and she had to pass by a rather shady street on her way to their house.  It was safe enough in the daytime, but at night...  She picked up her pace.

She managed to walk down the dodgy street without incident, without looking any one of the loiterers in the eye.  She was almost through the worst; in the distance she could almost see the gate of their house, when someone grabbed the strap of her bag from behind.  She nearly fell over.  Someone laughed. 

“Just grab the bag!” said one voice.  “Let’s split!”

Without looking, Gemma kicked hard at the person behind her.  Her blind aim connected and there was a piercing yelp as her foot hit something tender.  She screamed at the top of her voice, snatched back her bag and escaped.

She ran toward home, gasping; the sound of her attackers’ pursuit loud in her ears.  And then she saw it – Axel running out of their gate toward her, fur bristling, fangs bared; Gemma heard him growling furiously.  The dog ran past her, straight into her pursuers.  She dropped her bag and ran faster as she heard voices scream, feral growling, fabric tearing, feet running away.  The sounds faded as she ran faster, closer to home. 

She came abreast of the gate, panting, pounding the iron with her fists, kicking with her feet.  Why was it locked?  Didn’t Axel just run out?  She took a deep breath and yelled for her parents.  Soon they came through the front door running.

“O my god, Gemma!  What happened to you?”  her mom rushed to open the gate.

“Mama!  Pa!  Axel... those men...” she gasped, out of breath, through her tears.  “Get Axel back, Papa!  They’ll hurt him!”

“Axel?  What are you talking about?  What men?” demanded Papa.  “Did someone attack you?!” 

He grabbed the nearest thing to a weapon at hand, a garden hoe, and rushed out of the gate into the dark streets.

Gemma could only collapse to the ground, sobbing.  Her mom kept asking her what happened.  Soon enough, her dad came back, bringing her duffel bag with him. 

“What happened, Gemma?” he demanded.  “I found a lot of blood around where you dropped this.”

She told them everything.  But their faces didn’t show they believed her.

“Papa, didn’t you see Axel? We gotta get him back!” Gemma cried.  “He saved me.”

Her dad remained silent.  He exchanged a meaningful look with his wife.

“Gemma,” Mama said carefully.  “It couldn’t have been Axel.  It must have been some other dog.  It’s dark, you didn’t see clearly.”

“No, Mama, it was Axel.  I saw him run out of our gate.  We have to find him!”

“No, Gemma,” her mom hesitated.  “I’m very sorry, dear, but Axel died this morning.  We wrapped him in his favourite blanket.  We were just waiting for you to come home so we could bury him together.  I’m so sorry.”

Gemma couldn’t say anything.  She could only let her disbelieving tears fall silently down her cheeks.

The Prestige - Christopher Priest

I finished the book "The Prestige" by Christopher Priest, and it is simply spectacular!  I'm so terribly fortunate to have been given the chance to read so many great books, and this is definitely one of those.  I've seen the movie and I loved it (awesome director [Christopher Nolan] and fabulous cast [Christian Bale, Hugh Jackman, Michael Caine] ), but the novel just gives you an entirely different perspective since YOU get to create the world and the people in your mind.  The revelations simply become all the more astonishing.

The novel transports you to the 19th century, where two talented magicians are locked in a bitter rivalry that consumes both their lives, spanning even to the generations that follow them.  Both equally obsessed with revenge and with outdoing the other, they attack and retaliate all through each other's every success and failure in search of a means to bring about his rival's downfall.  As they guard their magician's secrets jealously, they begin to weary of the endless enmity and resentment.  Yet still they inadvertently and inevitably bring disaster and tragedy on each other, even as they seek to find reconciliation and an end to the bitter feud. 

The story is told in memoirs and journals, in confessions and revelations, all of which culminate in a final horrifying discovery - the terrible outcome of their contest.  The entire book, from start to finish, is an incredible balancing act - full of mystery and illusion - a perfected magical performance all on its own.  Even the look of the book is strange and captivating.  I also love the typeset of the text - it really gave the whole story a period ambiance. The pace is gradual at first, then builds up until you can't let go of the book without knowing what happens next anymore.  Central to the novel is the slow but sure revelation of the true characters of the two magicians. Who is the hero; who is the villain?  One can't say.  Who won in the end?  I don't think anyone did.  They both gained and lost just as much. Who was the better magician?  Impossible to tell.  They both did to perfection what only the great magicians could do - they kept their secrets well.

This is an absolutely brilliant book - it won the World Fantasy Award even though it is only toward the end that one can find elements of science fiction in it.  It is so unlike anything I've ever read before.  Christopher Priest must be a real magician or a true genius.  Otherwise he must be a truly gifted madman to have produced such work as this.  I definitely recommend it to all readers who enjoy deep, thought-provoking, mind-boggling material - and to most everyone else who loves to read good stuff.  

Unscene #3

UnScene #3: I knitted a scarf for a friend.  I saw a beggar at the train station.

Scarf

It took me three weeks and eight balls of yarn, but finally I finished it – my first knitting project, a beginner-basic scarf.  I loved how thick and soft it was, how gracefully it seemed to drape around my neck and shoulders.  I felt the genuine warmth and pride of having something to show that was the product of my own two hands.  The scarf would make the harsh winter more bearable, if not downright pleasant.

I walked through the crowds at the train station with my back straight and my eyes on alert, self-conscious because of my scarf.  No one would notice it or me, but that didn’t matter.  I knew.  It made me a tad bit more confident.  I bought my ticket and sat down on the nearest bench to wait for my train, looking around to see whether anyone was looking at me. And of course, no one was.  For at that time, the people were all looking somewhere else.

At a man in particular, who sat with his back against the wall under the big clock.  He was clearly a beggar.  His hair was a dirty mess; he had not shaved for at least a week.  He had no coat to protect him from the winter’s cold, and his shoes were tattered and falling apart.  In front of him was an empty plastic cup of instant noodles in which passersby could drop their cold, unneeded coins.  Men like him were often seen at train stations, but they were not stared at, no.  Most people choose to look the other way, but not in this case.  Because the beggar had started shouting.

“Don’t throw your damned coins at me like garbage!” he yelled.  “I still have my pride.  I’m still a man!  I’m still a man!”

He was madly beating his fists against his chest, against his thighs.  People in his immediate vicinity quickly dispersed, moving as far away from him as they could.  Soon, two of the station’s security guards were rushing toward him, threatening him that he’d be thrown back out into the freezing streets if he didn’t keep quiet.

Instantly the beggar quailed.  In my eyes, he seemed to shrivel.  The fire of anger and hurt pride that was blazing on his face and in his voice just a moment ago was suddenly gone, and he was shrinking, retreating into a posture of defeat and misery that made him once again just another beggar no one wanted to look at for too long; something less than a man.

I don’t know what came over me then.  I stood up and walked toward him, unwinding the scarf from my neck along the way.  I crouched in front of the beggar, holding out my scarf to him.

“Mister?  Here, you can have my scarf,” I offered.  “I made it myself.”

He looked up at me, and at my beautiful scarf.  Slowly he reached for it and draped it around himself, sighing at the comforting warmth.  Something alive lit up in his eyes again as he looked back at me.

“It’s a good scarf,” he said.  I nodded.

“I’m quite proud of it,” I told him, shy all of a sudden.

“I was very proud, too, not so very long ago.”

His eyes dimmed again, staring off into the distance, into his shrouded memories.  His hands fondled the ends of the scarf.  I stood up and walked slowly away. 

Somehow I couldn’t hold my head up so high anymore.