Friday, May 4, 2012

Her year of magical travelling (Part 1)

The year is 1957. Telesfora Cariño Lolarga, a widow of two years, embarks on a tour that will take her to the US, Mexico, Canada, Europe, India. And back again. There are gaps in her scrapbooks and albums that I've been trying to fill up with conjectures. Among other reasons for her year-long trip,  she was part of a Philippine delegation to a world trade fair and she re-connected with friends she made at the Young Women's Christian Association (Lola was a Methodist from birth till death), the ladies of the Masons (her husband Enrique was one), etc. I think she also observed radio schools in the US, having taken over the post of president at the National Radio School and Institute of Technology when her husband died.

And so begins my virtual tour with Lola.
Undated photo. Let's call this starting from home.
From the lei around her neck, Lola (right) must be in Hawaii.
In Los Angeles. That must be her Brownie camera perched on a step at left. This would become her trademark pose, handbag on crook of arm. And that friendly smile and open face.
At an outdoor farmers' market in L.A.
Did she or didn't she watch the Miss U pageant in Long Beach, California? Can't tell now.
At a picnic in San Francisco, CA. That's her half sprawled (second from left) on the grass, still wearing her high heels.

Thursday, May 3, 2012

Who Remembers What Munch's Life was Like?

"The version of 'The Scream' sold Wednesday was executed in 1895 and is the only one not held by Norwegian museums. It also features a poem inscribed by Munch in which he explains his inspiration for the work, which depicts 'the great scream in nature.'"

one hundred nineteen point nine million dollars
that's how much this painting was sold for at the auction block today

how many zeroes 
are there in that amount?

how many seedlings 
to replenish a forest
with that amount?

how many screaming protestors
can't be silenced
by zealous billionaires 
out to bury
collective memories with 
multi-level piles of concrete?

look how those
white-gloved men 
handle the work
as if it is 
a fragile infant
as if the slightest 
false move will cause 
precious pigments
to crumble

the painter 
once took a walk 
in the forest &
heard nature scream
its protest
at what the world
was turning out to be

he went home
to capture 
that sound
in waves upon
tsunami waves
of violent colors

how they must have 
echoed the violence
inside him
the kind that
protests when
moral guardians
say, "i'm disappointed
with you. you would've
made a skilled engineer.
an honorable trade
that one is.
stop this foolishness
of painting."

pweh!

if munch could outrace
his madness
his addictions
the nazis
who thought of him
& his works
as depraved

if he could
continue to paint away
recover his balance
& late in life
be respectable
be provident father
& not die van gogh's
pauper's death

oh for god's sake
pweh!

give the monied set
the screaming
effing scream

the forest will
outlive the self-proclaimed
zealots of progress

even munch in his
twilight years
must've known that

~ Babeth Lolarga
May 3, 2011
2:44 p.m.

 Source of quote and photo: http://news.ph.msn.com/lifestyle/munchs-scream-beats-auction-record-at-dollar1199-mn-3

Lola's love affair

A fellow grandmother likes to quote Anne Lindbergh when we're on the subject of grandchildren. I think the quote runs, "Grandchildren are the love affair of old age."

I quite agree, but when I do it is because I remember my own grandmother. I'm one of those who consider herself saved by the grandmother. When materialist and agnostic friends question whether there is a God or deny his/her existence, I just say to myself, not aloud ((I don't want to get into long-winded discussions on the subject), that I am sure there is a higher force  because I have seen, felt, known the kindness, the all-accepting love, the withheld judgment and unspoken forgiveness, the beauty and grandness of my grandmother.

One of the things I am doing this summer to keep my mind off the heat is to re-shoot photos from scrapbooks and albums that Lola had kept. She was 83 when she died in 1988. The earliest picture of her that I found was when she was 16.
Sweet 16 here. It must be the year 1921 if my math is right.
Lolo Lucky (Enrique Acosta Lolarga) and Lola Purang (Telesfora Cariño Lolarga) in their youth. Someone scrawled "Dad & Ma" on the picture; it must've been one of their five children. If Lola is partly leaning awkwardly, I think she was conscious of the fact that she stood a few inches taller than Lolo.
This grand-daughter is more than convinced that Lola hit her prime and came into her own when she was widowed young in 1955. Hence, the erect posture and the confident way she carried herself.
Becoming bigger than life. A Bob's Studio shot.
Today this is called retro chic. Back then she just looked oh so good. Still at the old Sampaloc house--I'm sure this was where this picture was taken because of that sticky linoleum mat and a vague memory of playing with those shells behind the thin curtain.
I don't know how long this self-imposed project will take me to finish (guess who's wishing for an endless summer?), but it's time to preserve the pictures through this blog--the scrapbooks' pages have become brittle and some pages are already torn.They're ready for the archives where the conditions are better for their preservation.
This is an easy one She dated it herself. Taken in 1958 at the living room of her Pepin street, Sampoloc, Manila, home. The golf trophies in the glass cabinets were won by her late husband. Other stuff in there were souvenirs from her tour of the US, Canada, Mexico and Europe.
 Frustration seeps in when I cannot date a photo. For the meantime, before I embark, little by little, on retracing a life, here are remembrances of Lola dearest with some  shots of her with her grandchildren. I will post more in the morrow.
With grandchildren at her former house in Sampaloc, Manila. That's Ferdie Romero on her lap, Sonny to her left. Behind her are Tessie Romero, Eileen Lolarga, Allyn Valdellon (partly hidden) and Toots Romero.
Lola was an amateur photographer. I think this snapshot in Camp John Hay, late '50s Baguio, is hers. From left are: Beng and Telly Valdellon, Eileen Lolarga, Mercy Leah Cariño and Allyn.
Everyone got tucked in by the beloved family elder who also made the crazy cat quilt partly covering  (from left) Mercy, Beng, Lily Ramirez, Toots and Rose.

With a young Rose, the eldest of her grandchildren
Wish this cutie would identify herself. Is that you, Pixie Lolarga? That's lola in the Brookside house's dining room.
Here we are on Lola's lawn. My brothers look preoccupied with their toys. Front row: Dennis, Suzy, our mom Nene, Babeth and Junic Lolarga. Second row: Mercy and Lola.


Baden Powell was where Lola and her first set of grandkids stayed in the '50s before she built a house on M. Roxas street, Lower Brookside, Baguio.
And there was her retirement house, then unpainted.

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Kai Ko

inaawit sa tono ng "Little Snowflake", bahagi ng seryeng Super Simple Learning Songs 
mula sa http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbbKjDjMDok

oyayi para sa apong ayaw pang matulog


Kai ko Kai ko
Munting Kai ko
Liit Kai ko
Gumagapang na

Kai ko Kai ko
Munting Kai ko
Ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot
 Tumatayo pa

Kai ko Kai ko
Munting Kai ko
Liit Kai ko
Lumalakad na

Kai ko Kai ko
Munting Kai ko
Ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot
Ayaw matumba
 
Kai ko Kai ko
Munting Kai ko
Liit Kai ko
Ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot ikot
Umiikot pa
Patulugin na
Papikitin na
Bukas na muli 

Kai ko Kai ko
Munting Kai ko

--Babeth Lolarga

Larawan ng batang si Kai Mykonos L. Fernandez kuha ng kanyang mamay Kimi

Robin and Joy


Hats on!


It was time for old girlfriends to meet again on the last Thursday of April.This  happens four or five times a year, six on a good year.

Even if the distance from the mountain home to Manila amounts to 250 kilometers and some, I try with all my might to be present. (Do I hear grumbling from one end in the north? Nah! My partner in life knows that sending me off to attend ladies' lunches and suppers plus official work-related meetings is cheaper than two hours of decadent luxury in a spa, the full body treatment and some. Sitting around a table discussing manuscripts, projects and acting on them can be more rejuvenating, I've learned.)

First Draft is agreed that when it's Gilda's turn to pick a spot, you can be sure the ambiance is better than good, the food fit for the gods (sorry, blasphemy unintended).
Gilda introduces Jetro to the group.
Clockwise: Karina, Mariel, Lorna, Edna, Rita, Fe, Babeth and Gilda. 
We got the royal treatment all the way, even if I arrived in my summer shorts and Hawaiian shirt and barefoot (footwear is left outside the door). Jetro Rafael is the cook-proprietor of Van Gogh is Bipolar which is his home by day and restaurant by appointment by evening (it can only accommodate 12 persons; with eight of us there, that left only two other tables for the other diners who were separated from us by a beaded curtain)

He had small clip-on hats or hairbands for each of us. For awhile I was wearing out-of-season reindeer antlers, but they kept on hitting the low-hanging mobiles so Jetro lent me a dainty black feathered head-dress, which can't hold on to the little head of hair I have so I pinned it on my breast pocket.
Queenly Lorna with a sword-like shaft of light protecting her from behind.
Karina
Edna

Mariel
Rita
 Jetro I've met at his former tea laboratory at 10a Alabama in Cubao, Quezon City. We share and own our condition of bipolar disorder (manic depressive in the days of old). So Gilda's confirmation of our meeting's venue went something like "Van Gogh is Bipolar Like You." She isn't queen of sass for nothing.
Woman reading
That evening she read a fine piece whose title I dare not disclose for fear the others will pounce on me for disclosing our six-month-long project in the making. I used to do what Edna called "beadle duties" for the group, mainly recording attendance, even the menu (compulsive note-taker that I am), reminding members when the next meeting is or whose birthday is forthcoming.

It can be daunting, if you have 10 women who all have families to attend to, whose activities range from business, counseling, advocacy work in safeguarding press freedom and the environment to professional writing, editing and painting, etc. Getting ourselves to agree on a meeting date, time and place, then making adjustments, almost became a tertiary job for me. After seven years, someone had to take over.So beadle duty has been rotated among the others.

Where was I? The hats! Oh, that was Jetro's welcome touch followed by a welcome drink called Courtney Love's Potion (his dishes and drinks come with names of people who have our condition). If by strange fortune, you fall in love love with 'em food and drinks, they're not on the menu; Jetro cannot repeat them for you. He likes a creative challenge when doing his marketing, in choosing what is available and agreeable in different sources and in kitchen prep, cooking and plating. If this cook were a musician, he does improvisational jazz.
Courtney Love's Potion. Karina and Mariel look at Jetro's photos.
Where was I again? The Potion! It's made of fresh fruit extracts with wild honey. He paused when he presented our individual appetizers and tried to think of a name for it. Gilda piped in: "Babeth." And Babeth is dried pastrami with German white cheese and basil and lotsa pepper. How can Babeth be less than yummy?
Ain't it a dish? And it's called Babeth.
A "gigolo server", also a volunteer, not a paid waiter, came to serve us Virginia Woolf's Tears whose chemical components are supposed to inhibit anger and other negative emotions. It was a hearty wild turkey soup with banana chips and edible flowers.

For the main course, we had a choice of a Happy (emperor's fish with black rice) or a Chill Dish (slow-roasted, mouth-watering chicken). Most of us went for happy, but the chillers generously shared a small portion of their meat-based dish so we got a taste of what we would've missed out on.
Melting carabao's milk sorbet with nuts and a piece of fruit. I mixed this with the shot of dark chocolate on the right and ended up with milk chocolate. Mmmmmm!
The dessert to cap the evening: another came with a choice of wholesome (ice cream made out of fresh carabao's milk) or sinful (black chocolate in a shot glass to be consumed with amber-colored liqueur in a beaker). Have I already written that Jetro's presentation is a work of art each time? If I have, pinch me for repeating myself, but it comes with age, and we're women of a certain interesting age.

It was a lovely way to spend an evening, a way to mark First Draft's 10th year, with  individual women continuing their journey to become themselves...and something else. On evenings like these, even if we missed the company of Chit and Melinda, we feel like the komiks heroine Darna, soaring high and pregnant with ideas.

Photos, except for the topmost illustration found in the Web and the group shot by Jetro, were taken by Babeth Lolarga. Excuse the fuzziness--tried composing pictures only with available light. Van Gogh Is Bipolar is in the inner courtyard at 154 Maginhawa street, Sikatuna Village, Quezon City.

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

It Must Have Been Sun Glow

that keeps you compliant
& uncomplaining
why else are you
unmoved by the heat?
so unmoved & still
you are heedless of
others' advice to always
carry an umbrella
rub a bit of sunblock
on face neck arms
& other exposed areas
carry a pint of water
before you step out of 
the house of shade
the warmth is preferable
the sizzle the swelter are welcome
 this feeling of being trapped
in a hothouse
these droplets of sweat
the quickening rush of blood to the head
this sweet stickiness between the legs
that scorching pavement
prickling those thin soles of your feet
 remind you
 how life 
how struggle
 hint of relief
somewhere up that
river that bends
to the left
where dark clouds
of rain
hover over plains
& conspire to bring
an inundation
unwanted
--Babeth Lolarga
May 1, 2012
Pasig City 
7:11 p.m.
 

Monday, April 30, 2012

Old friends

Dario checks out my two panoramic shots of a Batanes seashore dating back to '98. He now has them in his collection.
Rustie lets out a hearty guffaw
Ahhh, I wil not let this month end without claiming a semblance of poetry on this space. Too tired from the heat and the constant composing and correcting of manuscripts, I've decided to just let balladeer Michael Feinstein sing "Old Friend" while I post pictures of the people I spent Sunday with, a pleasurable company of persons with whom I've had a history: Rustie Otico, Cynthia Alberto Diaz, Dario Noche and Alejandrino "Al" Vicente. 
Al explains why Anne Proulx's short story "Brokeback Mountain" is notches better than the film version and brings out Rustie's copy of the O. Henry reader of prize-winning short stories as evidence.
Until gentler winds bring us all together again. Meanwhile, this is for all of you, old pals. There are several songs with the same title of "Old Friend", but this by far says it all for me as I go over traces of an afternoon of shared laughter, the clinking of glasses of red wine, one faux pas after another whenever memory faltered. And that was often.  My four traveling companions to Cavite are true friends--not even decades of being apart diminished the warmth when we clasped hands with Al who has traveled the world, including hot spots in the Arab world, as a diplomat but who has remained the articulate literatteur and cineaste of old.

Love is rare, life is strange
Nothing lasts, people change

Every time I lost another lover
I call up my old friend
And I say let's get together
I'm under the weather
Another love has come to an end

And she listens as I tell her my sad story
And wonders at my taste in friends
And we ponder why I do it
And the pain of getting through it
And she laughs and says, "You'll do it again"

But we sit in a bar and talk till two
'Bout life and love as old friends do
And tell each other what we've been through
Our love is rare, life is strange
Nothing lasts, people change

And I ask her if her life is ever lonely
And if she ever feels despair
And she says she's learned to love it
'Cause that's really all part of it
And it helps her feel the good times when they're there

Yes, we sit in a bar and talk till two
About life and love as old friends do
And tell each other what we've been through
Our love is rare, life is strange
Nothing lasts, people change

And we wonder if I live with any lovers
Or spend my life alone
And the bartender is dozing
And it's getting time for closing
So we figured that I'll go out on my own

But we'll meet the year was '62
And travel the world as old friends do
And tell each other what we've been through
Our love is rare, life is strange
Nothing lasts, people change

Love is rare, life is strange
Nothing lasts, people change
Old friend



Source: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jtABADNJnT4
Cynthia always seems to carry a bag, not a barrel, of laughs, in a manner of speaking.
Rustie studies Cynthia's camera while we suggest that he consider taking up a new interest like photography and journaling after decades of being an unsung copy editor. He insists on regaining his strength first before venturing into anything new.
During the supposedly best hour for taking pictures (4 p.m.), Rustie led us to his fence where we peeked over the edge and gazed at his neighbor's orchids. That he finally has time again to admire flowers is a personal cause for rejoicing and thanksgiving.
 Photos by Babeth Lolarga