Just for Fun: A Few of My Favorite Actors

Yeah, yeah, he's gorgeous. But he's also funny as hell. I love watching him most in comedies, when I can drool and laugh at the same time. My favorite Cary Grant films: Holiday, The Awful Truth, The Philadelphia Story, The Bishop's Wife

One of the finest, most versatile screen actors who ever lived. So clean and economical; not a wasted gesture to be found. My favorite Spencer Tracy films: Adam's Rib, Father of the Bride

I love this man's voice! It's the main reason I watch his films, though he's a competent actor as well. Such an unfettered, unaffected sound, with a beautiful sotto voce (examples: the last verse of "Surrey with a Fringe on Top" and the reprise of "If I Loved You"). Favorite Gordon Macrae films: Oklahoma!, West Point Story, Carousel

No, I have never seen Silence of the Lambs, nor will I ever. Not my kind of film. But you certainly don't need to see it in order to appreciate this actor fully. He gave, in my humble opinion, one of the finest performances on film, as a repressed butler -- subtle, incredibly nuanced, devastating. My favorite Anthony Hopkins films: Remains of the Day, Shadowlands, and 84, Charing Cross Road

Yeah, yeah, he's gorgeous. But he's also a fine actor. And he's gorgeous. My favorite Colin Firth films (feature films, not mini-series): The King's Speech, Bridget Jones' Diary, Love, Actually, Summer in Genoa

Of course, we now know him best from Downton Abbey, but I loved him from his very first big film, Notting Hill, when he was adorably pudgy and pathetic. I have since seen him in such a wide variety of things, I'm convinced he can do anything and everything at all, from Shakespeare to light romantic comedy to the darkest of psychological dramas. He's brilliant. My favorite Hugh Bonneville films: French Film, Notting Hill, Miss Austen Regrets

Again, the sheer versatility of this man astounds me. I certainly haven't seen everything he's done, but I've seen enough to know that he, like Bonneville, can do anything. My favorite Kevin Kline films: A Fish Called Wanda, The Emperor's Club, The Big Chill, Dave, French Kiss

For me, the mark of a comic genius is that he can not only make you laugh, but can also break your heart -- sometimes even simultaneously. One of the most gifted actors of our time, David Hyde Pierce is entirely capable of both titillating your funny bone and breaking your heart. How often have we seen him straddle the fine line between comedy and pathos as the iconic Niles Crane on Frasier? He is endowed with an impeccable sense of timing, precise diction and delivery, and a body that is an ideal instrument for physical comedy. Equally at home on the stage, he has done everything from the classics to musical theater, in which he displays a very pleasing baritone. As a supporting actor in films, he more than holds his own. And he demonstrated at last his strength as a charismatic leading man in the dark comedy/psychological thriller The Perfect Host. He is truly one of the most skilled actors working today.



My Favorite Family Christmas Memories

Midnight Mass at the Main Chapel at Ft. Sam Houston. When I was little, I remember my sisters and I always got brand new dresses to wear at Midnight Mass. We, my brother, and our parents somehow all fit into the old red and white Chevy station wagon, and we'd drive to the Main Chapel through the chilly dark, enjoying the colored lights which all the houses sported then. (Nowadays, outdoor lights seem to be the exception rather than the norm.) Our lights were always red and blue, very simple. One of my sisters recently reminded me of one particular year when a classmate of hers, one of Cole High School's finest students, sang "O Holy Night" and crashed and burned on the high note. It was one of those things that, being normal kids, we thought horrible and funny at the same time.

The Little Drummer Boy album. I'm referring, of course, to the old 1950's Harry Simeone Chorale album, not the later version. I learned all the important Christmas carols by listening to that album, and I also loved the brief narrative snippets, both spoken and sung, in between the carols. I particularly love the "Adeste Fideles" -- it starts out with just the men singing a cappella  except for a soft bell; they sing the Latin very softly and take no unison breaths throughout the entire verse. The effect is seamless and stunning, like ancient monks chanting as they process through a dark cloister. The soloists on this album are great, too -- that lovely soprano featured in "O Holy Night," "What Child Is This?", and "Silent Night"; also the resonant bass that sang "Go Tell It on the Mountain." We still have that album.

"Christmas with Ed Ames." The other Christmas album I grew up with. Ed Ames has one of the most beautiful natural instruments I've ever heard; I could listen to him all day. The orchestration of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" is absolutely perfect, and spoiled me for any other version of that classic.

Christmas Day family dinner. Filipino style, of course! We always had lechon (roast pork), covered with its crispy skin, and, for those who like it (not me), Mom's homemade liver sauce on top. Pancit bihon -- delicate rice noodles mixed with pork, shrimp, chicken, and veggies; the Filipino version of lo mein, but lighter and drier. Mom's justifiably famous lumpia (egg rolls). And for dessert, leche flan, the Filipino flan, which is much richer and heavier than other flans. For those who want something American, red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting.Yummmmm scrummmmm......!

What to Write About???

     Yesterday I checked out new posts on some of the blogs I follow. One blogger's latest post began with an apology for his recent, relatively lengthy silence, saying that he'd been having a hard time thinking of something to write about. Though I know his problem is not in the least uncommon, I nevertheless felt relief that someone else besides me suffered from it. After all, I don't lead the busiest, most exciting life (not anymore, anyway), and turning the ordinary into something extraordinary is a difficult thing for any writer. It's what separates the ordinary writer from the extraordinary one.
     I have pretty much exhausted the story of my time in the monastery (well, actually there are lots of things about that time which I haven't blogged about, but they are perhaps better left unblogged); and, while there are many stories I could, and probably will, tell about my experiences at the Houston Grand Opera, part of me rebels against writing too much about the past. Another part says, "Well, what does it say at the top of my blog, underneath the title? So, shouldn't I keep writing about the past, and what I've learned from it? And even if I haven't learned anything from a particular event, why shouldn't I write about it anyway?"
     The truth is, anything and everything I write, be it prose or verse, is informed by my past. I can't get away from it, nor do I want to. That isn't to say I don't look to the future; rather, I'm very much interested in the journey, all the odd little twists and turns that characterize my particular path, the mistakes I've made and the consequences that resulted from them; I'm interested in how all of that affects this moment and how I may use it to prepare for future moments. Perhaps I should have been a psychiatrist.
     Living in the past is a bad thing, yes, if one just stays there, inert. But examining and using it in a positive, educational way can only be helpful. Writing about it, even in a blog, helps me to do just that. If you come along for the ride, I hope my own life lessons can teach you something, too. And hopefully we'll have some fun along the way!

Desire, Determination, Discipline

     I have an obsessive personality. When something interests me I go for it whole-hog, give it my all, dive in head first -- all those clichés apply. I don't know, however, if this trait is inborn or if it was something I acquired somewhere along the road; I suspect it's the latter. Maybe it all started when my high school counselor, in her frustration at my constantly skipping class and flunking courses, told me I'd never amount to anything. Yes, it could very well be that she unknowingly sparked a different kind of rebellion in me than I had hitherto shown, a better kind of rebellion. Maybe, too, the few teachers who did see something in me underneath the slacker, and told me I could do anything I put my mind to, had something to do with it. Or perhaps part of me just got sick and tired of the pesky laziness that, I know very well, is an inborn trait.

     At any rate, I have come to the conclusion that I really, really, really have to have the desire to do something in order for my inborn laziness to be conquered by my non-inborn determination. Once those two things are up and running, I have very little problem summoning the discipline to do whatever it is I desire to do. You may be thinking that this is true of practically anyone who has any motivation at all; however, I have come across countless persons who can accomplish things through sheer discipline, but not necessarily desire. In other words, they are capable of doing something they don't really want to do, and doing it very well. I'm not one of those persons.

     Case in point: during my first few years as a vocal coach at the Houston Grand Opera, I had enough knowledge of Italian to "get by," i. e., enough to translate libretti (opera texts) and refine the singers' diction. However, I couldn't read more complicated texts at sight, nor could I follow spoken Italian very well, and I certainly couldn't respond at any length when spoken to. And I was perfectly content to stay at that level -- until I fell head over heels in love (albeit secretly) with an Italian singer who at that time had only a very modest command of English. I suddenly had the desire to know his language better, and in doing so, know him better. Love is one of the greatest motivators there is. It can move us to do both good things and stupid things. In my case, thank God, it moved me to do only good things.

     Determination kicked in a few months after I met him. I had asked my family for only bookstore gift cards that Christmas, in order to buy Italian books and tapes. The following New Year's Day I began my relentlessly disciplined daily routine: upon waking, I made and drank my coffee while listening to a tape. Whenever I got into my car, I would turn on a tape. I carried a book with me wherever I went, so that I could study every single spare moment during my day, including solitary meals in restaurants. At home, the television stood silent and cold, except when I rented an Italian movie, and I would study until two or three in the morning. I went to bed with my Walkman and headphones, and fell asleep listening to vocabulary tapes. As soon as I was able (which was after about two months of intense, non-stop study) I bought novels and newspapers in Italian, eschewing literally anything written in English for a full year -- well, with one tiny exception, a novelette, Kate Chopin's The Awakening.

     My friends were supportive of my obsession for about two weeks; after that, they were heartily sick of it and of me, and frankly I didn't blame them. One friend in particular was annoyed that I learned in two months what took her two years to learn. What could I say? Once desire, determination, and discipline fuel an obsession, you can accomplish more than you ever thought you could.

     I decided to follow up my private study with even more intense study in Italy, taking advantage of one of the many "total immersion" programs given out of private homes. In these programs, you live in your teacher's home, have 2-4 hours of formal lessons per day, and speak not one word of your native tongue, not even in your lessons; your teacher and any family members in the home will speak only Italian. I did this program twice, the first time for three weeks in Lucca, and the second for two weeks in Florence (the region of Tuscany is considered the best for language study, as it is after all the cradle of modern Italian, and the accents are cleanest). All I can say is, thank God for my obsessiveness, because when I arrived for my first stay, I found that I had almost no problem understanding my teacher, and while I was by no means fluent or even conversant, I could make myself understood with relative ease. However, I will say that I would have severe headaches by mid-afternoon, and by evening I was perfectly happy to keep both my mouth and my ears shut. The Houston Grand Opera, where I was working at the time, readily agreed to pay part of my expenses for both trips, and indeed it benefited them as much as it did me.

     Not content with becoming more conversant in modern Italian, I also wanted to learn about archaic Italian, the language of Dante, Petrarca, Tasso, etc. I began by translating old poetry, eventually working my way up to my own prose translation of a five-act pastoral play in blank verse, Aminta by Torquato Tasso, which was for me a gratifying (and exhausting) achievement. I have also translated seven modern plays, mostly by Italo Svevo. None of these translations are published, and probably never will be; I just did them for fun and for my own education.

     Desire, determination, and discipline also turned my obsession with opera into a full-fledged 25-year career, and an unrequited love (the same one that motivated me to learn Italian) into a full-fledged poetry collection. "The Three D's" has been my motto since college, and has served me very well indeed.

    

Compensations in the Life of a Spinster

     Somehow, I always knew that I'd never get married. I know, I know—"you never know." But I knew. And I know. I mean, come on, I've already passed the half-century mark. Not that my life has been lacking in romance, serious relationships, messy relationships, downright wrong relationships, joy, heartache, passion—any of that. And Lord knows I've had my fill of yearning from afar, otherwise known as "unrequited love," which fortunately became a very productive poetic inspiration, alla Dante and Petrarch.

     Ever since I can remember, my romantic nature has dominated my life, manifesting itself in crush after crush on boys who were more interested in my friends than in me. Metaphorically speaking, I was always the bridesmaid, never the bride. To my youthful reasoning, my being constantly passed over was due to my looks: olive skin, flat nose, full lips. Your basic Asian-American geek, with thick glasses to boot. Keep in mind, this was back in the '60s and early '70s, before "exotically ethnic" was a turn-on. Back then, we girls all wanted to look like Cheryl Tiegs. Of course, when I got to college, it was a whole different ballgame and I was actually grateful for my looks, but as a pre-teen and adolescent, I was too insecure and shackled by social anxiety disorder to rely on my personality; in my eyes, I had none. All I had was musical talent, which tended to intimidate boys rather than attract them to me.

     That same musical talent proved to be a boon in other ways, a compensation for many heartaches and ego bruises. It gave me my life and my living, to quote John Denver, and quite an exciting, rewarding life and living they were, too. Music boosted my self-confidence and eventually tamed (though not quite cured) my social anxiety disorder. The piano became my confidante and faithful companion, though, as in all intense relationships, we had our bitter battles and dark days of not speaking to each other. I admit, I was even abusive at times, beating my fists on its keys and screaming expletives, knowing damn well it couldn't fight or scream back. But the piano never deserted me. Ultimately, I had to desert it, having come to the realization that we could never live together in harmony.

     I exchanged that great, all-consuming relationship for a much easier, less demanding one—the organ. I don't call myself a real organist, mind you, though I did teach myself, with the aid of a good book, proper organ technique (very different from the piano), including pedals; and like a real organist, I wear bona fide organ shoes when I play. However, I have absolutely no interest in playing solo organ music; all I want is to play hymns and play them very well. My organ playing is purposely limited to Mass, and in the chapel where I play, it is not necessary to have a solo prelude and postlude; just the hymns and the sung parts of the Ordinary. In this way, I am able to avoid a lot of practicing, which through my thirty-seven years as a pianist has proved to be a major threat to my sanity and blood pressure.

     All in all, music has been a wonderfully satisfying compensation for a rocky and sometimes non-existent love life; even when the piano and I were on the outs, we always loved each other deep down.

     I mentioned earlier that an unrequited love may spawn poetic inspiration. In my case, it spawned The Distant Belovèd, an ongoing, ever-expanding collection of sonnets and lyrics. At this writing, it consists of over fifty pieces (and many rejects). I write other kinds of poetry as well, not just love poems, but I had to find a creative way to—now, the Italians have a particularly charming word for it—sfogarmi, vent myself. When I first began The Distant Belovèd, I had no intention of ever having it published, either in part or as a whole. It was purely personal, an extension of my journal. But my sister, after reading a few of the poems, convinced me to submit them, and I am happy that some have found a home in small poetry journals, along with several of my non-love poems. Who knows if I'll ever try to get the whole of The Distant Belovèd published? Editors today don't seem to go for love poems, especially of the formal variety (formal poetry is poetry that has meter and/or rhyme, as opposed to free verse, which has neither), and some of mine do, I suppose, border on what they would call "sentimental." But hey, it's hard not to be sentimental about love. And what exactly is "sentimental," anyway? If it brings a smile to the lips or a tear to the eye, is it such a literary crime? Does that make me a hack? The Nicholas Sparks of poets?

     So poetry has been another great compensation, though not exactly lucrative. . . .

     But the biggest compensation of all for being a spinster is being able to spend these past few years helping my parents. I will always be grateful to have been here for my father when he needed me and my mother most; now that he's gone, I can still be here for my beloved mother. Maybe deep down I always knew, as Beth March did in Little Women, that I was never destined to fly far from home, and that my true ministry lies right here with those I love most. I regret nothing, and have everything to be thankful for.

     And I care not one whit that I ended that sentence with a preposition.

OFFERING

You gave me a heart too large
for the tiny life I've led.
Hard-pressed have I been to know
what to do with the surplus,
the virgin flesh burgeoning
in the hollow of my breast.
What will You have me do, then?

Would You take it partly spent—
or give it, like the talent
that was buried in the field,
to one less fearful than I?
Or would You have me fill it
with as much unspoken love
as any one heart can hold?

How many times have I stood
in the marketplace, this heart
too large in my trembling hands,
this blushing eager maiden
of a heart; but no one came.

My heart will not go empty.
I will sow it with the years'
silent loves and silent wounds
and reap a harvest of prayer,
place it at Your gate, in hope
that its yield may be enough.


["Offering" was first published in Dreamcatcher]

A Poet's Voice

     When I first started writing poetry, I had absolutely no intention of getting it published. Poetry to me was simply a way of exercising my creative muscles, playing with words and forms. More importantly, it was another form of journaling, venting, purging -- and it still is, which is why all my poems are autobiographical. The difference between venting through prose (journaling) and venting through verse is that the discipline of writing verse gives me time to be a bit more detached about whatever it is I'm venting. Verse demands that I mull over the selection of words, the harmony of sounds, line breaks, punctuation, the arc of the poem; in doing so, I'm better able to examine objectively the particular emotion that I'm trying to convey, under the therapeutic microscope of poetic craft. When journaling, I simply pour out stuff without really thinking, without reasoning, without worrying about craft. Both of these purgative methods are beneficial, in different ways and for different reasons, yielding different results.
     If my primary motivation was to be published and read by a wide public, then, yes, I would attempt to turn outward for my subjects and not stay so much in my own head and heart. If I were really concerned about giving editors what they want today, i. e., "universal" poems rather than deeply personal, "confessional" ones, I would turn to nature, politics, or social issues for poetic inspiration. The truth is, I seem to belong to the confessional (albeit "formalist") school, but (I hope) without the extreme angst-ridden, suicidal overtones. If you really stop to think about it, though -- isn't all poetry "confessional"? Even when writing politically, how can one do so without delving into one's own personal politics? What is "universal," anyway? This universe, this society, this very world, are made up of individual people with individual opinions and feelings. Or should feelings come into play at all? How on earth can they not?
     At the encouragement of my sister, I did eventually decide to submit my poems for publication and am happy about my modest success so far. As long as there are those precious few publications whose editors welcome "personal" poetry, I will continue to send out my ventings in verse. According to the old maxim, I should write what I know. Well, what I know best is my own life, so that's what I write. And I think it's what I write best.

          Autobiography

          I only write that which I know;
          I only know that which I live,
          And life will seldom lie.
          But then, I cannot always know
          The secrets of the life I live,
          So I myself can lie.

          This much I promise: I will tell
          The truth as it appears to me;
          And if I tell it slant,
          Then truth is only time's to tell.
          But even time may not tell me,
          So truth, to me, is slant.

     Well, maybe that isn't my best, but you get my drift.
   

On Making Books for Christmas

     It's no secret to any of my family or close friends. They know they'll get books from me at Christmas -- hand-sewn, hand-bound, and, in most cases, printed at home by yours truly. Usually the book contains the poems I have written that year. However, last year my poetic output wasn't enough for even a decent chapbook (a small, pamphlet-like book, usually of poetry, and usually 18-40 pages); so instead, I typed out an account, originally written by Ron Fellows, of my father's experiences during World War II, bound it as a hardbound, cloth-covered chapbook, and gave that to my parents and siblings for Christmas.

     I love making each book unique, choosing papers and fabrics according to each recipient's taste. That way, each knows that his or her book is absolutely personal. I suppose I could simply have them done by a professional printer, or through one of those websites that specialize in things like wedding books, but I prefer to make them even more personal and special by making them myself. Of course, this takes time. People often ask me how long it takes me to make a book, and that's a question impossible to answer, because I like to take my time, doing one or two steps a day, sometimes skipping days if I feel like it.

     The first step, of course, is choosing the texts. Fortunately, most of my poems are short and can fit on one half of a letter-size page (that is, when you choose the "landscape" orientation rather than "portrait"). This makes it much easier to plan the order of the pages, front and back. You have to count the total number of pages, including the title page, publishing credits, table of contents, etc., and even blank pages. That number should be divisible by four (again, this is if you choose to do it in "landscape" and fold the pages to form a book). If it isn't divisible by four, simply add more blank pages until it is, keeping in mind that the first page of text (usually the title page) should be on the right side, or "recto." When you divide the total number by four, you'll know how many sheets of paper ("leaves" in the book trade) to use for each book. For instance, thirty-six pages of text and blanks combined, require nine leaves. It helps to make a list of all the pages:

     Using this list, the next step is to make a sample book out of scrap paper, making sure to include the page numbers. The sample book is invaluable -- in fact, necessary -- when you finally go to the computer to type and create the document. All that done, it's ready to print! I prefer using 24 lb. 100% cotton paper, but if the book has more than 10 leaves, such thick paper is hard to fold and the book won't stay shut properly.

     After printing, fold all the leaves at once into one "signature," pressing the crease firm with the help of a bone folder or the side of a pen. Never fold the leaves one at a time and put them together afterward; you'll wind up with tiny gaps in the fold between leaves, causing the final product to be less sturdy at the spine. The folding done, the fore edge (the long edge, opposite the spine) should be trimmed with an exacto knife to even it up, and I like to trim the upper and lower edges as well so that I end up with the size of book I want, keeping the pages' side margins wide enough to be pleasing to the eye.

     For the past few years, I've chosen to make my poetry gift books softbound, using beautiful, heavy art paper for the covers and lighter-weight art paper for the endpapers. (Most people wouldn't bother putting endpapers in a softbound book, but I think it's really nice.) Usually I choose a solid color for the cover, because I like to surprise the reader when he/she opens the cover and sees endpapers with a striking pattern. Sometimes, though, I'll keep the endpapers simple and use a paper in a solid color that complements but contrasts with the cover. The cover and endpapers are trimmed to size and folded with a soft crease, not pressed, so that it molds to the spine with no gap.

     Next, I use a fine awl (a push pin works, too) to make the holes in the crease for stitching the leaves, endpapers, and cover all together. If I had the book made at a printer, they would saddle staple the pages. Hand-stitching looks so much better! Most bookbinders would probably do a basic 3-hole pamphlet stitch, which holds the leaves together with two long stitches; but I prefer for this size book to use five holes, which results in four shorter stitches -- I think it makes the spine sturdier. Linen thread is best, as it is stronger than other threads. Embroidery needles have blunt points that won't poke unwanted extra holes in the paper if you should miss one of the pre-punched holes when sewing. Here is one of my first softbound chapbooks and the contrasting endpaper:

     The papers I've chosen for this year's Christmas chapbooks are absolutely beautiful, and I'm proud of the poems I've written these past couple of years -- so I'm hoping the resulting products will be my best yet!