Done

"Formerly signifying Kentucky Fried Chicken, now signifying nothing, KFC is arguably the company that has increased the sum total of suffering in the world." Eating Animals, Jonathan Safran Foer

I  just finished a grueling week.  I finished a midterm, in which I compared SF MoMA to the London National Gallery, and a term paper, on the work of Japanese architects Kazuyo Sejima and Ryue Nishizawa, collectively known as SANAA.  By Friday, I was completely spent, and I did notice that no matter the quantity of work, I still can get washed over with an equivalent magnitude of stress.  But I've held out this week by recalling the advice of one of my favorite illustrators, Adrian Tomine, who once remarked that to be a good artist I'd probably be turning a lot of invitations to hang out and that I should moreover be wary of artists that don't.  I'm not sure I believe in the latter, but the former is a simple enough justification.

If there's anything that has really moved me this week, it has been the music of Bill Evans.  It reminds me of a more formal background music to Mr. Roger's Neighborhood.  You know, it may as well be.  I have been wanting to write in this blog for so long, and this morning I find myself with nothing to say.

I left my journal in San Francisco, so for the past week and a half I haven't written much except architectural criticism.   Time for  a break!

Thanks, Roxanne.

coruscate - v. - To give off or reflect light in bright beams or flashes: sparkle (Merriam-Webster Online)

Every weekend for the past several weeks, I have made excuses to return to San Francisco.  I am here now, and the hour and a half commute from Davis has changed from an agonizing life-lesson saturated ride with my dad to a pleasant respite accompanied by the sounds of backlogged episodes of This American Life playing from my iPod speakers.  Today, I realized my speaker-box fits conveniently between my legs, so I could hear Ira Glass' voice coming from, well, there.  The episodes make the time pass faster on the way.  Otherwise the drive to San Francisco is the same as ever.

I arrived early to meet my aunt, who treated me to dinner this evening since my birthday is coming up.  I could think of no other place to have dinner than at Farina, a restaurant that has been lauded and awarded for its successful architecture.  I can never forget when, in a news story, the architect had discussed his choice of concrete for its "materiality, which contributes a sense of stability and structure" or something like that.  I noticed that Farina served a clientèle of a much higher age bracket than mine.  Beside me were pairs of middle-aged husbands and wives, one of whom mused on the "remarkable charisma of employable men in that room".  The quirky dim restaurant lighting, the appetizer platter of inscrutably thin Italian meats encircling some kind of cheese, and the waiters that addressed you as signore all suggested to me that award-winning architectural design is a nicety enjoyed by and large by the elite.  As much as I admire the thought put into Farina's design, and for that matter, of any swanky restaurant, I do not wish to be an architect for a society with which I do not identify.  That is, I would rather design public spaces, for all types of people to enjoy, paycheck be damned.  Good design should not be restricted to those that can afford it.

Unfortunately, San Francisco is becoming less the egalitarian and more a habitat for these Farina types.  I unconditionally love San Francisco, but for many reasons including the one above, I would prefer to live elsewhere after college.

Anyway, the food was good.  Afterwards, Ninang Reggie and I bought some ice cream at Bi-Rite, but not before waiting in line for a good thirty minutes in the shivering cold.  After a certain length of time, waiting for something guarantees, if not increases, its enjoyment.  I had a cone of 1) malted vanilla with peanut brittle and 2) toasted banana.

Journal Entry: August 12, 2010

"Well, Mr. Antichrist, that's all for the present." - The Stranger, Albert Camus

I had two pieces of bread this morning.  What happened yesterday?

Yesterday, I woke up multiple times, from both naps and maladjusted sleep cycles.  Each time was a different but familiar scenery of my Philippines: Lola Pat's house, Lola's home in Cavite, my dad's apartment.  Right now, I'm sitting on my dad's couch.  It is probably ten o'clock in the morning.

I had never eaten so many meals as I did yesterday.  Sometimes, I was proud.  For example, I had balut for the first time.  I picked out the pieces: first the yolk, then some other gooey stuff, and finally all that remained was the duck embryo.  You could see its eyes, beak, and claws, all in all a feeble sight.  When it came time to eat the actual creature, it was not the familiar taste of duck.  In fact it tasted like nothing at all, except for the sale and vinegar used for flavoring.

My friend Courtney is vegan.  By virtue of not being the killer of the animal, she chooses not to eat meat.  So conversely, if she elected to kill an animal for sustenance, she would eat it.  Got it?  Good.  All right back to the somewhat present - I had in my hand a fertilized egg of a duck.  It was hot to the touch.  I suppose in all of the animal kingdom, a harmless waterfowl embryo must be the easiest to kill.  Technically, I didn't kill it; the man who heated the egg must have done the job, but eating the duck straight from the cracked eggshell  was the closest I've been to taking the middleman out.  So, for now, I am justified.

But I still feel disgusted.  Not at the time, no.  I was glad to eat a uniquely Filipino delicacy, if you can call it one.  Another check on the bucket list.  But "Was it really necessary?"  All right.  It didn't even taste good.  It didn't even taste like anything, just, well, faintly crunchy.

"What's the point?" is another form of the question, and I'm aware that asking this question (for me) ends up in a sorry nihilism that can piss away a whole day, but truthfully I had the equivalent of five meals yesterday.  Thinking myself a hobbit imbued (Edit: I am embarrassed by this sentence!  Imbued was the wrong verb, but I can't think of a better one.) me no solace.  Was it for sustenance?  Not really.  Taste?  No.  Curiosity?  Yes.  Add a little bit of questionable cultural approval, and you can maybe see why I still feel queasy.

Eating that duck challenged my reasons for not being vegetarian anymore.  I wasn't asked to eat it, and my refusal would have offended no one, culturally speaking.  For some inexplicable reason, I am pretty sure I felt better as a vegetarian.  Maybe it's the self-righteousness.  I am slowly coming to terms with my omnivorous life.

Journal entry: August 10, 2010

truculent - adj. 1) Feeling or displaying ferocity. 2) pugnacious. 3) aggressively self-assertive.

Is it the tenth?  Not so sure?  I am in the Philippines.  I got the phone call from my parents just yesterday.  Within twenty-four hours, I had packed a week's worth of clothes for the the trip.  I had forgotten extra pants and shoes and socks.  Fortunately, my dad and I are the same size.

More than anything else, I feel the humidity and the pervading smog, best seen from my dad's nine story view of Metro Manila.  It reminds me of every time I arrive in San Francisco at the Monterey Boulevard on-ramp, I lower my side window and take in a nice healthy breath of air.  Once I disembarked from the airplane, I was immediately reminded of that foul smelling sterility I can only associate with Filipino hospitals.  I sit here now in Barangay Bel-Air and can feel the rainy season, the wet air that mitigates the otherwise oppressive heat.

More people here are uniformed in loose-fitting white button-downs and slacks (for men) and 90's styled two pieces (for women).  The evening I returned, I saw an airline stewardess walk boldly through a busy thoroughfare.  We had nearly grazed her, yet both she and my family's driver seemed totally unphased at the time of near impact.  I think about my commute to Davis, and how I'd mutter obscenities under my breath when a driver would get to close for comfort for my rear view.  I am guessing to the average Filipino driver, I would seem unreasonably paranoid.

Behind me our water tank whirs on and off to continue supplying water to my uncle in the shower and the maids who are at work, probably preparing our meals.  I am waiting for my sister to get dressed so we can see my grandmother in Cavite.

It's a quotidian perspective on Filipino life, an outsider's one, definitely.  Everyone comments on the weather.