AYYY... JURY

Ang nakaraan: Naisipan kong pumasok sa Quiet Room matapos makipag-usap sa isang Pinay na tulad ko ay totally lost sa Jury Hall.

Ang kasalukuyan: Tahimik sa Quiet Room. (Corny. O eto pa, Ano ang kulay ng White House? Kilala mo ba ang nakalibing sa Tomb of the Unknown Soldier?) Sa isang simbahan sa Miami, merong isang kwarto na tinaguriang Crying Room. Doon naka-"detain" ang mga batang nagngangawa para wag makabulahaw sa mga taimtim (taimtim daw, o) na nagdadasal, pero syempre alam pa rin ng mga magulang nila ang progreso ng Misa kasi may sa speaker sa loob ng CR (Crying Room, hindi Comfort Room, although kung hirap na hirap ka na at di ka makaetat, mas tama sigurong tawagin ang kubeta na Crying Room) tas may malaking bintana kung saan nakikita ng mga magulang ng batang pasaway ang nagaganap sa sanctuary. Naisip ko minsan, paano kung nakikinig ka ng misa dun, tas nakatanggap ka ng text sa syota mo na "Break na Tayo", tas syempre nagngangawa ka, pupunta ka ba sa Crying Room? Wala lang, ask ko lang, bulanglang.

Kaya tahimik sa Quiet Room, dalawa lang ang andun, tas tipong di pa nila type ang isa't-isa. Sa isang sulok nakaupo ang middle-aged na babaeng pustura, brunette, tas may tinitingnan sa laptop. Mga porn siguro, wehehe, pero malay ko. Tipong professional ang bruha, baka nga abugada pa. Sa dulong sulok sa likuran, andun ang binatilyong nagsusulat at nagbabasa ng makapal na libro, estudyante siguro na malapit na mag-exam, nagpe-prepare ng kodigo.

Doon ako naupo sa may isa pang sulok, pinakamalapit sa pinto. Humilatsa ako sa silya, tinaas ko ang mga paa kong pagod sa buhay, at binuksan ang librong matagal ko ng inaasam-asam na basahin - Cloudsplitter ni Russel Banks.

Paminsan-minsan sinusulyapan ko ang dalawang kumag; tinitingnan ko kung sakaling isa sa kanila ay nababaliw na sa katahimikan. Iniisip ko din na kung may papasok na isa pang potential juror, uupo kaya sya sa natitirang sulok? Kung magyayari yun, pwede kong sabihin na hawak namin ang tunay na Pwersa, We are in contol of the four corners of Silence!

Kaso walang pumasok.

Habang nagbabasa ako, kung anu-anong kagaguhan ang pumapasok sa isip ko. May time na parang gusto kong umutot, o kaya tumayo at sabihin sa aking captive audience, The end is near, repent! Iniisip ko din, Pano na kung mapili akong juror, ano na ang mangyayari sa departamento kong nakasalalay sa aking balikat ang tagumpay. Makayanan kaya nila ang aking napipintong pagkawala ng isa o dalawang araw?

Mga isang oras din kaming nasa QR. Maya-maya, dumagundong sa speaker, If you hear your name, please proceed to the hallway: xxx...xxx...xxx...xxx...cbs

Inakup, lunok, buntong-hininga. Tayo ako at bgo tuluyang lumabas ng QR, tumingin ako sa dalawang kumag. Nakatingin sila kapwa sa akin, at basa ko sa kanilang mukha ang banal na katagang... Bee, buti ngaaa!

Ang hinaharap: Malusog, nakakabusog!

IT'S ALL FOR THE SAKE OF ARRIVING WITH YOU

(And here's a video of a live version of the song which inspired this post.)

POTENTIAL SLEEPER OF A SUMMER MOVIE: MIAMI SA MGA KUKO NG HALIMAW

ODE TO A FAVORITE

This quaint restaurant, just across the University of Miami, delivers. I mean, I don't know if they do literally, but figuratively? yessir, they do!. The place is pleasant, almost sunshiny; the food is never boring; the servers are always attentive and proactive; and best of all, as the last picture shows, the restaurant gave me the opportunity to witness an alien abduction of a United States Postal Worker, truck and all, while enjoying my sushi and contemplating on whatever it was that wrapped the imitation crab legs soaked in vinegar. Were those thin film of green papaya? - I did not ask; men don't ask, are you kidding me, even if, as they say, the devil is in the details.

Anybody who wants to EB with me in Miami could expect the occasion to occur right at this very place, right at that very table. Then we'll hit South Beach.

SAMUT SARING SUMMER

Matapos ko mag-errand kahapon, naisipan kong galugurin ang suburbs. Lumiko ako sa Le Jeune, deretso sa Old Cutler Rd, daan sa Deering Estates, tas nun di ko na alam ang dinadaanan ko. Maya-maya sabi ko, teka, parang kilala ko ang lugar na to, isip ako kung kailan ako nakarating dun, yumpala umiikot lang ako ng umiikot sa apat na kalye na parang trumpo, hayup. In other words, naligaw ako, at dahil ako si cbs, di nakapagtataka yun. I know a lot of things, but my way out is not one of them.

E di tawag ako kay Inang, mayday! mayday!

Laking gulat sya kung bat ako napadpad dun, sabi ko type ko lang magbulakbol, isa pa kasi pinagkukuhanan ko ng litrato ang mga puno. Aba, sabi nya, ang mga tao nagtitipid sa gas, ikaw naman inuubos mo ang gas mo. Sagot ko naman, nagtitipid nga ako po, di ba?. Yeah, right, sabi naman nya, At sa anong paraan ka nakapagtipid, aber? Sabi ko, E eto na po ang pinaka-summer vacation ko po.

Dun sa librong Travels with Charlie in Search of America, sabi ni John Steinback, "I knew long ago and rediscovered that the best way to attract attention, help, and coversation is to get lost." E kaso ayoko namang magtanong, kasi pag nagtanong ako, tyak kong di sasagot ang mga puno. Sa Miami, wala kang makikitang taong naglalakad sa kalye. E liblib pa yung napagtripan ko. Isa pa, nakakatakot yung sabi ni Steinback ukol sa payong ibinibigay sa taong nawawala: A man who is seeing his mother starving to death on a path kicks her in the stomach to clear the way, will cheerfully devote several hours of his time giving wrong diretions to a total stranger who claims to be lost.

Naalala ko nung araw sa Pilipinas, naligaw ako sa pinakaliblib na lugar sa Imus, Cavite. Naispatan ko yung isang batang naglalakad sa bangketa kaya pinarahan ko para mapagtanungan. Toy, toy, sabi ko, pwede bang magtanong? Opo naman, sagot ng bata, basta wag lang sa math.

---

Sa madaling salita e natagpuan ko na rin ang mga kilala kong kalsada sa Miami, maraming salamat kay Inang kahit sabihin pang directionally challenged din sya. (Malupit nga ang problema nya sa direksyon. Pag may malakas na ingay galing sa kaliwa, halimbawa ay putok ng rebentador, titingin sya sa kanan sabay sabing, Ano yun?)

Sumaya na naman syempre ang mukha ko nung nadaanan ko na ang red Rd, nakita ko na naman ang paborito kong canal sa Red Road kung saan naglalaro kami ng football catch ni bunso sa karatig-damuhan. natanaw ko din sa kabilang kalsada yung pondahan ng freshly squeezed juice. Pupunuin nila ang blender ng gulay na gusto mo, kamatis, celery, cilantro, carrots, at may mga parang damo na pampa-boost daw (ng ano? ng morale?), tas pag ininom mo, wow, parang chopsuey juice! Ano kaya mas masarap, ito o ice cream na ang flavor e talaba?

Dinaanan ko din yung flower shop na ginagamit ko nung araw. Pag magpapadeliver ako ng ng bulaklak kay, uhrm, Inang, dun ako tatawag.

Matagal ko na ring di nadadaanan ang kalye na to, you can't go home again c, parang sabi sa akin ng mga kumukutitap na ibon.

Summer na nga. Ang init e.

SINGLE

last night i got home, exhausted to the last bone, but could not hit the sack for my life depended on it. life, of course, was a full tummy, and if i threw away all cautions to the wind, my neighboring unit might think i was playing tom tom in the middle of the night with all unknowing that the tribal percussion sound was generated by an empty stomach screaming, feed me!

the good thing is i know how to cook, and i know how to cook the dishes i love to eat. and this is way easy because i love to eat anything, including ice if all else fails.

i played a food game in my mind by imagining the part of the world i was in. key west. hmmm, so, seafood. fish sandwich! i wanted to have fish sandwich!

i opened the ref and searched the kitchen to check the provisions. mayonnaise, check. iceberg lettuce, check. vine-ripe tomatoes, check. tuscan boule, check. what else? hmmm, fish, where's the fish?, incheck, wakanga, no fish.

so i ran to the nearest fish market to find out the freshest fish they've got. as soon as i got in, the thick fillets of king clip caught my attention - they were immaculately white and succulent and fleshy and so, like the fish itself, i was hooked. kingclip also happened to resemble sea bass very closely, and because sea bass was $19.00/lb, there was no fishy way i was going to buy dat!

(q: name a food you will eat when somebody else is paying? a: chilean sea bass!!)

next thing i knew, anlansa ng amoy ng kitchen ko, phew! i deep fried the two fillets in olive oil, put some pepper and salt, nothing fancy, and when it was golden brown i garnished it with some rosemary and rested it on the waiting arms of the newly-toasted ecce panis bread. i opened a bottle of merlot, meridian from california which i got on sale from publix ($5.oo for .750 ml!!) and marched my way to the sala carrying the plate and wine glass to watch my favorite local program on plum tv (miami beach channel) while gorging on fish like your friendly neighborhood cat named gregory feck or something.

then i remembered the song by rufus wainright where he was singing a litany of "i'm a one man guy and a one man show" and people were thinking of him as sick because, after all those years, he was still single. (freude said he was gay, but that's neither here nor there, which kinda sounded befitting.)

the song, somehow, out of the blue, got to me because, well, i was single (and happy, which is synonymous with gay, but i'd rather use happy) and i had my share of hearing from people that i, too, was sick because i was still single after all these years. truth is, i would be really sick if i got married to somebody i did not like a hundred per cent, and the taste of my king clip sandwich would not have been as fully enjoyed if i had to share it with a wife who i had nothing in common except for that miserable king clip sandwich.

let's get a little personal here. when i was in the philippines, i walked out of an engagement because the girl happened to be strongly challenged by diction and kept on pronouncing p as f, love, i-edit mo naman ang term fafer ko flease. At first I thought I was going to tolerate it, but I realized there is such as thing as language strangulation, and before I find myself dead by mispronunciation, I bravely told her, uhrm, er, vreak na tayo.

me, sick? 'scuse me, kingclip sandwich and merlot and plum tv had never been better.

100 THINGS TO DO IN A LIFETIME

Most of us dream of the good things OF and FROM the world and this is not surprising because Life, in the natural scheme of things, is a pursuit of happiness for the I.
But maybe we can dream further more and yearn for a Life that seeks the betterment of Others, or, a dream of all the good things FOR the world.

I was a child when somebody told me, If you wanted your dreams fulfilled, don't sleep. I guess that's the main reason why I developed an insomnia, but if I were to think now what I should be thinking then, I would have been a healthy boy sustained by good sleep knowing that, in our reality, dreaming is no near fulfilled if it were not a collective act.

Let us DREAM then, you and I
When the evening is spread out against the sky

or so I dreamt what TS Eliot had said - and on this very score it is my dream of coming up with a list of must things for Us to do if not yet done, in the great span from when we came in all the way up to when somebody says Our time's up, all for the betterment of Others and Ourselves.

For this purpose I will take the liberty of doing the first 10 - which you may not agree on and are welcome to dispute - and fortwith you are invited to fill up the next 90, to be numbered accordingly, and all of these will form our collective dream for the world as we say, We have changed, the conduct of our lives is now the true mirror of Our doctrine, We will not lead, We will not follow, but We will all walk together into Our promising future.

Mush or not, let cynics die, here goes my 10 of 100 must-things to do in a lifetime:

1. Raise (or help raise) a child
2. Plant a tree
3. Write a book
4. Learn to play at least one musical instrument
5. Compose a song
6. Speak French
7. Visit the Grand Canyon
8. Be an activist for a cause you believe in
9. Read Shakespeare
10. Watch The Bicycle Thieves

your turn, Player...

SIGHT UNSEEN

I woke up at 7 and in my usual Saturday morning ritual went to the patio to nurture the beauty of the plants and savor the open skies. No breakfast can nourish me better than the sight of my hanging baskets - creeping charlie, glodfish, hoya lacuna - the two giant ficus trees across the street, and the huge expanse up above which Toni Tiu called the palette of God, first thing in the morning.

Something caught my eye. The clouds were utterly beautiful, extremely breathtaking that I might as well describe them as atrocious, and they were somehow comparable to one weekend afternoon when the skies were filled with patches of cotton aiming the shapes of zoo animals: a kneeling camel, an elephant with its trunk pointing upwards, a bear or a koala, and an eerie pattern of birds like boomerangs flying in a magnificent V formation.

But this morning they did not look like animals. The clouds did not look like anything at all, not even clouds, and we will all be for the better if I leave my scant knowledge of clouds on my patio doorstep for now.

I am a photographer. I am, in particular, a cloud photographer, but this morning I saw no need to grab my camera for a great photo-op. I wanted to leave the sight to my memory for much the same reason I usually don't watch a haunting movie twice.

I was happy, extremely happy, when I woke up this morning after a good sleep, a cooperating back, an unclogged sinus, and a particularly spontaneous morning prayer -so much so that the sight I laid my eyes on were probably just my own happy perception - others may not have seen the clouds the same way, not noticed the fantastic patterns the same way. In which case I may have been the opposite of R.W. Emerson's guy who, in his moment of melancholy, lights a fire and sees nothing but sadness in the flames.

The feeling of my own Saturday morning happiness is not fully explainable - nature's gain is my language's loss - and you might as well fathom my discourse through Emerson's own words after going to the wilds and seeing the beauty of wildlife:

"The greatest delight which the fields and woods minister is the suggestion of an occult relation between man and the vegetable. I am not alone and unacknowledged. They nod to me, and I to them. The waving of the boughs in the storm is new to me and old. It takes me by surprise, and yet is not unknown. Its effect is like that of a higher thought or a better emotion coming over me, when I deemed I was thinking justly or doing right."

And so on this note, a very happy weekend to all!

I, JUROR

Last May, I was called for jury duty.

That was the 2nd of my two lifetime summonses, but the only time I was ever called and picked. The first time around, I was on-call but was snubbed.

Jury duty is fun. Prior to serving, I received from people I know the saddest, most stressful, and most harrowing experiences known to man while in the process of serving the nation as jurors. Good thing when it comes to other people's personal jury experiences, I was not a very good listener.

The first thing I noticed when I was in the huge jury waiting room - where a couple of hundred potential jurors were probably praying silently but in unison that their names be not uttered in the intercom by the announcer from hell - was that people could be restless while being stiff and silent. Somehow jury duty gives you a crash course in the science of body language analysis and behavioral psychology unless, of course, you are part of the stiff and the silent.

I brought a book that day, no need to tell that, specially if everyone who had the experience tells you, Please, bring a book, even if you haven't read in your life, you will be an accomplished reader while waiting to be called. I think I brought the book Cloudsplitter by Russel Banks because, I was of the feeling, honestly, that I was going to make an impression as a good juror if I read Banks. But then again, maybe I just picked the book hurriedly, randomly.

The fact of the matter is that waiting to be called is the mother of all anxieties, and you need to summon everything within your power and attention to grab the dark x that could be dancing and prancing all over your senses before you actually end up butchering everyone within your 10 foot radius and become the subject of the next jury duty. The biggest irony in jury life is that - you're picked up as juror, you end up as accused.

I noticed a Filipina two rows away while I was watching the videotape of a judge orienting us potentials (potential amucks?!) of what to expect. Firstly, the judge welcomed us. I appreciate that, even if I don't thing anybody shared my feeling. Wheee!!

While the judge was talking, I moved two rows to my right to sit next to the Filipina. I knew she was a Filipina because, well, how could a Filipino not know a Filipina from a mile away? She was on the cellphone (that's not how I knew, silly) speaking Tagalog loudly (there you go!!!) in these very statements verbatim: Daddy, daddy, ano ba gagawin detu? Sondoin mo aku mamya, huh?

I was sitting next to her and watching the judge on tv, half-heartedly, and when she got off the phone I looked at her snappily like a boy scout trooper who just heard the command "Eyes right!", and asked, kind of self-consciously, "First time mo ma'am"? - even if in a split second my face got warm for thinking there was something malicious with my query. (Of course if she answered, even if jokingly, "Hindi, praktisado ako", I would have fainted in embarassment.)

"Oo, ekaw, pers taym den?"

"Oo", I said. "Wala akong kaalam-alam".

"Pupunta muna ako sa quiet room", I continued, pointing to the closed room for those who wanted to shut themselves out from the most stressed-out people of the world, compatriots included.

"Sana hende ka mapeli", she said.

"Ay naku, oo nga, sana hindi", I emphatingly concurred.

Later on I realized, the matter of my snappy and fast concurrence to her prayer was that, I thought, she said "Sana hindi ka makapili".

(to be continued, depending on whatever...)

THERE THEY GO

Sa Pilipinas, kahit minsan di ako nakapasok sa karerahan. Bawal ang bata sa San Lazaro o Sta. Ana, pero syempre di yun ang dahilan dahil mas matanda pa ako siguro sa kanila (sa stadium, hindi sa mga kabayo - kamukha ko lang sila).

Hindi kasi ako mahilig sa sugal na karera kaya kapag nagusap-usap na kami before bottles of serbesa ng aking mga kuligligs (colleagues, sa Inggles) di ko carry ang mga dividendazo ek-ek nila. Winner take all, sabi nung isa. Oh yeah?, tanong ko, Kasama sa premyo ang kabayo?

Pero nung nakarating na ako dito sa Istet (of insanity), aba, nakapasok ako sa karerahan. O, di ba type A?

May racetrack sa Hallandale Beach dito sa South Florida na que klase (di naman ka-level ng Churchhill Downs huh) at ang pinaka-come on nila magmula Nobyembre hanggang Mayo ay ang pag-feature ng mga bands and singers of yesteryears na nangangailangang irevive ang career (o karera, divah) dahil nagpapara na itong tae ng kabayo.

Minsan, nagpunta kami ni Inang, ni Ate, tsaka ni Bunso, dahil ang featured artist ay ang paborito ni Ate na si David Gates.

Alam kong sa kabataan ngayon (or at least, sa Gen Y'er) ang alam lang nilang may apelyidong Gates ay may first name na Bill, pero sa aming matatanda, andyan sina Lou Gates, Jr., ang Water Gates, at syempre, si David Gates - bokalista at band leader ng grupong mala-tinapay na Bread.

"Hey, have you ever tried", banat ni David Gates, habang yung babae sa harap ko habang nakaupo kami sa damuhan ay nagpaparang lukaret, "really reaching out for the other side", ahahayyy, sabi ni lkrt na parang hihimatayin, "I can't be climbing on rainbow", o my g, o my g, sabi ni lkrt, habang sapo sapo ang flat na dibdib - lalaki siguro tong gagong to, sabi ko kay bunso - "but baby here goes..."

I'd like to make it with yooouuu!!!, sabay sabay na pagkanta ng mga tao.

Ayus, nag-senti ang mga tao. Si Inang naman panay ang ngiti at alog ng ulo. Tanong ko sa kanya, Ma, natatandaan mo ba yung kantang yun? Sagot nya, Anong kanta, meron bang kumakanta?

Pagkatapos nun, uwi na kami. Di man lang kami sumilip sa karerahan kasi ang ipinunta lang namin dun e si David Gates kahit pa ang pinaka-rationale sa pag-imbita sa kanila ng mga race producers ay para mamusta ang mga tao sa karera pagkatapos ng concert.

2 or 3 Sundays after that, and na-feature na grupo naman ay Air Supply. Sabi ni Ate ko, Ay, tyfe ko ang I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without youuuhhhh...

E di ganun, nagpunta ulit kaming apat na itlog sa karerahan. Dumating kami sa Gulfstream mga alas dose ng tanghali, ganun, para kaming si Limahong ng 21st century, at sa bingit ng kainitan pagpasok namin ng karerahan, bumubunghalit yung lead singer ng Air Supply ng -

Im all out of love, i'm so lost without youuuhhh, ahk...

Yokpumi ang tarantado. Sabi ko kay bunso, Tol, alam mo ba kung ano kelangan netong si Tanda?

Ano?, sambit nya.

Kelangang nya ang, uhm, supply ng air...

E syempre dahil di namin makayanan ang pinaggagawa nila (pwera lang kay Inang na panay ang ngiti at alog ng ulo), nagpasya kaming puntahan na mismo yung lugar ng pinagkakarerahan. Ipinuwesto muna namin si Ate tsaka si Inang sa isang magandang spot, tas nun, sabi ko kay Bunso, Tol, tara mamusta tayo.

Saan tayo mamumusta e ala naman tayong alam dito? panerbyos nyang tanong.

Engot ka talaga, sabi ko, E syempre dun tayo pupusta sa may pinakamahabang pila para lyamado.

Oo nga ano, galing mo talaga! sagot naman nya. Ayun, ayun, dun tayo pumusta, anghaba ng pila.

Tanga, sabi ko, Pila sa banyo yun!

E syempre dahil wala kaming alam kundi magpakagago, wala kaming napustahan, (secret: wala kasi kaming pera, wehehe) kaya bumalik na lang kami sa oval.
Pagdating namin dun e nagkakagulo ang mga tao't naghihiyawan. Yumpala, merong isang kabayong non-conformist - nagpasya syang tumatakbo ng clockwise sa oval, o kontra sa natural na takbo ng mga kabayo. E di syempre kagulo mga tao habang ang mga awtoridad e habol habol ang kabayong tipong di sang-ayon sa ginagawa ng tao sa kanila.

Speaking of clockwise, alam nyo ba kung bakit ang daloy ng trapiko paakyat sa Cultural Center of the Pinas ay clockwise? Kasi daw (daw, ha!), yung architect na si Locsin ay naisip ang disenyo ng CCP habang nakaupo sa trono, kaya ang design nya sa building para kay Imeldific ay parang unidoro. E ang unidoro daw, ang takbo ng tubig pag finlash mo ay clockwise. (chineck ko ang unidoro dito, counter-clockwise, wehehe).

Locsin habang nakaupo sa trono: I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without yoooouuuuuhhhhh!!!!

GOD, A STORY, A COMMENT, and JET DAVID

We all love quaint, little stories that somehow tell us something good about ourselves, or at least something we wanted ourselves to be. The more compact the story, the more old world, the more pure, and the more simple - ever the better.

And so there was this little anecdote relayed to me (and to the rest of the world, it is theirs for the taking) by my friend Jet David through the tried and tested method of blog commenting in the immediately preceding post which, in my heart now, in my mind then, is so gorgeously romantic and penetrating that I am taking the liberty of reproducing it here. The story is very pretty and pretty simple, I had to re-tell it myself.

There was a man philosopher who had great affection for a lady poet, and his main concern was that he had nothing to offer her. So one day he told the poet, "I love you but I have nothing in my hand to show you". The poet, who it turned out loved him too, held his hand and said, "There, it's not empty anymore".

Of course JD, who is not only a good writer but a very efficient and effective storyteller too (even if she felt punctuatingly challenged at times) told this story
a lot better, but I think I got the gist - even if the time in between reading then and retelling just now is lesser than quarter of a day. Still, my truth is, anecdotes such as this are great for the mind and the heart.

And so I will have to tell this other story I read from Nobel Laureate Elie Wiesel (I forgot the book, and I can only hope to be as close to its accuracy as possible), which, without any ado, goes like this -

A rabbi, summoning God in the midst of a misfortune that threatens the Jewish people, lit a fire and said a special prayer in a special part of the forest. With that, a miracle happened and the Jews were saved. The rabbi succeeding him went to the same spot in the forest when another misfortune threatened his people, but he told God, Master, I don't know how to light a fire, but I know how to say the prayer - and I hope it's sufficient. God found it sufficient and the miracle happened. The next rabbi went to the same spot in the forest to overcome the next misfortune and said, Master, I don't know how to light a fire nor to say the special prayer, but I am here and I hope it is sufficient. God considered it sufficient, and the misfortune was averted. When the next misfortune happened, the fourth rabbi was somewhere. He said to God, Master, I don't know how to light a fire, I can't say the special prayer, and I don't even know where the special spot in the forest is. But I hope you find it sufficient that I can tell this story.

God found it sufficient and the misfortune was averted because, as Wiesel says it, God loves stories.

The French writer Michel de Montaigne said that while religious exercises of his time (and ours, too) contain the utterance "Lift up your hearts", the Romans said it differently: "Think of this".

Think of this, Jet's relayed story, and that of Wiesel's, every now and then, lift up my heart - and that's just one of life's many little miracles.

CHRONICLE OF FOURTH FORETOLD

1. I woke up at 7am with an aching back. Same old holiday, same old back.

2. By midmorning I watched with interest The Championships' semis pitting Shuettler with Nadal. Shuettler and Magnus Norman were the first ATP players in the top 100 I ever saw play in person - when they did the early rounds at the then Lipton Open (Key Biscayne) more than 10 years ago. I remember Shuettler scolding a ballboy for not beeing in his proper spot prior to play, and when he was called for foot fault, he asked the linesman, Which foot?

3. When the game was over, I started ruminating on what my brother told me 3 years ago. Nadal will beat Fed on grass before Fed could beat him on clay. That could very well become true this year, even if people here know I'll be rooting for Fed.

4. I texted my fraternity brods that I could not make it to our 4th of July reunion in Upstate NY. J texted back, "You suck" - and I guess I really do. After all I was the brains behind that reunion and even offered to drive them around Manhattan. And I love reunions.

5. By noontime I was starving and the ref couldn't help me. Nothing was in there but bottles of water, condiments, vegetables that were beginning to ice, a big bottle of kimchi past expiry date, and a plastic container full of spaghetti sauce (but no pasta on sight). When I was a kid I used to drink lots of water whenever I was hungry and there's nothing to eat. I tricked my tummy way too often I got ulcer. Can't trick tummy now. Tummy got bigger. Tummy growls mad when hungry. One time when I was by H's (my sec) desk and asking her to do something, my tummy growled. She laughed. I said "Shut up"! She said, Are you telling me to shut up? No, I said, I'm telling my tummy to shut up.

6. I headed straight to Barnes and Noble and strated drooling on their panini. When I got there I went to the 2nd floor CDs section as I thought of Evil Urges which was reviewed on NPR. None. I looked for Clem Snide. None. So I just picked Herbie Hancock's cover of Joni Mitchell's songs featuring name singers (Tina Turner's track was fantastic), and U2's greatest songs covered by African artists. Then I went down to the poetry section and chanced upon an anthology of poetry by American immigrants and ethnic minorities. There was a piece by Jessica Hagedorn (I think it was called called Filipino Boogie), but I particularly liked Sherman Alexie's Vision (2). Alexie is Native American, and there is no better way to learn Native American history than by reading his poems and short stories.

7. Then I got my panini and tummy quieted down.

8. At night it rained. I was wondering if fireworks have wicks, and if wet wicks do light up.

9. At exactly 9 o'clock, while still raining, fireworks swooshed up the skies. Green, lots of green, purple, yellow, the requisite red, white, and blue. The display went on and on and the rain went on and on.

10. I looked at my tummy and thought, What do I know about tummies, what do I know about fireworks? What do I know about anything?

DON'T JUDGE A BOOKSELLER BY HER COVER

I am a lot of things but I'm not a ponderer of tattoos, particularly if they were to be transported to me. I have quite a few fears but one that stands out is that I will wake up one day after a drinking spree and find myself sporting an inky mark on my face.

Tattoos are my taboos. But don't get me wrong, my patterned friend, I speak for and of myself only. (And the one significant reason I have is something I heard from a co-worker: tattoo removal invokes the use of laser, and no scent is more awful than the smell of one's burnt skin).

My family is worse. Despite their liberalism, they think tattoos are low and tend to bring a person's politics down.

Am not sure about that, specially in a city as postmodern as Miami. You actually go to South Beach and find tattoed epidermis within every square yard of land. Give it to the hip shops on Alton Road and Ocean Drive - their hipness will probably entice you to be pricked, first and foremost, on your biceps.

H, my gringa admin of 7 or so years, came back from maternity hiatus some weeks back sporting an enormous tattoo on her lower back. In pretty font with lots of little flowers and butterflies, her smooth back now screams the name of the newborn son.

Prior to this constitutional graffiti, the only other tattoo that H sported was the small blazing sun on the back of her neck. Somehow I have a personal stake on that tattoo - if only for the fact that before that, she asked me, like an agitating daughter to dad, C, can I have a tattoo of R's (the boyfriend's) name on my butt?

Have you ever seen a boy scout on traffic patrol and waiting for pedestrians to cross either sides? Did you notice their fully extended stiff-armed stop signal to motorists? I was that to H when I responded, "Do me a favor, talk to the hand".

"OK, OK", she said. "Can I have another tattoo then"?

"Only if it's possibly coverable", I said, firmly.
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But as I now think about it, do I ever judge people by their tattoos? Or better yet, do I ever judge persons by the kind of tattoos they have?

Maybe I did. I used to think of those who have tattoos all over the place like a house covered with messy and mismatched wallpaper as expressive grungists or existentialists or anarchists with little or no predilection to classic art.

Until I encountered this young lady at my neighborhood bookstore the other day. She was the attending cashier when I was called in to pay for my merchandise, the dvd Before Night Falls with Javier Bardem. "That's a very sad movie", she said in a very melancholy tone. I looked at her and wondered if she was ever capable of sadness; the face had tatoos and, take away the voice and facial expression, I was only perceiving anger.

"Did you like it?", I asked.

"I adore it. I love poetry, Latin American poetry", she said in a voice resembling an angel's.

After I gave her the cash, she shocked me a second time.

"You're shirt reminds of Klimt", she said, beaming a very lovable squint.

I was wearing my favorite yellow shirt with little squares and cirles shaded in black - and true enough, as I later surmised, they verily looked like a painting by Gustav Klimt, an Austrian painter in the 19th-20th century who specialized in Byzantine art and whose paintings extol the themes of birth and sensuality.

"You like Klimt"?, I asked.

"You bet I do", she said, throwing a smile that can only be described as veracious.