He Said, She Said

He: It's strange. Whenever I read your blog, I can imagine you saying the words out loud.
She: Yes, that is strange. I don't yak about in English.
He: Oh yes, you do. You're just not funny.
She: And my blog is?
He: Yes.

She took offense and refused to speak to him for two hours. Now tell me, aren't women such funny, funny creatures?

Mommy, Buy Me a Spartan! (A Review of the Movie, 300)

The year is 480 BC. Xerxes sends messengers to all Greek city-states offering gifts in exchange for surrender and allegiance. Leonidas I (Gerard Butler), King of Sparta, son of King Anaxandridas II, descendant of Hercules, and sumptuous male specimen, spits on this offer and, in violation of protocol, has the messengers killed. Then, in keeping with Spartan law, he asks permission from the old, sickly keepers of the oracle to go to war. His request is denied. Leonidas, however, is as cunning as he is brave and so, finding himself refused of an army, he invites 300 Spartan warriors to go with him for a walk. They set out towards The Hot Gates, a mountain pass which is the only route Xerxes' army could approach Sparta.

This is when the movie truly begins. At the heart of the story are courage, loyalty, friendship, and the idea that good men are sometimes forced to do horrible things to protect land and loved ones. 300 is not meant to be a realistic depiction of the Battle of Thermopylae. What it is is not so much an unearthing of historical facts as an interpretation of the epic struggle between good and evil.

300 is an adaptation of the graphic novel written and drawn by Frank Miller of Sin City fame. Zack Snyder co-wrote and directed the movie. I recommend that you watch this. The fight scenes are so wonderfully choreographed there are even moments when the violence becomes graceful - little scenes are frozen and then dragged out or sped up to emphasize rhythm. Expect limbs to come a'flyin' and severed heads to go a'rollin'. Blood spurts in generous helpings, and it's possible the only part of the human anatomy that isn't skewered, hacked, or perforated is the earlobe. Then again, perhaps I stuffed my mouth with chips at the wrong moment and missed that. I do not relish dismemberment, but if you give it to me in stylized Hollywoody doses, then by all means, bring in the gore. And what of the animation? It's fluid and faultless. The blending of computer-generated images and real objects is almost imperceptible.

Watching 300 feels like going through the motions of a dream. That, or a very vivid nightmare. We are taken into a world of harsh, primitive beauty. I wouldn't have thought it possible to find poetry in carnage, but it's there and I saw it. The men fight with hypnotic litheness and efficiency. It's almost as if they are locked in a dance. Then, too, Snyder uses a monochromatic color palette that is both dramatic and disturbing. There's the darkness of a raging storm, the golden glow of a doomed sunlight. There are blue nights and red mornings and in between, there are moments when the red of Spartans' cloaks is all the color that can be seen. Done in earth tones of iron, gold, flame, flesh, and stone, each scene of 300 could be photographed, printed, and then hung on a wall.

300 is not just a film; it's a piece of art. It's violent and beautiful, breathtaking and disgusting. It's moving and sensuous,  and the sap that I am, I found myself sniffling at the fall of 300 of Sparta's bravest. When Leonidas' last instructions to his countrymen were known, I blubbered even harder.

"Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie."

Who wouldn't cry at that? Who wouldn't? Who wouldn't? However, I'm honest enough to admit I wept as much for the three hundred's nobility and sacrifice as for the sad loss of ample chests and muscled calves. "Aiyee!" I wailed to the hub. "How could Xerxes' grotesque soldiers kill those Spartans? How?"

You will understand the intensity of my grief when you see for yourself what glorious, glorious creatures those Spartans are. All ripling muscles, rock-hard abs, and gorgeous smiles, they leap into the scene with a maleness that takes my breath away. In red capes and tiny, tiny underwear, they fend off thousands upon thousands of Persia's bloodthirsty hordes. They're ferocious and reckless and seemingly invincible; and for almost two hours, I wondered how it must feel to lay a hand on a stalwart Spartan chest or squeeze a loyal Spartan butt. The film isn't porn, but I sure acted like it was. At the end of the movie, I wanted to turn one of our blankets at home into a cape, and then run all around the neighborhood in my underpants, vanquishing my enemies.

I suggest you go see a movie and take all your girlfriends, your mother, and your grandmother along. Oh, and since you're at it, why not take all of your female relatives along, too? The film is a feast for the eyes, ears, and the female libido. Additionally, Xerxes provides lots of accessorizing inspiration for fashionistas everywhere.

Only the strong and the hard survive in Sparta, we're told. But who cares? I'm not strong; I'm not hard. But I'd give up all my ruffled blouses and three-inch stilettos in a heartbeat to go live in Sparta with any one of Leonidas' 300 and there, obedient to their laws, we'd lie. Hahaha.

——–
P.S If you're my husband and you're reading this, know that I don't mean a word of the last paragraph.

You Speak Engrish?

I feel that this week is going to be the first in a long string of tedious weeks. I've been yakking nonstop since 9:00 this morning, and now my throat hurts, and I've a headache as persistent as real estate agents.

My boss has strange plans, and I've been asked to help put some of them in motion. Truth be told, I'm not at all sure the plan would pan out, not for lack of trying but because there are few fates more horrible than carrying on a conversation with a non-Filipino who punctuates the end of almost every English consonant with an "eee." Oh, and if "luncheee" or "fridgee" strike you as the perfect prelude to a nightmare, then you should know that the same non-Filipino also thinks saying "whatever" is a very American thing to say. So, it wouldn't at all be unusual for you and him to be engaged in a conversation that runs like this:

Him: Everyone eat luncheee together, but I think it also good if some eat early, whatever. So, next weekee, we make plan for time, who eat firstee, whatever.  You and I decide about plan, whatever. Whatever. Okay?

Me: (in a valiant effort not to look as confused as I felt) Er, okay.

Still, a dream is a dream and if bridging the language gap this way is his, then I'll move heaven, earth, and several pieces of furniture to help him realize it. 

So, there I was, dizzy from having spent almost six hours straight flitting from one meeting to another, sitting with half my brain hibernating at my feet, and all of a sudden, one of the non-Filipinos buzzed me to ask, "What is the meaning of carry out?" I tapped out an answer so simple even my three-year-old could have understood what the phrasal verb meant. "To carry out means to do." A few seconds later, he asked again, "What do you carry out?" "You carry out a plan, an order, or a threat."

You'd think that an explanation as simple as that would make perfect sense to a grown man of about 30, native English speaker or not. But no, it doesn't, and so I had to spend ten minutes more explaining why "carry out" does not literally mean you haul something from the inside to the outside.

There are days when I actually believe it might be a blessing not to know any English word at all; and there are also days when I rue the day someone popularized the idea that English is a language so universal that fluency in it will help you conquer the world.

English is not a universal language. That, or certain parts of Asia just do not belong to this universe.

Hello, Thailand.

Hey you, Thailand, I'll be seeing you soon, sooner in fact than even I had planned; and it doesn't matter that I won't be flying on the wings of Cebu Pacific's P1-exclusive-of-taxes promo. I don't care. For once in my life, I'll give unbelievable promos the cold shoulder and take my dream of travelling abroad by the horns. I'll see you soon, Thailand, and I'll teach you to remember me. I'll teach you to memorize that single moment when I set foot on your soil or wander around your colorful and confusing alleys.

You don't know it yet, Thailand, but you and I are going to have a relationship; and if you're kind to me, I promise to keep coming back to you each time my feet itch to rove. Oh Thailand, I haven't seen you, but I'm already half in love with you, and soon, I'll carry parts of you inside my backpack and bring you home with me.

Amidst the Rustling of Paper, Magic

It's easy to write about moons, stars, and riverbends; to become lost in the contemplation of objects and moments both fragile and beautiful. It's easy to write about beginnings and the wonderful promise present in every morning. Writing, you see, is the easiest way to commit things to memory. The human mind is fickle, but when we write, we teach ourselves recollection. With each stroke of the pen or each forceful thud of finger upon keyboard, we go back deep into ourselves, into the parts that lap up moments and masticate bits and pieces of soul.

How could one say no to that?

So, we write, and when put on paper, each word wriggles and pops, enlivening the quiet spaces of our minds and hearts in an outpouring of some strange but compelling linguistic jazz.

To some, writing is a celebration, to others an exorcism; but no matter what writing does or brings, be it joy or tears, confusion or certainty, there is always that extra second or two, that moment just before the first thought ripens into the first word, when, still and respectful, we hold the magic of moons, stars, riverbends, and all the vastness of possibilities in the palm of our hands.

How could one say no to that?