What Now?

A question that visits me quite too often is: what's the next thing I'll write about? While some people find their nirvana in a host of different things, I find mine in writing, not minding if it isn't polished as that of seasoned writers.

As most who read this site know, the last which caught my fancy were films and dreams. From there, I sought out my next subject.

On my way home last night, I noticed that there is now a cellphone signal at every subway station of Keihan. It greeted me with much elation that I knew immediately what my next subject is going to be. No, not cellphones but trains.

Some people are known to have a fascination for trains. There are those who maintain prized collections of miniature trains. And of course, there are the terrorists who like to blow up trains, or in the Japanese milieu, gas their train commuters. While most train fanatics are in Western countries, there might also be fanatics in countries without subways, bullet trains or at least a long distance-running train. Indeed, there are and it includes me.

The Philippines only has the LRT, the MRT and the dilapidated PNR, and I rode on all of them. My first train ride was on the LRT during my job hunts after college. I rode the LRT with a very clear purpose. It was not to spare my white shirt from soot, which could have been adequately met with a taxi ride. The reason was simple: so I can declare to all of the world, I have already ridden a train. My ride on the LRT was my so-called baptism to the train world.

My next train ride was for the sheer fun of it. At risk of getting tetanus, I took the PNR train from San Andres Manila en route to College, Laguna. It was such a shaky experience that if there would have been a welcoming party at the end of my destination, I could have served them well-shaken tequila. On the other hand, my ride on the MRT was for convenience. Coming from Quezon City, I figured that I could save some money by taking the MRT from North Ave to Baclaran, then a taxi to the airport. I did save some money but getting a taxi was so difficult. I almost failed to catch my flight back to Japan.

Oh, yes, I've also experienced riding those romantic foot-powered, four-seater, wooden assemblies that use the railroad tracks to ply short distances. I don't know if there's a name for them but I'll just give them the monicker, peditrain, being very similar to the foot-pedaled pedicab. Knowing how safety-conscious the Japanese are, the sight of a peditrain would probably be characterized by their usual grunts of uhs and ehs. Whether in amazement or disgust, I won't know for sure.

On the other side of the world, New York observes the 100th year of its subway and you can read more about it at http://www.nytimes.com/2004/04/14/nyregion/14subway.html. At this site, there is also the interactive feature titled A 100-year journey, the subway:1904-2004. The feature compares the major subways of New York, Tokyo, Paris and London in terms of annual ridership, miles of route, number of cars and stations, longest line, fastest train speed and deepest station. You can probably guess where Tokyo tops.

Back in the home front, the groundbreaking for the rehabilitation of the PNR happened a few months ago. With assistance from China, train lines going as far north as my hometown, Batac, Ilocos Norte, and as far south as Matnog, Sorsogon will link the Philippines. How soon the tracks will spread will likely depend on how well our politicians can cover their thiefly tracks.

In the meantime, I will keep on enjoying the trains of Japan, with or without a cellphone signal.

Film of Dreams

If my dreams of late were to be put on film, one or two will quite easily run away with the Palme d'Or. (OK, I can settle for an Urian.) My nightmares will ensure me huge box-office returns; and give Jason a run to hell. And as for my erotic dreams, they will definitely gather no dust on video rental shelves.

I complained to my wife that my dreams are so vivid, they rob me of my sleep. I am not making this up. It's extremely exhausting to be in dreams where you are the star, the director and the audience, all at one time.

My dreams are not the typical one and a half hour films. My waking hour often coincides with the end of the film or a pivotal part of an unfinished film. Usually, that happens when someone is drowning, gets shot, gets stabbed or hits the ground. Then the dream ends, whether in sleep or in real life. And in films, the real ones of course, this is where the mother, the girlfriend, or the wife, hands the protagonist a glass of water.

To illustrate my point further, assuming that I start dreaming at around 1 AM and I'd wake up at around 6, the film would have a 5-hour running time, which no one would watch. If my dream would be chopped up into two, I would have a Tarantinoesque Vol.1 and 2, running at an average of 2 and a half hour. That would ensure me larger ticket sales, and hopefully, two hours more of a longer, sounder sleep. But then, things would be different if I were in theater with a double feature.

I've read somewhere that a dreamless sleep is unhealthy. Given a choice however, I'd rather have a dreamless sleep than a film festival. I can settle for shorts, animated features or documentaries, but not full-length films. Too much dreams is to me an affliction. This affliction has made me wonder why I've recently become an auteur, albeit in dreamland. I searched for answers and I've come up with three possibilities.

First, I've been watching too many films lately. Japan is treasure trove of film classics. Go to a rental shop and you'll likely find the old films you've long wanted to see but can't find in the Philippines. I saw Citizen Cane, the widely regarded best film ever made, here in Japan. Right now, I'm watching all Woody Allen films I can get hold of. His films would not find that much audience in the Philippines compared to Steven Segal.

Second, I'm reading too many film reviews. And I think I'm turning into a reviewer myself. I tend to look now not on a film's story but on how it was made. I focus more on the director and cinematographer's techniques, the production design, the editing and, of course, the acting. I feel that this tendency has somehow lessened my viewing pleasure but my consolation is that I can now better distinguish which is trash from which is not.

And the third and most plausible reason for my dreams is that, at one time, I may have wanted to be a film director. Now it is excruciatingly coming true, if only in my film of dreams.

Played to Perfection

The time I started learning the piano was when Mom left for graduate school. It was sweet relief. I could do my exercises and drills whenever I wanted, and Mother would never know. There wasn't a telephone in the house, and cellular phones were still far way back to the future.

She knew she couldn't check on my practice, so she settled on one strategy. She took a piece of cardboard, printed some words and pasted it on the wall in front of the piano. The paper said in bright neon colors, PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT.

She had outdone me, ha, ha. Practice whenever you want but it must be perfect. The message stuck and practice was (made) perfect. To this day, I strive for perfection in everything I do. (Sometimes to a disadvantage, if you know what I mean.) And as for my mother's dream of an in-house piano virtuoso, well, I'm still her son.

My virtuoso dream may be over but my life is still a big soundtrack being orchestrated by piano masters, both living and departed. I live in tune with the urgency of their staccatos, the sweet caress of their pianissimos and the fluidity of their legatos.

Among the old masters, I love the drama of Russian composers like Rachmaninoff and Tchaikovsky. Mozart to me is too joyful. More than ever, present-day Russia still churns out piano prodigies of the likes of Arcadi Volodos and Ivgeny Kissin.

In the non-classical field, a number of piano players and composers command my undivided attention. The works of Ellington and the Gershwins can make me sit by the piano for hours. I have developed a liking for jazz and standards so the works of Mr. Joel, Sir John and Ms. Keys don't interest me much anymore.

The first jazz standards pianist I really liked is Harry Connick Jr. With a voice like Sinatra and a genius for making sublime arrangements, he can never go wrong. Well, he did once, when he tried to infuse pop into his music. He never ventured into that arena again.

Before the rest of the world learned to embrace Norah Jones, my copy of her CD was already full of scratches. I had a premonition then that she’ll get Grammys in the jazz category but she just didn't. She even romp away awards in the major categories.

Right now, my ears are full with the music Jamie Cullum, a 24-year old jazz pianist from Britain. He writes his songs and shifts with relative ease from Cole Porter to Radiohead songs.

Jamie's recent album was recorded and mixed in the analog format. The reason: compared to digital, an analog recording gives a warmer, clearer and more realistic “live” sound. This is the same reason why Pearl Jam released their Vitalogy album first in vinyl. In the case of J. Lo., a vinyl record will never work for obvious reasons. Not counting Latino and male votes, she'll get booted out of American Idol before any other contestant.

Going back to where all this started: perfection. The analog format is a way of showcasing a perfect performer; the digital masks away the imperfections. One music producer succinctly puts it; don’t fix it if it ain’t broken. As for my piano playing, I guess I have to go digital.

To Be or Not . . .

. . . to be pregnant.

For the most part, the ability to get pregnant relies on a couple's physiological and psychological make-up. In the past, the inability to conceive meant the end of the road, and so our great ancestors called upon divine help.

But as reproductive science flourished, dances and chants to the fertility gods, around burning embers on a moonlit night, became confined to the movies. And fertility statues are now stuffed in museums and roadshows like Ripley's believe it or not.

The dances, chants and statues did not come with a price. They do today considering the entrance fees to museums, just to get to touch the big-bellied and big-bossomed statues. Once that is done, the next step would be to pray and pray and, of course, have sex. Then wait till you get pregnant.

For a sure-fire way to get pregnant, couples must now leave it up to the gods of medical science. A lot of ways have now been developed to help couples conceive. But unlike the traditional means, modern methods come with a stiff price.

In an article from the New York Times, Leigh Todd reportedly spent four years and $300,000 to have a baby. She saw 10 doctors and sought help at medical clinics in New York, Chicago and Las Vegas.

Three hundred thousand dollars. That's already 16.5 million pesos. Filipinos would perhaps choose to keep the money than to have a child, which brings me to the topic of how NOT to get pregnant.

In this area, there are a lot of cheap and effective means. The most recent of which is the morning-after pill. It is of a higher dose of regular hormonal contraception. Taken within 72 hours of unprotected intercourse, it can cut a woman's chances of pregnancy by up to 89 percent. For men, a 100% effective male contraceptive is on the development stage. It is also a hormonal treatment, which is a combination of an implant under the skin and injections.

However, some means of not getting pregnant are rather expensive. Our neighbor paid 50,000 yen to end Nana's motherly dreams. 50, 000 yen! That's again 25,000 pesos. Some Filipinos will just opt for withdrawal or rhythm. And come to think of it, Nana is just a dog.

A Slow Sleepy Day

There is so much I can write about today. What keeps me from doing so is that I'm so sleepy.

I wish I can go home now. The professor has just left. He is bound for Germany tomorrow. Probably he went home to pack, which I doubt. The missus probably has done it already, like any obedient Japanese wife.

I'll probably head home at about 6:30. By then, my experiment is done and the assitant has also left.

Think about that. He's also going to Germany but he's still here doing God knows what.

I have to see a sleep therapist one of these days. I hope there is one. And if indeed there is, I pray there is one in Japan. I guess sleep is not that important to the Japanese. They rise early and sleep late. Yet they seem to have boundless energy.

They do sleep from time to time though. They do it anywhere. Seated at their lab desk, you see their heads tilted in all directions. Titled forwards, they assume an almost fetus-in-the-womb position yet they remain asleep. These people are really different.

Inside the train, they can sleep so soundly. But during all my time in Japan, I've never heard a snore of a sleeping train passanger. I've seen wide open mouths though. Good thing there are no flies in Japan. Knowing how smelly their breaths are, flies will definitely be lured to approach such odorous caverns. Whether the fly will die upon approach is a question I have yet to find the answer.

It seems I still managed to write a lot. When it comes to the Japanese, there can be no limit of things to write about.

Now I'm less sleepy.

A Product

I doubt it really if curiosity is the mother of invention. Sure, it killed the cat but it doesn't light the bulb, at least most of the time.

Boredom. That's the mother of invention. And this blog exists because of it. Plain and simple boredom.

But Eonas wasn't a product of boredom. He is a product of love.

Eonas is my son. He'll be born on August 2004.

Eonas is pronounced - Yo-nas. It's like Europe (Yu-rup) or if you like Eorope (Yo-rup).

Eonas also means 100 years in Spanish. But as a first name, my son will be the first Eonas. That's according to Google. There are Eonases but as a family name.

So that's it. Welcome to the world of Eonas' Dad.