East of the Sun | West of the Moon

Aristotle believed. . . . the regions centered around the equator - too hot to be inhabited - he dubbed them the torrid zones.  We know them today as the tropics - both share the equator as one of their boundaries.  The north torrid zone extends to the Tropic of Cancer. The south reaches the Tropic of Capricorn. visit the equator Asia on fire this summer - or whatever season it is for torrid and horrid. A difference of one letter - one state of being and another. When temperaments rage - from overly heated to dreaded horror. The torrid horrid tropics - halving the earth through its center. Encompassing eleven terrestrial territories cutting, racing, blazing to the core. From Saharan desert to tropical rainforest - all bound around the equator. The tropics account for thirty six percent of earth's land mass  -  home to about a third of the world's people. Broken and breaking -  away and apart from heart and humanity.  Arid, acrid, acid -  sour, angry, b...

Just before the midterm elections the winds of change blow through the streets of the quaint city of Hudson, New York . 711 Warren Street to be exact, in the seat of Columbia County – now home to Vintage Black Label , the brand of GregUrra . signature VBL worn by Greg Urra Vintage Black Label is one of the few non-consignment vintage stores in New York, allowing shoppers to experience a collection from a lifetime of travel to souks, bazaars, flea markets and antique fairs around the globe. Each  piece is carefully curated by Greg to appeal fluidly across all genders. artist drop cloth inspired kimono - a Greg Urra & Charles Lahti collaboration

Is it so hard to accept that a person can actually prefer to be solitary? Solo? Alone? You would think it would be the saner choice. We’ve watched couples – even among the best – they all compromise.  Is there ever such a thing as equals? A balanced relationship? Two individuals – independent? Interdependent? Committed to each other? If it exists it has yet to manifest.  Fantasy Creatures Tarot Eastern and western culture seem so definitive about roles. Though no one can seem to agree on what exactly these roles entail. Child. Adult. Parent. Spouse.  How do we interact? We can’t even agree on these roles. What are they for each individual? One, either or both. It’s hard enough to know oneself. Thoroughly. Fully. Completely.  To be together. Wholly with another? Not one and the other? Is there such a thing as mutually surrendered? At the same time or in turns?  I love you – you love me. All that it is. No – I love you as much as you love me. Conditional condition...

Long before Lea Salonga became the global poster child for Filipino performers, we had  Lydia Gaston  as our  bugal sang Bacolod [pride of Bacolod]. Syempre, we mean Lyd-Lyd - the daughter of Tita Lydia .  Lydia "LydLyd" Gaston   Many now know  Lydia Gaston as Jokoy's mom , Tita Susan - in the Fil-Am comedian’s upcoming movie,  Easter Sunday   - slated for release this August.  Easter Sunday official trailer - Universal Pictures

Mom tells us about her mom, our amah - leaving her family in China to come to the Philippines to marry angkong , her dad and our grandfather. She speaks of their love letters, written in the most beautiful calligraphy.  According to amah, these letters contained their courtship. Lyrical descriptions of his adventures and challenges. Scholarly texts he'd read and deep thoughts generated. Insights and inspiration angkong intimately shared with amah.  Though they spoke it fluently none of their children could read and write in Chinese characters. So they listened avidly as their mother read them her treasured love letters. She kept them in a locked camphor chest. Part of a set of four that came with her as her dowry.  antique Chinese camphor chest or baul Years later we would dig through these exotically carved trunks which we called ba-ul s . These depicted in meticulous detail life in ancient China before Mao's communist revolution. 

What is belief but faith lived and experienced. A testament to what we believe. What we feel we are worthy of in this world.  Ages ago at university we had a nearby watershed we could easily escape to. Minutes away from campus and an overcrowded metropolis we are under cavernous canopies of mist fed giant ferns and cushions of moss blanketing the ground.  In the pounding spray of the waterfall we drop our cares as we peel off into crystal cold pools. Wading wet and wild through shadowed trails and streams. Heat and sweat cooling off in the chill damp air.  Trailing off from the others in our private bubble - closing in, touching, breathless. 

We recently commemorated the 125th death anniversary of a fallen hero. Betrayed and sold out by his fellow guerillas in the fight to birth a new nation. Out of the ashes of the Spanish American war in the Philippines much is left devastated and traumatized.  The tragedy of a multi colonized land. Invading armies descend on our shores to ransack and ruin all. For an agricultural archipelago and economy it means people starve and easily turn on each other. Leading to decades of ingrained crab culture.  generational trauma  -  ties that bind War is an angry ugly horror. Kill or be killed. Nowhere to run or hide. Too many innocents caught in the crosshairs. The toll so cripplingly heavy generations are totally derailed.  It doesn't just change the behavior of both winner and loser - our DNA is forever altered. Carrying the carnage in blood and bones. In muscle memory. In ruined digestions tuned acidic with fear and lack. Sleep loss and nightmares. Dodge and cower in...

No matter how much she tries to hide and be invisible it never works. Someone always calls her out. She gets too involved in something and forgets her own promises to herself. Somehow, she gets found out.  Always awkward, often clumsy - she manages to call attention to herself. Often unintentional, especially when she's most nervous or afraid. She forgets to breathe or holds her breath for too long she just about passes out.  She has a list of special people she keeps away from - those she does not like, those who hurt her most. But they always manage to root her out - they find her in the crowd or in the most obscure places. They have special skills they employ to grab her and pin her down.  Samson & Delilah  (1887) by  Jose Etxenagusia Years of practice, years of experience have finally made her life more bearable. Yet he can never claim joy or delight because - always - there's the dread. Of being discovered, of being found out, of being exposed. Held out...

After two years of construction the young family has moved in next door. The vacant lot is long gone - eclipsed by a three-story box looming over my second floor flat.  I've had to put up screens and roll down blinds all along the long side we now share - too close and personal. Otherwise we shock ourselves when we look out and make eye contact.  too close for comfort I miss the views that are no longer there for me. I miss the warmth of the afternoon sun baking that whole side of the building. We've turned into accidental peeping toms. 

The book cover proclaims, " If there is something to desire, | there is something to regret. | If there is something to regret, | there will be something to recall. | If there is something to recall, | there will be nothing to regret. | If there is nothing to regret, | there will be nothing to desire." After this weekend - hell, after this whole month of March - this was exactly how I felt like coming around full circle. No heartbreak, no heartache. No shame, no remorse. No memory, no anguish. No sorrow, no despair. Seems like this could cover any and all our relationships - maybe? Parent issues, sibling rivalries, growing pains, first love, family cares, whatever - right? Every version of me, you, them, us. That is the thing with first love - first of many things. They form you. And that can stay with you the rest of your life. They also have a way of coming back around - if they are meant to. A person can walk out the door and it all ends there. But sometimes the door reope...

a bulb in winter a shoot in spring some shade in summer all glory in autumn the rest of the time just to be me Born and raised by the equator meant no seasons, just wet or dry times.  Panting in the humid heat or drowning in torrential rain.  No middle ground - not much in between. Born and raised in the tropics meant no subtleties.  Light and dark from dawn til dusk and back again.  No middle ground - timeless in between. Born and raised on an island meant no bounds, just land, sea, sky.  Cool high mountains east side, deep warm oceans on the west.  No middle ground - flatness in between. Born and raised between the owners and the owned.  Where folks like how it is just too much.  No middle ground - nothing in between.

Bacolod born Eduardo Varela Sicangco has blazed a trail - from small island hometown of grand designs to the bright lights of Broadway in the Big Apple, New York City.  Recently his costumes were featured in the popular Showstoppers exhibit at NYC’s Times Square .  Showstoppers   main window display, NYC’s Times Square Toto , as he is known to us back home, is a master scenographer and illustrator. His multi-awarded creative work - on stage at the Cultural Center of the Philippines and on Broadway, in ballets and opera, on Disney and Hollywood films - have taken him all over the world.  Bacolod exhibit poster , 2015 Yet for us, it is his local roots in Bacolod that put the shine on much of his spectacular achievements. Raised in a home surrounded and immersed in culture and art - by his lyric soprano mom and audiophile dad who possessed a vast collection of cast recordings.  Showstoppers ' central display of Toto's red showgirls Very early on he part...

" If you white men had never come here, this country would still be like it was. It would be all pure here. You call it wild, but it wasn’t really wild, it was free. Animals aren’t wild, they’re just free. And that’s the way we were. You called us wild, you called us savages. But we were just free. If we were savages, Columbus would never have gotten off the island alive. Our religion is all about thanking the Creator. That’s what we do when we pray. We don’t ask Him for things. We thank Him [Her]. We thank Him for the world and every animal and plant in it. We thank Him for everything that exists. We don’t take it for granted that a tree is just there. We thank the Creator for that tree. If we don’t thank Him, maybe the Creator will take that tree away... We are made from Mother Earth and we go back to Mother Earth. We can’t “own” Mother Earth. We’re just visiting here. We are the Creator’s guests. " Leon Shenandoah , — former “Tadodaho” of the Grand Council of the Six Natio...

Years of navigating through land mines mean dread and caution hover close, even as we eat and socialize. One moment on solid ground, then in a heartbeat it's all gloom and doom.  All eyes swivel toward me. Noise level goes from chaotic cacophony to zero. My ears pop as I gulp for air. Locked in a bubble of building pressure.  dark weird wallpaper I view the living as dead and gone - analyzing their distinctive anatomy and facial features. Clinical and removed as these are filed away for future reference. Suspended in a strange soft cloud of too weird. 

Before time and form all was emptiness and there was nothing. There was only god who filled all the empty space with eternal and overflowing love. Bathala was god and Sinta was god's love.  Bathala wanted to transform the universe. Give it substance and form - reate elements and creatures. Provide a  world of play and delight - with  color and texture, sound and movement. Sinta loved this and together they worked tirelessly to make it so.  Luminas Art on Pixabay God took his energy and breathed matter into his creation - molding it like clay into many distinct forms. Love took her energy and breathed light into their surroundings - watching it soar and float all around.  Bathala formed the earth into a huge ball and filled it with all sorts of flora and fauna. Sinta breathed life and fresh growth into every new form.  God formed the Sun and Love brought warmth and light to the day. God shaped the Moon and Stars and Love made them shine in the now brilliant...

fling open barndoors of the heart pray fully surrendered whole self exposed to all the directions the sky, the earth the sun, the moon the whole of my being voice, gaze, blood, bones relish the relief Yayoi Kusama infinity room, NYBG Halloween 2021 all the while more is revealed ripples and waves circles and cycles language beyond words knowledge past wisdom in our veins the stories flow with every breath shifts and change gifts and choice the law of life for each and all beat as one savor the wholeness stripped and pared down full and heavy with bounty the wind sweeps hearts clean the soil transforms and gives birth we are born and live til we die we are made of all this savor the wholeness melt into letting go breath in the light breath out our love this we pray

It's been a year of being a grief doula to all too many friends and strangers who have lost a beloved. Young and old. Sudden or long suffering. The men die and the women have to somehow forge on.  What do I know about loss and grief? I knock on wood like some triggered spastic that I have yet to lose someone I cannot live without. I'm the one who's afraid of going to a wake. I find myself stuck in the threshold like some scarred quivering rabbit.  In the Orient where I originated we have the age old practice of professional mourners who diligently wail the spirit of a dearly departed off to the divine realms. Away from the living so we can grieve and live in peace. Never to be haunted by any lingering ghost of disappointment over some unfinished regret or sorrow.  A practice of countless past dynasties now imbedded in our DNA and mutated by new technology. For folks who love to celebrate with, song, dance, staged performances, and karaoke it's not so strange then that w...

Being a broken record is the worst torture ever. Constantly repeating the same story - over and over, again and again. Deepening the grove with each round - digging deeper yet so struck. Tone deaf and out of tune - perpetuating  the same old sad story. So sick and sickening - this broken trail of dreams.  There I was, happy as a clam, devoid of any clue.  irritable, angry,  depressed So very happy it bordered on obnoxious. Yes, hell, yes! Everything in my life was working. A husband who loved me. He was completely gaga over me. Spoiled me rotten. Showering me with expensive gifts.  Taking me out for expensive celebrations. Travels booked to wild and exotic realms - stunning and awesome. A house built just so, just for me, just because. A temple raised for the worship of me, me, me.  Can't live without me. Won't go anywhere without me. Hates having to leave me. My most loyal and ardent fan. What did I do to get him so hooked on me? I love him dearly for all ...