Angkor Wat

Ancient Ruins: Cambodia

Excerpts from Vernes' Journey to the Center of the Earth are italicized.

The universe is in your bones,

The stars, in your soul. - Buddhist Saying

Have you ever read Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth?

Even if you haven't, its title is a giveaway. 

All those years, the planet has happily rotated on its axis minding its own business. And then?

Adventurers show up with new backpacks and go all expedition-special on a thrilling but perilous and ill-advised voyage to the center of the earth. 

The trip I'm currently embarking on promises to be as exciting, but hopefully not as hazardous. Here in the ruins of the Angkor Wat Temple City in Cambodia, I'm visiting the sacred five-peaked Mount Meru.

Abode of the gods.

Axis of the world.

Excellent! Capital! Glorious!

Today, I will journey to and through its center and hopefully come back. In.One.Piece.

Forward, my friends, into the Interior of the Earth. And whichsoever way thou goest, may fortune follow.

First impression? 

Immense.  A 900-year-old complex standing on 402 acres of a tiered terrain.

Dark and mysterious.

It's a place where the seasons seem to have run together, the years a stunned blur.

Gif akt! Attention - look out! 

Seven-headed serpents, half-human and half-cobra, threaten from below the bridge. Nagas. (I know what they are because that's what the brochure that I'm holding says). Not to worry, they're not real but just symbolic representations.

Moving along, I feel like I'm being drawn below in the nether regions by devas, a term for deities in Hinduism. It is a little scary and overwhelming. Yet I continue on, undaunted. 

Forut. Forward!

Each step will lead me to the gods' heavenly home.

Beyond a seventeen-foot-tall outer wall is the first of three interior galleries. Walls are gray and worn. Visible though covered with a few random cobwebs are reliefs of unicorn and griffins and winged dragons.

A pleasing rhythm of space and enclosure, of light and shade. 

Winged dragons are pulling chariots. Warriors follow an elephant-mounted leader.   

Moving along, I see an array of richly ornamented apsara carvings.

Beautiful and sacred. 

Cavorting about in the next gallery are celestial dancing girls with elaborate hair styles. I squint at extensive bas-relief friezes of pilgrim monkeys struggling through the storm on Rama's Mayflower-of-a-chariot. (Rama is a legendary hero in the Ramayana epic). 

I'm now deep in the hollows. Everything is a lot aged with grimy and darkened corners and damage and deterioration throughout. The air has become flat and humid. Is there a way out? 

Halt. We have reached the end of our journey.

I hear leaves rustling like the soft murmur of running water, the insects humming in the windless heat as I walk slowly toward what looks like a light at the end of a tunnel.

I've just journeyed to the center of the universe and back.

Voyage Extraordinaire!

Yelfred And Omek

Best Friends

Frintships can grow back. - Portis

If you need a good book for today, I'd recommend Best Frints In The Whole Universe by Antoinette Portis. 

It is clever, imaginative, hilarious, sweet, and wacky. Cosmically delightful and other-worldly, it is set ... where else? On the planet Boborp.

Do you want to see what it looks like? Are you curious? Let’s take a tour.

It is bright and toothy. Fresh and fun and vibrant and full of life. A place where you are welcomed with open arms to play eye ball and eat yunch. Guess with whom?

Are you ready? Hold on.  Let me pause for dramatic emphasis...

Yelfred and Omek.

One is pink and the other, purple - with antennae, tadpole-like tails, and clawlike arms and legs. An unlikely pair who have grown up together and have been best friends since they were little blobbies. They talk in their own funny language.

All.The.Time.

When they laugh, their eyes crinkle at the corner, their sharp teef showing beneath their broad grins.

Are you all in? Let the fun and games begin!

But have I mentioned that on Boborp, teef are long and tempers are short? Can anything go wrong between these neon-berry colored frints? Oh, yes, and with great drama. 

It is one of those perfect days. Yelfred rides up in a sleek new spossip, a blurfday gift. Omek longs to take it for a spin and won’t take NO for an answer. And things happen. 

The spossip gets shmackled to pieces. 

Does Omek apologize? Nope. He's hardly contrite. It was that way when I got it, he reasons out. 

That, of course, sparks the biggest fight yet. Yelfred is furious and bites Omek’s tail off (luckily, on Boborp, tails grow back). Words tumble out. He calls him a double-dirt bleebo.  

What a turn of events! It has been a long, terrible day. Can these two alien pals make up and move on? I mean….of course, I don’t think it’s that bad. To fix the vehicle and repair their friendship.

And that's what they do. Whew!

Take a regular spewdriver that’s minding its business. And then? Cut copious amounts of taypo. Use twire. And what's dented and bent is new again. All fixed with tape and a sturpler.

Perhaps the bewitching atmosphere of Boborp has gotten the better of me because suddenly, I know I'd like to spend the time right there.

With frints who still believe that the world is a magical place full of adventure and where friendships can be restored.

With friends as well who are bound in their loyalty to be a harmonious community and be part of something larger than just the little circle we make for ourselves.

With those whose laughter punctuates their sentences with huge, bellied guffaws. There is something about friends like them, loud and talking on top of each other, that makes you feel better, no matter the conversation. 

And even with those whose unique way of communicating, through grunts and a simple sound, make the world seem rounder and softer. 

Indeed.

In the midst of chaos and the dings and nicks of life, friends will not merely endure: they will prevail.

The End.

Four Harmonious Friends

Best Friends

Remember Han Solo and Chewbacca and C-3PO and R2-D2? They fought against the empire and let the force be with them and their friendship was one of several worth celebrating in a galaxy far, far away. 

But today, we're staying close to earth - actually on the Himalayas' eastern edge on the grounds of the Institute for Zorig Chusum in Thimpu, Bhutan.

I'd like you to meet someone. Some-four actually.

Four Harmonious Friends. 

Look at this life-sized, three-dimensional sculpture on the courtyard. A bird, rabbit, and monkey are standing on each other's shoulders on the back of a patient elephant. To the right of the stacked-up figures is a fruit tree.

Umm...

Is this as confusing to you as it is to me? Even as I stand back and stare and think, I can’t really figure out the symbolism. Perhaps of the different kinds of friends you call for different things?

Those you call because you think of something funny and you love to hear them laugh.

Maybe those you call for a little conversation and they stop by your house?

I wish this were the brilliant part of the story where I tell you I've got it. But no. I'm Not.Even.Close.

Our guide explains slowly, using an exaggerated storyteller's cadence. It's our country's beloved tale about harmony and friendship. After a long breath, he continues in an unhurried, confident voice. The scene refers to the legend of the four animals trying to find out who among them was the oldest.

Duh... huh?! Meeting requested.

He explains. The elephant said that the tree was already fully-grown when he was young, while the monkey asserted that the tree was small when he was young. The hare, on the other hand, said that he saw the tree as a sapling when he was young.

Now I know where this is going.

He continues, But the partridge claimed that he had excreted the seed from which the tree grew, so the bird was recognized by the other animals as the oldest.

Seniority. That's different. It's not the usual pecking-order according to strength, size and power. Sure.

But wait….there’s more.

The image of the animals standing on each other’s shoulders, on the back of an elephant, portrays interdependence and cooperation, our guide enthusiastically adds. The bird finds a seed and plants it, the rabbit waters it, and the monkey fertilizes it. 

That's it! I thought as a light bulb goes on over my head. Together we can do it.  

Are you all caught up, too?  Oh, good.

Pursing his lips, he goes on. Once the seed begins to grow, the elephant protects it. After some time, the plant grows into a big, beautiful tree full of fruit. By working together and using their individual talents, the four friends are able to reach and enjoy the fruit. 

Of course! It’s the circle of life.

And time.

And patience.

He pauses somewhat dramatically before concluding, In doing so, the four animals have become close friends.

Time settles into order, the world, reluctantly, into something that makes sense. The story has touched me. The simplicity.

The clouds are sparser than they have been earlier, the sky a more uniform blue. I take a deep breath and say nothing. The air smells of rhododendrons and solace. 

And the sunshine has shown up.

Among the tiny flowers hugging the ground, I spot a lizard moving in the grass, running into the shade of a ledge. It has darted auspiciously toward the Four Harmonious Friends.

I nod at it vigorously. 

I get it, pal. I understand.

'Friends'

Best Friends

Quotes from the Friends' script are from the Crazy For Friends internet site.

Best friends are the people in life that make you laugh a little louder,

smile a little brighter, and live a little better. - Anonymous

The calendar flipped to July. Although the sun had exerted its last burst of energy before disappearing into evening, the air remained hot and dry. 

I didn't care. It was that time of year. I was glued to my seat. My fav sitcom was on tonight.

Friends.

Tell me you watched the same show. And that you remember Rachel and Monica and Phoebe and Joey and Chandler, and of course Ross - best friends who lived in the same Manhattan apartment complex where they created and dreamed and gazed at the clouds and stuck their noses into one another's business. 

Me? I never missed an episode. There was nothing like it. 

I can envision them sitting together in a self-conscious huddle in a coffeehouse. Phoebe had just bounded gracefully down the hallway. She was scrunching her nose in that characteristic way of hers as she told Monica and Rachel, We can be guys! Come on, let us be guys! 

Chandler, his voice robotic and seemingly annoyed, countered, You don't want to be guys, you'd be all hairy and you wouldn't live as long. 

Or I can see Rachel in the laundry room, brushing a wayward hair falling into her eyes as she confessed to Ross in a quiet, defeated voice. You caught me. I'm a laundry virgin. She goofily smiled with embarrassment as Ross assured her, Then I'll use the gentle cycle.

You may remember that one in which Monica received a call for Rachel from the Visa card people. Through tightly-clenched teeth, Rachel whispered, her lips trembling. Oh, God, ask them what they want. 

When Monica told her that there was some unusual activity on her account, Rachel stomped her feet, put both hands on her hips with all of her dramatic flair, and quickly retorted, But I haven't used my card in weeks! Monica's eyes narrowed into slits as she laughed and disclosed, That is the unusual activity. 

What more can I say? You cheered them on. You listened to their inane conversation swirling like wild dandelion seeds in the wind. It was like listening to gossip from sixth graders. A steady stream of super important life-changing information. Like who liked whom, and what so and so said, and who was going with whom. 

Good thing I didn't miss a word. For ten seasons, all I wanted was to float aimlessly along in that friendly and bubbly silliness. 

And live life with abandon.

Or even just sit on a porch somewhere and sink into a gentle and repairing state of nothingness.

Nupling

Best Friends

Some portions of this entry have been adapted from Nupling, a feature article published in 1975 in the Philippine Chronicle, a fortnightly Chicago tabloid that I edited.

Of all the BFFs I loved before, hands down, without any additional hand-waving or pointing, she's my Number One.

Nupling.

She was my best friend and roommate from college through graduate school days.

A smile.

A welcome.

That was how she greeted me every day. But she wasn’t a big talker. Just waiting to hear what I’ve been up to. A confidante. 

I didn't care.

I could tell her about the super-cute Youth Minister whom I had planned on marrying someday. (Be still, my rapidly beating heart.) How every Sunday afternoon I'd attend MYF, my giant pair of sparkly earrings trembling in anticipation, my hair teased up. (Aside: that was the fashion. The higher the hair, the closer to heaven. I know, right?)

She kept me company. And watched Dance-O-Rama with me. Every.Single.Day.

She always stayed close by my side. Her footfall was deceptively light, almost as if she wanted not to be heard. She just loped about, giving off an air of slight distraction, as if her mind were always on higher things. 

When love came to conquer, she became one of thousands who proved true the adage that love was blind. The object of her affection was small, short, brown, and had that eternally-puzzled, if not simple-minded look. 

Who knew?

She was just curled up on the rattan sofa when suddenly life lifted her up and spun her around and made her heart flip. And then? 

Things happened. I sensed that it was too late when she gave a happy skip and then disappeared down the hall. It wasn't long before she got pregnant. I didn't have a clue. 

And I thought we were best friends! I sputtered. That you would at least have told me. As I said that, the briefest flicker of emotion seemed to pass over her face.

I was just a big talker. I did nurture my best friend through the eventful day of her delivery. Apprehensive and curious, I peered at the newborn, the most odd-looking ... set of triplets. I couldn't help gushing, Adorable! Nupling tried to scowl, then muttered something I couldn't hear.

Motherhood didn't lessen our devotion to each other. For her part, Nupling stayed up with me on those thesis-writing nights.

Looking back, what I would remember most of our times together was that morning. It was my wedding day. 

Nupling had padded slowly into the room and with a sigh, plopped down by my bed. She sat a moment, brooding as she did when gathering her thoughts. I think she had appointed herself to look over all the details of my attire, ready to come up with a big opinion.

Truth. My embroidered pina sheath gown was pretty. 

I emerged from underneath my garment, my hands flapping vaguely in the air, looking like I just stepped through the wardrobe into Narnia. At the risk of stating the obvious….

… I looked awesome.

Seriously. 

She just stared at me funny, like there was a piece of pandesal on my face or toilet paper stuck on the bottom of my flip flops and she didn't know how to tell me. She seemed to smile, but I couldn't be sure. 

I recall how I awarded Nupling a playful pop on top of the head with my palm. She closed her eyes, exhaling heavily, and cocked her head.

We stood in silence as I examined myself in the mirror, staring ahead as though hypnotized.

It was a tranquil scene - a gathering of best friends who knew each other to the heart and who confidently relied on the faith of their friendship. One of her ears flopped over.

She then nudged up against my left leg, begging for an ear scratch...

... her tail wagging, three fast tick-tocks.

White

Colors

WHITE is not a mere absence of color; it is a shining and affirmative thing.

God paints in many colors; but He never paints so gorgeously, I had almost said so gaudily, as when He paints in white. - Gilbert K. Chesterton

I'm thinking about all the interior landscaping style and colors I loved before. 

I had a blue Ming period, a green jade era, a short-lived Crazy Moroccan vibe, a Mariachi streak with an extra helping of red-hot, Vintage Victorian, and many others.

But lately, I've become friends with white as well as khaki and neutrals accented with black. (You may remember the story of the onset of my lunacy with white in last December's entry entitled, Pure As The Driven Snow.) 

That's why when I looked out the window in the early morning that day, my heart skipped a beat when I spotted a sliver of fluttering white darting and dancing across the vining Virginia Creeper.

Do you remember I said white was my fav color? 

It was a white butterfly.

I was fascinated because there were not a lot of these albino-like winged insects around. I could tell that it had just wakened to life after the sleep of darkness. Now, it was floating and moving in the air, flying upon the wings of its own spirit.

Some of my friends said that white signified death. Please tell me you don't believe that. 

Oh, good. I don't either.

I saw purity, beauty, innocence, freedom, spiritual growth, and wisdom in that white butterfly. Remember Chrysalis? (Its parent movement is the UMC Walk to Emmaus, for those not in-the-know.)

It wasn't symbolic of the absence of color, but a beacon that signified the confluence of all colors.

It uplifted.

It affirmed.

Life is like a box of crayons. 

With the lovely and, at the same time, furious red of emotions vying for primacy.

With the inky dark of a bleak night when it seems like there's nothing. Always nothing.

With the riotous motley hues of small things which, together, create great things.

With a golden sunrise that gives you the feeling of having just wakened from a spell that is meant to last forever.

And with the immaculate purity of a tomorrow that comes shining with purpose and miracles. 

Such are life's colorful passages. It’s all in the shades and tint of the moment.

Yellow

Colors

YELLOW is the eldest daughter of light. - Charles Blanc

When I was young, I thought yellow was the most beautiful color on the planet. When Mum would ask me what color fabric to buy at the Divisoria textile mart for my new dress, I'd say, Dilaw. Yellow.

All.The.Time.

I think it was because it was bright.

Joyous.

Sparkling.

Which is why I'm doing 'yellow' today, CBS-style. You know, where the show features just a slice of life. Nothing fancy. Just an image.

So, here goes.

Are you game? 

Let me take you once more on a túk túk ride in the walled city of Old Delhi in India (you may remember one such ride featured ­­­in last year's October entry).

Just visualize it.

An unending, gilded aura of yellow marigolds embracing the lovely, merciless sun pouring through an immense skylight, shaped like a dome. The street is so laden with flowers making the city look like it is outlined in gold, or that it has caught fire. 

Turbaned vendors presiding over huge baskets of flowers are meticulously stringing them into garlands, love charms, and various ornamentation.

Wonderful creatures marigolds are.

Festooned on market stalls and doorways, they nod hello to the swarm of people hurrying by. In front of stores and vehicles, what seem to be hundreds of them reach for the sky, their faces lifted in ecstasy. Their heads quiver over balconies and on building facades, filling shadowed corners with an acrid, clinging scent. 

In the Birla Temple, devotees offer them alongside namaz prayers to gods wearing red lipstick and with multiple arms.

Don't you just love all that shining fluorescence?

That explosion of radiance and orange decorating the road in bright colors with no apparent theme other than vividness.

That amazing light pooling across, swept up like a wizard's broad paintbrush to varnish all the buildings in a beautiful golden haze.

That seeming chaos, brilliant and showy.

It makes me feel as if a tiny seed filled with magic had taken root and is flourishing like infinite blossoms inside of me. 

This sparkling and yellow slice of life.