Four Things I Learned While Doing Math

Lately, I've been tutoring math to a h.s. kid who's studying at the British School Manila. I was looking over the textbook they use and immediately noticed there was a huge difference between the way the subject was being taught. I've been used to handling curricula that covers a lot of topics, but only on the same subject for the whole year or the whole semester. The British School, on the other hand, covers a smattering of different math subjects over the entire school year, i.e. a little of algebra, geometry, statistics, trigonometry, etc.

Admittedly, it was jarring to me at first. I mean, it would be kind of confusing for me to juggle factoring polynomials for a week or two and then suddenly shifting to calculating the angles of a polygon. As I was discussing this situation with another educator, he pointed out that it may actually be beneficial to kids who have a short attention span. In this manner, there would be a variety of topics covered, and boredom due to monotony could be avoided.

La Divina

To be particularly honest, I never really caught on the idea of Maria Callas as a great soprano – at least in the beginning. Being the high-note whore I was when I was a kid (sure, some traces of it can still be found nowadays – but I’m digressing), I was utterly shocked with my first aural encounter with her. Owing to the fact that this happened at a very tender and impressionable age of ten, and that my idea of a pretty voice so far was that of Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, what was coming out of the speakers repulsed me, to put it mildly. The voice had none of the purity and limpidness that I expected from a coloratura soprano. Instead, I was deluged with a darkish, veiled, almost bottled-up kind of sound. Sure, fine, she had high notes. That I couldn’t argue about. But it was produced in such an unorthodox kind way that made my skin scrawl. Let’s put it this way, would you rather be A) crushed under a whole ton of hollow blocks masquerading as a high note or B) suffer a hundred decibels of pure siren-wailing trying to pass itself as a high note? Either choice is equally valid, by the way; because that was the how she sounded to me come high note time. Trust me, the listening session didn’t turn out to be a pleasurable experience as I was hoping it to be. It was mind-boggling experience all right, as in the oh-my-god-why-the-heck-is-she-famous-when-she-sounds-SO-ugly? kind of mind-boggling. Deciding that she was just a hack for all I care (oh, such arrogance of youth), I quickly yanked the tape out of the deck after a few arias, and stored it in the box-that-it-never-to-be-opened-at-any-cost, otherwise known as the baul where my lola stored all precious knick-knacks and what-mays.

Fast forward to the age of the laser disc (okay, I realize that sounded really, really dated). Through the intervening years, I slowly got re-acquainted with the voice of Callas through various live and studio recordings of recitals and complete operas. Sure, she was still sometimes painful to listen, especially when she was lunging at the high notes. Definitely, the voice wasn’t anything remotely beautiful. In fact, for a lot of conservative vocal purists, her physical instrument sounded intrinsically fractured. Anyway, back to the laser disc story. My friend just arrived from the States lugging back a LD of Callas’ Covent Garden performance of Puccini’s Tosca. Since it was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and there was nothing good on t.v., I decided to accept his invitation to hang out and watch the video. As the performance unfurled before the t.v. screen, I was mesmerized. So this was what the Callas myth was all about. Her sheer presence and animal magnetism was very much apparent, throbbing with a palpable force I’ve never encountered before. Never mind the wobbly high notes or her distracting yodeling in and out of her chest voice. Every vocal histrionic was well put into the context of the drama. She ceased to be Callas the prima donna, and became every inch of Tosca, the outraged prima donna character she was portraying. A whole gamut of emotions, from jealousy to pain, from elation to desperation, from tenderness to fury leaped out from the video straight to the core of my being. The performance ceased to be an opera. Rather, it became was a searingly white-hot display of naked emotional truth compressed into about two hours of sheer drama. And yes, Virginia, to put it simply, I was riveted.

So what’s the whole point of the essay? It's a fanboy's personal recollection and tribute to a siner who has justifiably revolutionized opera from the mid-50's onwards. Even after 50-odd years, the reforms of Maria Callas in the operatic scene can still be felt, with the audiences expecting singers to have well-fleshed out characterizations as opposed to the stand-and-deliver approach to singing. She has proved to be a shinning beacon for an opera singer like me on how to approach and deal with the music at hand. Her untimely retirement from the operatic scene has left a void that others have tried to fill. Renata Scotto, Elena Souliotis, Sylvia Sass, and their ilk have taken up Callas' cudgels with various degrees of success. But it stops there, because the is only one Callas, bar none. The Queen is dead, and no one can ever replace her. Viva La Divina! Viva La Callas!

Baby Steps in Writing

How can you kill yourself slowly? Well, I asked a few people about it and I got some kooky answers I'd like to share with you. So here it goes:

First, eat lots of food that is fatty and high in cholesterol. These fats and cholesterol will slowly build up and eventually block your arteries, leading to a stroke or heart attack. Of course, you wouldn't notice anything amiss until IT strikes. Isn't it exciting? Well, as for those "healthy foods, the diet plans, and your subscription to Slimmer's World and Shape Center, junk them because they're definitely no-no's in achieving your goal.

Second, expose yourself to a lot of stress. At every opportunity, drive during rush hours, cram to beat deadlines, and quarrel with everybody in sight. That ought to make you tense enough to make your blood pressure shoot up to high heavens, and, coupled with a bad diet, it would surely drive you to the box early. But, hey, who's rushing? Just shout invectives at the other drivers, kiss and make up with your enemies, and smoke like hell when you're cramming, all to give you a chance of experiencing there nerve-wracking situations again and again!

Third, speaking of smoking, did you know that each stick takes away five minutes from your life? Not only that, you're bound to get cancer sooner or later. That's why you should smoke several packs of cigarettes a day. Regular or menthol, whatever you prefer, but never the light brand. You not only burn money (for those poor-little-rich-people who can't find anything to do with their money), but more importantly, you never notice the effects until the next medical check-up, wherein cute golf-size spots appear in your lung x-ray. Eureka!

These are some of the crazy answers I got to the even crazier question "How can you kill yourself slowly?" Well, it's definitely easier to pull the trigger, or slash the wrists, but, hey, where's all the fun in that?

-----

While I was doing house cleaning, I came across this untitled essay I wrote in 3rd year h.s. It's prolly the earliest specimen of writing I have that still survives. I can't figure out what prompted me to come up with something like this, but apparently the teacher liked it enough to give me more than a decent grade. Apparently, he took a fancy a my stab at satirical/sarcastic writing. To each his own, I guess.

Titi, Puki, and Kantot: Unbeing Politically Correct in the Matters of Sex, Filipino style

The Filipino’s penchant for giving monikers to the sexual organs and acts has long been a source of amusement for me. This state of being politically correct sometimes borders on the verge of ridiculousness. I mean, shouldn’t the words titi, puke, and kantot be equally valid for usage as with the words pagkalalaki, pagkababae, and pagtatalik? The first three terms, when uttered, seems outright coarse and vulgar to most Filipinos. On the other hand, the last three terms are so downright sugar coated that whenever I hear it used, I can’t help but snicker politely, roll my eyes, and promptly go into a diabetic fit. A lot of Filipinos can’t seem, or are unwilling to discuss sex without feeling the slightest hint of discomfiture along with the requisite squirming in their seats. It’s as if we’d rather discuss the state of the weather rather than face the fact that people have sexual organs, and that yes, Virginia, they do use those organs to do sexual acts.

It’s so easy to point a finger at the restrictive Spanish friar brand of Catholicism as the source of the subjugated Filipino sexual psyche. For three hundred years, this particular school of stuffy and straight-laced religiosity was rammed down our throats that the repression is so well-ingrained in our ways and minds. Take for example, that exquisite moment when sex is brought up as a topic at a family dinner (or for that matter, any social gathering.) Chances are, it will either be contextualized as a humorous anecdote (read: a dirty joke), or be oughtright glossed-over and ignored (with the requisite embarrassed silence – subtext: next topic, please.) Embarrassment amidst humor, and humor amidst embarrassment: the perfect coping device when one isn’t really prepared to accept some realities in life.

Another glaring example of the Filipinos’ long-standing repression with sexual matters is the euphemisms used to address the sexual organs. Our formative years are peppered with experiences with how our elders awkwardly referred to the penis and vagina. I’m willing to bet on the fact that while growing up, Filipinos have been told by their parents to make pagpag his birdie after peeing or wash her flower before sleeping at least once in his or her life. It is this prudish (not to mention absurd) adult behavior that germinates the idea in children that the penis and the vagina is something that is impolite and improper to talk about. Worse even is the birds-and-the-bees talk at the onset of puberty. Filipino parents rarely educate their children about sexual concerns at home. If it is done at all, it is mostly conducted in an atmosphere filled with unease and discomfort (with matching euphemistic terminologies). This in turn, communicates to the soon-to-be teenager that sex is something to be ashamed about, and thus further perpetuates that cycle of repression that is passed on from one Filipino generation to another.

So what’s the whole point about my raving? Well, let’s face it folks, it is the 21st century. Maria Clara has been dead since the 1800’s and Padre Damaso and his cohorts are enjoying their well-deserved roasting in the pits of perdition. For crissake’s, blame-it-all-on Spain is even more modern and liberal with their attitudes towards sex compared to Filipinos nowadays. We really have to get over our anal-retentiveness with sex. While I don’t really suggest that we throw morality out of the window and engage in raunchy debauchery day in, day out (a tempting thought), we do have to start accepting that sex is a fact of life. Whether we like it or not (and I’m willing to bet again on the like part), sex happens. No amount of hush-hush or monikers can change that. So what’s the missing ingredient? I say: out with being politically correct, and just call a spade a spade. That should help in fostering the message that sex, in a healthy and positive context, is the key to striking out a yin-and-yang balance between being frigidly uptight and wantonly irresponsible.

Heisenberg Principle of Uncertainty – I So Don’t Get It

"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."
"The more things change, the more they stay the same."

- old French proverb

Call me staid (read: boring), and old-fashioned (read: inflexible), but change isn’t my cup of tea. Really. I dunno, but I’d rather prefer the sun to rise every morning I get up. Not that it hasn’t risen at all (knock on wood), but I imagine if it doesn’t, then my whole ordered and predictable world will come crashing down. Of course I’m exaggerating, but it brings me my whole point: why change your status quo when there’s no assurance that the precipitating change will be for the better?

All my closest friends know how much I tend to resist change. Give me predictability anytime over spontaneity. I guess this stems from the fact that without some sense of structure in my life, I really tend to be out of focus and go in several directions all at once. Shades of ADHD perhaps? Is it the bohemian attitude supposedly inherent in artistic people? Or is it just a simple an innate lack of self-discipline? Well, for whatever reason, I’ve learned my lessons in the school of hard knocks that’s called life. I need something staid and organized for me to exploit my potentials to the fullest.

Let me digress a little bit. I won’t exaggerate: I’m not exactly obsessive-compulsive, and neither am I an anal-retentive jerk. I don’t have this overwhelming urge to make my bed every morning, nor do I have the patience to arrange my toiletries in some twisted sense of logic. I keep on losing small things ranging from hankies to cell phones to wallets because I’m not compelled to check my pockets every now and then. However, even if my room is a mess, I know underneath that stockpile of music pieces and used clothes is the book I’ve been wanting to read for the past few months. In my closet, I know my passport is on the leftmost shelf, buried under a barrage of knick-knacks and thingamajigs. Among the numerous school and work papers strewn about on my desk, I know that the break up letter I wrote in high school is still in an brown Papelmerotti envelope, unsent after all of these years (we still broke-up though hahahahaha). Somehow, amidst this seemly chaotic behavior, some sense of ordered pattern emerges.

So given my ordered sense of chaos, where does change come in? As the cliché goes, the only sure thing in the world is change. It doesn’t mean that even if my room is a jungle that Tarzan could live in, I don’t know where my things are. Factor-in change a.k.a. the maid cleaning up my room, and zoom, all of a sudden, I have no idea where in the world my notes for the finals of my Music Literature subject are. A trifle example, I know, but nonetheless, it paints a pretty good idea of how much change affects me. It somehow heralds an unknown quantity that utterly mixes up the order in the chaos that I am used to. I know it sounds weird, but inspite of the disorder, I still know that I have some control over it (perhaps making it so not chaotic in its true sense of the word, but that’s another topic altogether). Besides, change is something that’s not assurable. Let’s go back to my example of the now-cleaned up room. So fine, it’s now nice and clean, but despite its squeakingly spotless exterior, I won’t know where my notes lie (I could ask the maid, but that’s not the point). In other words, why would I even want the uncertainty of change when in fact, the seemingly chaotic state is actually full of order?

My family and friends have this urging for me to take that certain risk called change. They always argue that I’d never know if that change would bear something good. I’d say, no thanks, and please don’t hound and persecute me just because I feel fairly contented with what I have right now. Sure, take potshots at me. Call me boring and predictable. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose? Humph. Yeah right. Go tell that to the marines.

P.S. The author’s view early this morning does not necessarily reflect the true philosophical and existential position he takes in life. However, neither can it be claimed as pure fiction. In other words, it is only a facet of his some-time cravings for creative prose; born at 5:00 a.m., straight out of a rambling mind severely demented from lack of sleep.