I had a fascinating day.

I accompanied a friend to a job interview, and as I was wandering around, I was finally able to visit a bookstore I've been eyeing for sometime. It was a quaint store, called Libris Books, it's tag was: 'Quality Books @ Friendlier prices'. It had good books, but not enough, I thought, crouching down I discovered a copy of Coraline, in it's hardbound cover. I thought of Marie's Coraline and how expensive it was, holding the smooth cover with Coraline peering from it's cover, wistfully I thought of owning one, someday when the price was--

Holy Cow!
The price was affordable, I couldn't believe what I was seeing but there it was in stark numbers, P320! I couldn't believe it, I blinked but it didn't disappear. I took out the copy from the shelf, same price! My God, Power Books and National Bookstore priced the book at a whopping P600+!

I was in heaven.

Libris is now my damn bookstore! Where has this store been my whole life?

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After my life changing discovery (don't look at me that way, it is a life changing discovery!) My friend and I ate lunch, her interview, it turns is going to take longer than expected. After the quick lunch, she ran back to the offices for the final interview and I stayed behind content reading American Gods, when, I accidentally knocked my juice spilling its contents over the side of the table and splashing on the floor like a mini waterfall.

I looked at the spilled contents mournfully, it was still half full and I paid a good 20 bucks for it, dammit!

A kindly old man over at the next table suggested I move to his table, I was hesitant, images of Nasty Old Men running in my head, I placed my glasses and instead of seeing a Nasty Old Man I was met with the eyes of a kindly old man. I moved to his table, shaking my head over my clumsiness, I was prepared to eat in silence or resume my reading, when he commented on American Gods.

He introduced himself as Eduardo Albayda and revealed he was a writer for a local paper, Metropolitan Forum. My ears perked, I was an aspiring writer myself. He was writing a piece to enter in a writing contest in the US, he was happy to talk about his writing, or just to talk, in age their is wisdom. But I couldn't help feel how lonely he must feel, especially when he told me his about wife.

"I used to travel a lot because my wife was a singer, we went to Italy," Mr. Albayda looked at me owlishly, his folder of compiled writings sat beside a battered copy of a science book. "She used to sing Opera." He paused, a beat and he blinked before he added. "She's dead, now."

He's traveled around the world, met with celebrities, painted Mother Theresa and had her signature affixed in his paintings, seen the old Emperor Hirohito, and renowned magicians like David Copperfield (all true, he showed me his album of paintings and pictures) and he still looked healthy at 80 years of age, but after all that he doesn't want to leave the Philippines. No other place felt like home to him, no matter the number of languages he speaks, he still ended up here.

Making daily rounds to Tropical Hut --a Filipino fast food chain and supermarket-- he's practically known by all the employees, they greet him with respect and love, but somehow, yes, he is lonely. His daughters live in Japan, and he was to move there but once onboard the plane he just could not leave, he hurriedly ran out of the plane. He hopes he'll travel to the US, someday but it would seem he could not leave just now.

He also translated from the Spanish, a poem made by Rizal, he showed me an excerpt and I was suitable impressed, his command of English was enlightening. I also liked, when he started reciting Emily Dickinson’s How much do I love thee? In Spanish, it was beautiful, before I never understood how the original version of Pablo Neruda’s poems in Spanish could be better than English, I thought, wrongly, that both languages expressed the poems properly. One has to hear the proper intonation, pronunciation to know the beauty of it.

It was a good tête-à-tête, he gave me nuggets of advice, he was particular with his advice of determination. Determination and Will can lead a person a long way, so does knowing what you write. Like all writers he managed to circle the discussion back to what he was writing, which I found endearing. However, all good things must come to an end, and we ended our talk but not before exchanging addresses. He was sure we will meet again, and I didn't want to discourage him, because I seldom venture to that part of Paranaque, but I've resolved that I will write to him.

The last I saw him, he was conversing genially with a shopkeeper, who referred to him affectionately as lolo (grandfather).

Quote: “It’s often enriching to write articles and essays that are thought provoking which will give the avid reader something to ponder.”
-Albayda, 2002

It has finally ended, seven seasons of wonderful storylines and character arcs, seven seasons of awe, wonder, frustration and expectation. It is an end of an era, it had not helped create the genre but it made it familiar, it was not an icon, it was what it was with no apologies necessary.

Buffy the Vampire Slayer was the first serious fandom I ever fell in love with, I wavered from time to time, only to fall back in mesmerized awe at the genius of vision and the great acting. Sure, it could have been better, sure something was lost when Joss Whedon turned his concentration to other things but in a lot of ways Chosen was not an ending, it was a beginning, an arc that I'm sure will show in Angel.

And I think, if BtVS followed the UK set-up, it could have been a tighter show, the actors, writers and the whole enchalada wouldn't have been so tired, but there it goes. Right now, all I want to do is thank BtVS for introducing me to an intelligent show who cared about characters, and made me care in turn. Thank you for showing me that television isn't just about fun, it can also teach about life, show how poignant life can be, how fun.

However, since I have a season to go (my country is a season late-- why am I going through the goodbyes, then? Just because.) I can still see 'em, and since I finally saw a store selling BtVS I can finally watch the episodes I love.

Thank you to the cast for the brilliant acting, the topsy-turvy acrobatics you had to go through just to give as a great show, thank you writers for writing the arcs, episodes that are both forgetable and wholly unforgetable, and finally, thank you Joss Whedon for bringing your vision of a female empowerment onscreen. Ave, Joss.

With final goodbyes, I thank you with my whole heart.

I found endicott studio, a mythic fiction bi-monthly journal. Mythic fiction is the term Terri Windling uses for fantasy, and I think a more fitting term. Mythic fiction can encompass mainstream, being lodged in fantasy will box a writer into a corner, when in reality they are as good, or even better than mainstream authors.

What's in a name?
It confuses me how people can just box a book into a category of mainstream and fantasy, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Salman Rushdie, Isabel Allende and other like authors employ the elements of fantasy into their work but they are generally accepted as mainstream, with the occasional association with the term 'Magical Realism', which in short translates to fantasy. It's a case of potato-potahto, I guess.

I was reading Terri Windling's essay on Snow White, she discussed the various origins of Snow White, not the popular incarnation of Disney, or the brothers Grimm. In contrast to the originals, (Snow White, by the way, did not originate in Germany but had it's roots in different countries, more on that later.) the brothers Grimm's version was tame, Disney's of course, even tamer.

Of all the versions, I think what I most like, as did Terri Windling was the Scottish version of the story, where Snow White's own mother is the evil stepmother, the king sent Snow White to a young King to be wed as his wife. The young King fell madly in love with Snow White, unfortunately the mother learned of Snow White's whereabouts from a trout (the original magic mirror) and sought to kill her own daughter with a poisoned needle. Snow White falls into unconciousness, thinking she has died her husband locked her in the tower, and wept, years pass and the king marries again. The second wife inquires about her husbands melanchonly and he answers that the only way to gain back his happiness if his first wife comes back to life. It turns out the second wife had found the tower, and while cleaning she was able to lodge out the poisoned needle. Voila, Snow White's alive, the king reunites with Snow White. The second wife bows out goodnaturedly, but the king would not here of it, saying that he would have two wives. Unfortunately the trout spills the beans again, so the mother return to finish the deed with a poisoned drink. The clever second wife, however learns of it, meets the evil Queen on the shores and tricked her into drinking the poison.

So, okay, the king has two wives but I really like the second wife, she's so smart and spunky! I mean Snow White has her qualities, I'm sure but it was the second wife who defeated the Evil Queen.

People think fairy tales are for children but in it's original form fairy tales were grisly and seldom end happy. If they knew that I'd doubt those ultraconservatives would let their children within ten feet of hearing distance of the story.

Anyone else notice that often the villains are women? Women as power scares men, don't it? But, in the original incarnations I doubt that all the villains were women. Terri Windling notes how the Grimm brothers take care that men aren't implicated as evil, but lay the blame on the stepmother. Huh.