Flipping

I buy books. And sometimes I read them. This blog is for the times when I do more than just store shelf candy.

Monday, April 29, 2013

The Dog Ate My Books and Other Excuses Why I Stopped Flipping

Ever since I got into a book club back in 2007, my reading life has flourished. In quality and quantity. If memory serves me right, I pushed myself to read 50 books in 2008, 60 in 2009, and 70 in 2010. I also joined a few reading challenges, including the A to Z Challenge, where we had to read 26 books, each one representing a letter in the alphabet, based on author's surnames.




Then in 2011, I failed in all my quantity and genre challenges. Last year, 2012, my reading life screeched to almost a full stop. My reading life deteriorated so much that my best and worst books were the same book. I did not read enough books last year to justify a selection process.

I did try. I never completely stopped reading. I remained the kind of person who gets antsy when stuck without anything to read in a grocery line. I tried to read most of the books we had for our club's monthly book discussions. Tried. I read enough chapters to participate in the discussions, at least those I got to attend. But I failed to complete any of them.

Count of Monte Cristo, Geography of Bliss, Game of Thrones, It Must've Been Something I Ate--all half read. Not because the books were bad, but because I was just a bad reader.

But why? What happened? Well, the dog ate my books.

Following are the rest of my excuses:

Because I have to. Those who knew me in high school knew that books, at least those I had to read for school, remained crisp, clean, unread all throughout the school year. I did read back then, but my books were those I was not allowed to read. Books my mom tried to keep from me--books by Harold Robbins, Sidney Sheldon, a fair amount of Mills & Boons.

But I rebelled against reading text books and other required reading.

And whoever forced me to read The Old Man and the Sea is the one to blame. Whose bright idea was it to impose this story on  high school kids? I mean, really. We were the first generation to grow up on fast food. If we wanted tuna, all we needed was a can opener. And so this story was sheer torture for those with undiagnosed attention deficit. The battle between man and fish--who friggin' cared? I didn't. And it was painful that it took too long for nothing to happen.

So I learned my lesson and left Iliad, Dante's Inferno, Florante and Laura, and other books unopened. I had to read Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice, mainly because I had to act out the parts of Shylock and Portia. But I only read the parts I had to memorize.

I hated required reading. And it was Ernest Hemingway's fault. It would take decades before I forgave him enough to watch the Chris O' Donnell-Sandra Bullock movie adaptation of Farewell to Arms.

So the point is: I have a built-in aversion to required reading. And inasmuch as reading with my book club is fun, the have-to part of it makes reading a bit of a task.

Because it's too sad to read. In 2011, my sister's brain tumor decided to make a comeback, and one of its sad effects on my sister was a degree of blindness that made it really hard for her to read. Helping her son through his homework made her dizzy. And I felt, even though I knew I shouldn't be, guilty to be able to read. Somehow, that robbed me of the joy of reading. And when she passed away that same year, I got too busy drowning my sadness in potato chips and drenching my heart in soda to really make reading a priority. I don't want to wallow, and I certainly don't want to use my sister's death as an excuse, but I mention this here because on hindsight, I did realize this was one of the main reasons reading temporarily lost its appeal.

And today, to think positively, I just appreciate the blessing, the privilege of being able to read.

Because my brain is tired. Work. Traveling for work. Work and more work. That's the usual excuse for not being able to read. And I'm going to use that convenient excuse. Because it's true. The past couple of years were crazy. And out-of-town training trips made me miss a number of book discussions, which lessened the urgency and the desire to read the book for the month.

Plus, when your job requires a lot of reading and writing, and reading and rewriting other people's works, when the time comes to rest, the last thing you want to see is words.

Because IPad. I don't really have to explain the highly-distracting power of the tablet, do I?


And the next is the strongest reason, my top excuse.



Because I am old and now need glasses.  For all my life, I have abused my eyes. Because I'm rebellious. And my mom's shrilly nagging--"Don't stay too close to the TV, masisira mata mo! Stop reading in the car! Stop reading in the dark. Stop reading when it's too bright!"--just made me do the opposite. Despite the abuse, the doctor still told me that I was going to have 20/20 vision until I hit 40.

At that time, 40 seemed too far away, and I was, in fact, hoping to need to wear glasses because they're cute and sexy.

Then I hit 40, and my eyes were just fine. And I would smirk, feeling superior to my peers who held their phones a kilometer away from their faces, with their eyes squinting as if they were reading the E D F C Z P line of the eye chart. Back then, I felt maybe my doctor's prediction was wrong, and I was really one of those with super vision who would never ever need glasses.

I was 43 when the superpower delusions came crashing down. But even then, I only needed reading glasses. Which meant that I would normally feel that my eyesight's normal, could walk out of the house, drive away, and not feel any vision impairment. And then I would find myself with time to read while in a waiting room, and I would realize I forgot my sexy glasses at home. Dang. And that happened often enough (because vision impairment comes with memory loss) that I just got out of the habit of reading in waiting rooms and payment queues. Goodbye, ambitious reading targets.

I also realized that there's nothing  sexy about asking the sales associate to read the price ticket for me, "Ineng, pakibasa."

My eyesight is not really that bad. My prescription is only for 100. I can still read a regular book or a document with font 11 text, but the lighting has to be good. The book and I have to be still to minimize blur. But I can read only for a few minutes before my eyes feel the strain. Eyeglasses now required. Three years after I started needing them, they remain pesky little things I forget to bring with me. I have tried solving the problem by buying several pieces that I have placed in all the strategic places where I might need to read. So far, it's working. So far, I've been flipping more than before.

You guessed it, our dog really did not eat my books. Isa, our black labrador died of old age few years back. I offer no excuses. But understanding the reasons why I stopped reading has helped me find ways to work on ways to revitalize my reading life.

I'm back flipping.




Sunday, April 28, 2013

Loving books in the time of Shelfari


This was originally published here. Transferring it to this book blog for posterity. I just added the pictures today.

MANILA, Philippines - Gege Cruz Sugue’s fictional worlds involve Jose Saramago and Margaret Atwood characters and a farmer named Eda Mame in Farmville. She teaches college students, conducts communication workshops for corporate learners, provides marketing consultant services, and writes for corporate clients. She is part of a shelfari (www.shelfari.com) based book club called Flips Flipping Pages. Gege blogs about her book lust at http://gegeflipspages.blogspot.com)

“And how long do you think we can keep up this coming and going?” he asked.
Florentino Ariza had kept his answer ready for fifty-three years, seven months, and eleven days and nights.
“Forever,” he said.  Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez
I have this shameful fantasy. I find my husband in the arms of another woman. Shocked beyond consolation, I drive, dive to the nearest bookstore. In a frenzy, I ravage shelves and grab everything to ease the pain and fill the aching hole in my heart. My book lust would be impossible to sate, but I go on in my bitter, half-crazed state, putting books in shopping carts. When, finally, my tears are depleted and only Deepak Chopras and Dan Browns are left on the shelves, I head to the counter and swipe my husband’s platinum Amex. 
That is my adulterous revenge. 
Because books those glorious, beguiling books are my lovers, hopeless addictions, the seduction I battle with constantly. My husband is jealous of only one thing--my books. The love of my life that causes him agony--my book collection and the avarice to have more.
This never-to-happen fantasy only flashes in the video factory of my mind whenever I lustfully, longingly leer at beautiful, sexy books in a bookstore. When the budget is finite and the desire is infinite. When I fondle a book I desire, I experience the push and pull of coveting and tempering that brings me into a state of guilty confusion, like that of a virgin trying to stay so. 
Loving books is a sickness that turns its victims into depraved lunatics. When did this sickness start? Like most other adult dysfunctions, the mother is to blame. My mother taught me to read when I was three. Most kids perform for adults by singing or dancing. My mother showed off my talents by making me read the front page of a newspaper.
I started with the Ladybird series those charming, little books that unwittingly became gateway drugs to this addiction. I read Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin, mesmerized by worlds so different from mine. The first book that made me cry was The Little Match Girl, the story of a poor girl dying on New Year’s Eve. Books then became emotion-enhancing pills. 
Early signs of a malady, a malaise that can only be stilled by reading a book.
Loving books is not just about reading. It’s something physical, sensual. Author Anne Fadiman calls it carnal when the book’s physical being gives a booklover joy. Its weight, the tactile delight of paper, the sound of flipping pages, the heady scent of a worn-out edition. 
One book is never enough. To love books is to want many. 
Again, my mother was to blame for this avarice. She and Nancy Drew. It started with one book, which I devoured in a few hours. Nancy Drew lived an exciting life, certainly more exciting than mine. With Nancy Drew, I traveled to Cairo, London, Bangkok; rode a stagecoach; drove a convertible; joined the circus; and had a boyfriend named Ned. Mom gave me more. In multiples. Every birthday, Christmas, any occasion was an excuse to bring me more, until finally I completed all 56 of the classic series.
The beginning of an addiction to accumulation.
Now, here I am with 2,000 books competing for shelf space, knowing that this lifetime would not be enough for me to read them all. The craving remains uncurbed. 
There’s another hunger for a soulmate. Not the romantic kind. But a literary soulmate, somebody whose shelf mirrors mine, somebody who was as spellbound as I was by Saramago’s Blindness, as wickedly amused as I was by Palahniuk’s Fight Club, but would understand when sometimes, I just want cheesy motivational fluff from Fulghum. This soulmate abhors New Age, finds Dan Brown overrated, and will never ever finish Lord of the Rings. My soulmate is strangely magnetized by books with penguins on orange spines. He or she is addicted to craft books, collects biographies but never read them, and loves the Christian musings of Don Miller. This soulmate is only slightly embarrassed to admit to never having read Harry Potter. And he or she has fallen in love with the Bible’s book of Exodus. 
I must have started aching for a literary soulmate a decade ago when I read Patrick Suskind’s Perfume. No one in my circle of friends had heard of it. Perfume is the story of a diabolical character who feeds on the scent of virgins close to death. Not common reader fare. But I felt this strange need to find somebody with whom I can talk about the book. But I was afraid nobody would understand. 
Several years later, I chanced upon Jose Saramago’s Blindness, a story of an epidemic of blindness. In a fictional land, people started seeing nothing but a sea of white. Anyone who tries to cure or care for the blind goes blind as well. Chaos and hysteria ensue. Followed by the loss of human dignity and the surfacing of man’s basest instincts. It was a fantastic story, and again, I had no one to share the experience with.
In Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera, those infected with cholera were quarantined in a riverboat. Shelfari is today’s quarantine for those infected with bibliophilia. In this online community, we are free to discuss without shame, judgment, and only with a tinge of guilt, how we have taken part in the killing of trees for the sake of literature. Here we expose our darkest, most embarrassing secret acts of excess book love. We confess to kissing bookstore floors, reaching for hidden stash. We admit how bookstore warehouse sales turn us into raving, frothing-in-the-mouth maniacs. Some talk of locking their doors while they meticulously, obsessively cover their books in plastic. Someone confessed, she’s waded through waist-deep flood waters, keeping her books above her head, worrying more about keeping her book dry than catching cholera. We will maim ourselves and others for a chance to wrestle a long-dreamt-of book away from somebody else. In this time of online communities, Shelfari is the world where we can insulate ourselves against those who don’t understand our affliction.
Have I found my soulmate yet? No. We are too diverse in personalities and book preferences. When we discussed Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Teheran, everyone lambasted the book; I was the only one who looked beyond the sedate, academic style of narration to find something to love, to appreciate about it. Florentino Ariza waited 53 years and was willing to wait forever for the love of his life. Maybe my search will take 53 years, maybe forever. In the meantime, in Shelfari, I am embraced by those who are not afraid to catch this sickness, this perverse disease of loving books.

Wednesday, April 3, 2013

Have book, will travel

This was originally published here: http://www.philstar.com/sunday-life/229824/have-book-will-travel  . I won a 5,000 gift card from National Book Store for this. Yay!

Accidentally found the article through Google. I'm posting this now in my blog for the sake of posterity, and maybe also to convince you get a copy, a copy you can wear out as you travel up, down, far, wide, through these beautiful Philippine islands.



Have book. Will travel.


For what seemed like five full seconds I was frozen, suspended in the murky Donsol waters. I was awestruck, immobile, and were it not for the need to keep my snorkel in place, my mouth would have been open in amazement at this magnificent creature gliding in front of me. And then, the moment was gone. The speckled whale shark known for its bashfulness spotted the neon fins, realized it had company, and disappeared into the plankton haze underneath. It was time to heave our bodies back into the boat, which would once more cruise the sea looking for more butandings for us to interact with and marvel at.

Back at the resort I was lamenting the fact that I had no underwater camera to capture what our eyes feasted upon some hours back. Giving me consolation was the book I had in my hands. Lonely Planet Philippines supplied me with a black and white sketch of the whale shark along with some information about its size, habitat, and characteristics. It wasn't quite as good as a real photograph, but it still helped recreate the image in my mind. This much-treasured book of mine also helped me appreciate the creatures more with its mention that despite their magnitude, whale sharks are gentle, harmless giants.

Later in the trip, that dog-eared, sand-marked, kare-kare-stained paperback would guide us around the sights of Bicol and would help us find a decent place to stay in when we decided to move to another hotel. 

My Lonely Planet Philippines book is my second favorite travel companion. It would be my favorite if only it could drive, carry my luggage, give me shopping money, and cap my vacation days with a back rub the way my husband, a.k.a. number one favorite traveling companion, could. Like him, this book is reliable, entertaining, informative, and can get me out of navigation predicaments. Unlike my husband, it encourages frequent stopovers for scenic breaks and does not complain about my avarice for photo opportunities.

It's multi-purpose too. In its green waterproof casing, it can function as a pillow when I'm roughing it up and napping on a beach blanket somewhere.

Lonely Planet Philippines
 has taken me through the cobbled streets of Vigan, guided me through a tricycle tour of Tacloban, led my famished stomach to Las Vegas Canteen and Restaurant in Banaue, showed me the way to Pagudpod, gave me a preview of Tagbilaran and Panglao, advised me where to stay the night before the Pahiyas festival, pointed me towards the charming hideaway of Café Kamarikutan in Puerto Princesa, clued me in on Baguio's Tam-Awan Village, advised me where to find Internet connections in Sorsogon, and directed me towards places where I could buy wicker baskets, burnay pots, and binagol.

Lonely Planet
 represents my two biggest passions--traveling and reading. Yes, these two activities are in opposite extremes in the activity scale. One requires you to stay stationary and lets your eyes do the roving, while the other drives you out of comforts of your couch and gets your body moving from point A to point B, on to point C, and so on. This book bridges that gap between seemingly disparate activities, both of which make my life full and interesting.

Another thing that these two activities have in common is how they facilitate learning. Both expand the mind, open the eyes, and enlarge the soul. Reading transports me to different dimensions, brings me to awareness of my environment, of art, science, cultures, life, love, and lore. In like manner, travel exposes me to diverse cultures, introduces my palette to a gamut of flavors, opens me up to a multitude of experiences, and orients me to infinite possibilities.

The infinite possibilities keep me reaching for my Lonely Planet. I leaf through its pages and let it whet my wanderlust and feed my imagination. It weaves text and images to fill my heart with longing, my feet with the itching desire to leave the city and go as far as I can, and my mind with plans of traveling to places I have yet to visit like Batanes, Siargao, Camiguin, Dumaguete, and the rest of our 7,100 islands.

In the city, the concrete walls, halls, and malls confine me in an oppressive tangle of must-dos, must-haves, must-buys, must-calls, must-meets, and must-submit-budget-report-by-Friday-or-else-I-die. All these I am obliged to do for urban survival and career enhancement.

Lonely Planet's 504
 pages tell me of places I must see, cuisine I must try, cultures I must encounter, and festivals I must experience not because they are do-or-die obligations. But more like do-and-live-life-to-the-fullest.

LinkWithin

Related Posts with Thumbnails