I don’t like driving. And America is the worst place to live in for the lazy, uninterested driver.
In the Philippines, while I occasionally did drive when a car was available, I mostly took public transportation. Tricycles, jeepneys, buses, trains, FX (from the name of the most popular utility vehicle -the Toyota Tamaraw FX) or what they now refer to as shuttles. I was a rare taxi passenger as it was too expensive to my liking on my entry level advertising salary, even if I could reimburse the expenses from late night overtime and even as my salary increased with climbing the experience ladder. No matter how late or tired, I hauled by backpack filled with wallet, phone, gym clothes and rubber shoes, a book and later on, the office issued laptop, joined the huddled masses, stood in line and waited for the next ride or chased it down, arms flailing.
Buses were full. I stood in the middle of the aisle, feet - tired and muddied from walking through grime covered mega city streets, wide beyond hip’s width for balance, quashed by fellow commuters, left, right, and center, and my backpack that was now in front of me to protect my belongings from the grubby hands of thieves. “The Hunger Games” balanced between my chin and atop the backpack, I read as the bus lurched through bumper to bumper rush hour evening traffic.
I don’t quite understand the recurrence of this memory as romantic, but it was. It is.
This made me think of the Knight of Cups of the minor arcana. If one is familiar with the lore and legend of knights, they are both emissaries and defenders of the King, which eventually progressed into the Church. They were given missions anchored on the specific causes (on whether these were truly right is a separate conversation. Please consider watching Al Jazeera’s four-part documentary about the Arab side of the Crusades) to go out, go forth and accomplish. I imagined fictional knights like Lancelot and Galahad from King Arthur’s Round Table. The Knight of Cups’ quest are relationships and emotions, the domain of the suit of cups.
Unlike its co-knights of the other suits of wands and swords, he doesn’t look gung-ho. A helmet on his head with wings on top, but the visor raised to expose the softness of the expression on his face. Seated upright on a grey steed, prancing rather than charging or galloping, head bowed in submission, the Knight of Cups holds firm a golden chalice in one hand, while the other holds the reins. His sabaton, or armor footwear, has wings on its heels. He seems to be in control, moving at a steady pace, a lightness rather than a fiery resolute, towards a specific direction.
I never rushed in my commute, which was and continues to be always planned, deliberate. I leave at particular time to ensure my arrival at the destination at least 10-15 minutes before the appointed time. There was wiggle room for traffic or any setbacks, walking, and, now, time to look for parking and parking properly (in the reverse). I didn’t particularly enjoy the frantic pressing of time against me. The commute is one of the times where I do my best thinking, especially when the driving is entrusted to another, when I relinquish my sense of agency to someone else. My nose is stuck in between pages of books. My eyes wander - watching the rain drops dribble down the glass windows, peering at every passenger that alighted the vehicle from head to toe, observing the motorcycle driver that inched every so closely as it maneuvered in between lanes, rubbernecking at crashes. There was just so much to see! My ears opened - listening to the chatter between the deejays on the radio or what song was of the most popular of the season, eavesdropping on conversations between fellow passengers. Even as I rode the clattering NYC subway trains, where everyone zipped and zoomed somewhere and everywhere, I managed to maintain a strange grounded-ness. A sense of acceptance that I moved through the world with the world, not against it nor separate from it.
When any of the court cards or the cards with the page, knight, queen or king, is pulled in a reading, it often points to an actual person. It could be the querent or the person asking themself, or another person in their life. The Knight of Cups points to someone with a dreamy disposition, head in the clouds, yet riding with purpose on and through the muddled grey of life.
Gray, a blend of black and white, can mean uncertainty. Yes, scary, but it can also mean mystery, which can be romantic too. Knowing too much about someone else sometimes takes of the romance out of it. But such is life and our existence, being in the middle. Such is love - a compromise between two sides, of letting of some and blending, bleeding into another. The Knight of Cups is one acting through the haziness of uncertainty and mystery, slow, steady, yet purposeful.
Public transportation often flounders, no matter where in the world. There is traffic to contend with. There are roadblocks. There are accidents. There are unruly co-passengers and, also unhinged drivers. There are system breakdowns. There are detours. It is a reliance on systems built with each other and for each other, which makes it highly unwieldy. Like life. In as much as we’d like to think that we are in full control of our lives, we survive with a dependence on each other, on another.
As a passenger, while I can surely lose my head or go Dracarys at every inconvenience, I ask myself, “To what end?” It is a release for myself, but it cannot change the situation. I heave a sigh, embrace the delays beyond my control. The journey of life is not always on the express train. Even the fast pass can turn on you. My head retreats into the clouds. There is romance in the waiting, the slow motion cuts. Why do you think John Woo and Zack Snyder employ this technique one too many times anyway? The unrushed allows the flurries of dust to settle down as romantic as the snow flakes descend from the heavens.
The driving through the suburban and country roads of Texas does not carry the same level of intimacy as taking public transportation does. But there’s no more efficient way to get around here. Unless one has the luxury of three hours for a 20-mile journey. Often, I remain the passenger, surrendering my will and wheel on the road to my husband, who is the more the zealous petrol head. I don’t get to read as I used to, calling out my age as well as the speeds on these wider, longer roads, but I do enjoy scouring the strip malls for any interesting establishments, listening to our local public radio and audiobooks on longer drives, chatting and laughing at the corniest jokes. It is the middle ground, the swath of grey, and the blessing and romance of being with someone who actually revels in doing things you don’t particularly like. Driving can feel not so bad, not uninteresting with someone else behind the wheel.
What I’m reading
This one is a slog as my takeaway a third through the book is that being poor is extremely difficult no matter where in the world you live in. It is just the disconnect between the pompous chest thumping as the “greatest and richest country on earth” versus the reality of millions in this country. I suppose this arrogance leaves many blindsided by the suffering of many, which prevents us from moving forward with solutions. The existence and prevalence of poverty is a hard pill to swallow for the proud American.
“Slow Dance” by Rainbow Rowell
Did I tell you that I do love reading children’s and young adult books? I discovered the gift of kilig (i.e. butterflies in stomach, giddiness, etc) from Rainbow Rowell in her novel, “Eleanor & Park.” This new work is different, a story of adults, but retold and reliving their lives as young adults. It is the middle aged experience - one foot inching towards the grave, one foot with toes holding onto the past. This is for you who has ever wondered about their first puppy love. Perhaps someone who you’d call TOTGA or the one who got away. What if you’d bump into each other and are forced to sit in the same room after over a decade of never interacting? What if you had the chance to ask the questions (and maybe get the answers) that have been flitting around your head? Are you still the same young adult in a more sluggish, wrinkled, tired physical body? Then dive in. It’s a reckoning of who you once were and who you’ve become, that you’ll always carry and fold in the past with you as you move forward in life through Time.
“The Hater”, a column from Vittles Magazine
Vittles Magazine is a food magazine from across the pond who does long form reporting I enjoy. At least the free ones I can access. I particularly enjoyed one of the pieces from the column by Niloufar Haidari about British versus American food. The hilarity of American entitlement when dining and traveling outside the continent is glaring. A gem of an insight that I observed a decade ago, not even living here.
“The problem is that Americans, for the most part, are a uniquely insular, incurious people, with the British taking second place. Perhaps when you create much of the world’s mainstream culture and entertainment – not to mention foreign policy – you begin to believe that your experience is the barometer by which every other experience should be measured. It’s a mentality that causes Americans to go to ‘Europe’ and give Italian trattorias bad Google reviews because they didn’t have chicken alfredo, and because a single portion wasn’t large enough to feed a family of four.”
Honestly, if I had more money, I’d support their work from over here. In the meantime, this purita writer can share the love. But can you tell me if there is something similar to them here in the US?
What I’m watching:
“Miss Night and Day” on Netflix
I rarely watch K-Dramas, or Korean dramas. As I do prefer to watch with the English subtitles rather than the dubbed dialogue, it requires 100% of one’s attention. Unfortunately, I am like most adults who can’t seem to hold that attention while watching anything on the screen anymore. But the premise of “Miss Night and Day” of a twenty something magically turning into a woman in her 50s during the day then reverting back to her original self as soon as the sun sets intrigued me. This is perhaps the mid-life experience - your mind and spirit living in your 20s, yet the body clearly living in the mid-life. It’s a mishmash of romance, comedy, family drama and mystery thriller. But I mean, if you’re in my age group, it is a hoot seeing how society sees (often undervaluing and underestimating you!) and how to work towards your goals despite these physical limitations.
Most Americans do not understand Cirque du Immigration. You know each time you hear the utterance of “Go back to where you came from!” I do not even refer to the complex forces that drive people out of their homes and countries, but the very system that resides and pumps immigrant blood into the country. Alejandro Martinez , son of El Salvadoran artist, dreams of being a Hasbro toy designer and makes his way to New York City. Of course, as with all immigrants, it is a nonstop battle with and of the system, alongside basic survival. Problems pop up at every turn. I laughed and cried at every scene, seeing our own journey through the hoops. In the end, not everybody goes whoop, but this movie is for every immigrant who crossed that finish line (whatever that is for you…as it is always a moving target.) I hope Tilda Swinton and Isabella Rossellini have enough star power to get you to watch this film.