http://odeo.com/channels/161613-Personal-Willi WilfredoPascual no <p>Podcast companion to Secret Gospels, Sacred Sites at http://personalwilli.blogspot.com featuring Wilfredo Pascual&#8217;s travels, memoir, poetry and photography</p> Podcast companion to Secret Gospels, Sacred Sites at http://personalwilli.blogspot.com featuring Wilfredo Pascual&#8217;s travels, memoir, poetry and photography Podcast companion to Secret Gospels, Sacred Sites at http://personalwilli.blogspot.com featuring Wilfredo Pascual&#8217;s travels, memoir, poetry and photography en-us 40 Wed, 07 Feb 2007 00:03:14 -0800 Wed, 07 Feb 2007 00:03:14 -0800 http://odeo.com/episodes/8056663-Rewriting-a-deleted-blog A friend once told me a secret. For a long time, she blogged an anonymous journal of her most private thoughts and confidential affairs. She’d die if people found out it was her. It was hidden for a long time until she felt it was time to delete it. Life, I gathered from her, has a way of closing chapters abruptly, in ways we can never predict, endings that are not really endings but more of a suspension, a limbo. She had asked me if she’d done the right thing, deleting it. Because really, what keeps us from NOT muffling these inner voices? Better forget about writing, I thought. Go see a therapist and save time typing and blocking spam. Because if truth be told, she said that much of the affairs she’d written, ended unkindly, like most secrets do; not so much of a release but a wait and see. But I had to ask myself, what happens then after the wait and see? As it turned out, this was what my friend really wanted to find out. How does she go back to these stories after she’d clicked... A friend once told me a secret. For a long time, she blogged an anonymous journal of her most private thoughts and confidential affairs. She’d die if people found out it was her. It was hidden for a long time until she felt it was time to delete it. Life, I gathered from her, has a way of closing chapters abruptly, in ways we can never predict, endings that are not really endings but more of a suspension, a limbo. She had asked me if she’d done the right thing, deleting it. Because really, what keeps us from NOT muffling these inner voices? Better forget about writing, I thought. Go see a therapist and save time typing and blocking spam. Because if truth be told, she said that much of the affairs she’d written, ended unkindly, like most secrets do; not so much of a release but a wait and see. But I had to ask myself, what happens then after the wait and see? As it turned out, this was what my friend really wanted to find out. How does she go back to these stories after she’d clicked on the delete key? And why, in the first place, what for? Here, based on experience and what I’ve learned, are some of the thoughts I posed for her to consider in reclaiming her deleted blog through memory. A friend once told me a secret. For a long time, she blogged an anonymous journal of her most private thoughts and confidential affairs. She’d die if people found out it was her. It was hidden for a long time until she felt it was time to delete it. Life, I gathered from her, has a way of closing chapters abruptly, in ways we can never predict, endings that are not really endings but more of a suspension, a limbo. She had asked me if she’d done the right thing, deleting it. Because really, what keeps us from NOT muffling these inner voices? Better forget about writing, I thought. Go see a therapist and save time typing and blocking spam. Because if truth be told, she said that much of the affairs she’d written, ended unkindly, like most secrets do; not so much of a release but a wait and see. But I had to ask myself, what happens then after the wait and see? As it turned out, this was what my friend really wanted to find out. How does she go back to these stories after she’d clicked on the delete key? And why, in the first place, what for? Here, based on experience and what I’ve learned, are some of the thoughts I posed for her to consider in reclaiming her deleted blog through memory. tag:odeo.com,2007-02-07,8056663 Wed, 07 Feb 2007 00:03:14 -0800 no Personal Willi Writing, Blogging, story, Blog, memory, writers, secret, memoir, creative nonfiction, forgetting http://odeo.com/episodes/7636993-The-House-of-Perdition How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where know... How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where knowledge, dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches of the fruit tree beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The tree grew fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippine archipelago centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold reached out to pick a fruit, squeezed the sweet white pulp from its smooth purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I do not live in anymore the house now foreclosed by the bank the house I will never return to the house knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where knowledge, dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches of the fruit tree beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The tree grew fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippine archipelago centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold reached out to pick a fruit, squeezed the sweet white pulp from its smooth purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I do not live in anymore the house now foreclosed by the bank the house I will never return to the house knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7636993 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:31:18 -0800 no Personal Willi http://odeo.com/episodes/7636493-My-Personal-Buddha-Batman-and-Bruce-Lee Last year, I spent time in a Buddhist monastery. Twice. All in all, a total of 30 days. No killing of any living thing. No talking. No writing. No books. No Ipod. No sex. No drugs. No booze. No watches. You wake up at 4 in the morning. No meat. You do not eat after lunch. Only Silence. Stillness. And outdoor yoga, hot springs, chores, monitor lizards, scorpions, snakes, wooden pillows. On my last night, I was allowed to speak. In front of everybody. Episode 4 includes the words I spoke that night. Also featured is a letter I found on the grave of one of my heroes, Bruce Lee, today’s birthday boy. Last year, I spent time in a Buddhist monastery. Twice. All in all, a total of 30 days. No killing of any living thing. No talking. No writing. No books. No Ipod. No sex. No drugs. No booze. No watches. You wake up at 4 in the morning. No meat. You do not eat after lunch. Only Silence. Stillness. And outdoor yoga, hot springs, chores, monitor lizards, scorpions, snakes, wooden pillows. On my last night, I was allowed to speak. In front of everybody. Episode 4 includes the words I spoke that night. Also featured is a letter I found on the grave of one of my heroes, Bruce Lee, today’s birthday boy. Last year, I spent time in a Buddhist monastery. Twice. All in all, a total of 30 days. No killing of any living thing. No talking. No writing. No books. No Ipod. No sex. No drugs. No booze. No watches. You wake up at 4 in the morning. No meat. You do not eat after lunch. Only Silence. Stillness. And outdoor yoga, hot springs, chores, monitor lizards, scorpions, snakes, wooden pillows. On my last night, I was allowed to speak. In front of everybody. Episode 4 includes the words I spoke that night. Also featured is a letter I found on the grave of one of my heroes, Bruce Lee, today’s birthday boy. tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7636493 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:26:10 -0800 no Personal Willi http://odeo.com/episodes/7635493-The-House-of-Perdition How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where know... How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where knowledge, dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches of the fruit tree beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The tree grew fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippine archipelago centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold reached out to pick a fruit, squeezed the sweet white pulp from its smooth purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I do not live in anymore the house now foreclosed by the bank the house I will never return to the house knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where knowledge, dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches of the fruit tree beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The tree grew fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippine archipelago centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold reached out to pick a fruit, squeezed the sweet white pulp from its smooth purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I do not live in anymore the house now foreclosed by the bank the house I will never return to the house knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7635493 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:19:07 -0800 no Personal Willi http://odeo.com/episodes/7634963-Calgary-Rose-in-Angkor-Wat We were both foreigners pining our hopes in a strange land. We could have gone to the most exotic, uncharted place on earth and I have come to realize that for some, this could simply mean a bold step outside one’s safe, domestic confines or a return back home. They are all the same. They are all worthy destinations. But always, something interesting happens when we meet a fellow stranger. Among other things, we allow the possibility of a door being slammed shut by another. When that happens, it is no longer the view outside the window that matters. We are forced to look inside and confront the darkness of our individual selves, a terrain unmapped. We were both foreigners pining our hopes in a strange land. We could have gone to the most exotic, uncharted place on earth and I have come to realize that for some, this could simply mean a bold step outside one’s safe, domestic confines or a return back home. They are all the same. They are all worthy destinations. But always, something interesting happens when we meet a fellow stranger. Among other things, we allow the possibility of a door being slammed shut by another. When that happens, it is no longer the view outside the window that matters. We are forced to look inside and confront the darkness of our individual selves, a terrain unmapped. We were both foreigners pining our hopes in a strange land. We could have gone to the most exotic, uncharted place on earth and I have come to realize that for some, this could simply mean a bold step outside one’s safe, domestic confines or a return back home. They are all the same. They are all worthy destinations. But always, something interesting happens when we meet a fellow stranger. Among other things, we allow the possibility of a door being slammed shut by another. When that happens, it is no longer the view outside the window that matters. We are forced to look inside and confront the darkness of our individual selves, a terrain unmapped. tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7634963 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:15:22 -0800 no Personal Willi Culture, cambodia, Foreigners, stranger, canadian, filipino, pinoy, bangkok, memoir, travels, open letter, angkor wat, angkor http://odeo.com/episodes/7634623-The-Stranger-Sitting-Right-Next-to-You While traveling in Laos, Thailand and the United States, I took pictures of passengers sleeping right next to me… While traveling in Laos, Thailand and the United States, I took pictures of passengers sleeping right next to me… While traveling in Laos, Thailand and the United States, I took pictures of passengers sleeping right next to me… tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7634623 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:11:52 -0800 no Personal Willi United States, thailand, laos, photography, storytelling, stranger, pictures, Traveling, passengers http://odeo.com/episodes/7634373-Ang-Totoong-Dahilan-Kung-Bakit-Limang-Araw-Akong-Mawawala Episode 3 is in Filipino, featuring a reading of a love poem in Tagalog, which I wrote and was published in the Philippine’s Sunday Inquirer magazine in 1993. This program also features an original Filipino music that was recorded by the first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts. Not Olivia Newton John or Kylie Minogue. The first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts in the late 50s is a Filipina. Episode 3 is in Filipino, featuring a reading of a love poem in Tagalog, which I wrote and was published in the Philippine’s Sunday Inquirer magazine in 1993. This program also features an original Filipino music that was recorded by the first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts. Not Olivia Newton John or Kylie Minogue. The first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts in the late 50s is a Filipina. Episode 3 is in Filipino, featuring a reading of a love poem in Tagalog, which I wrote and was published in the Philippine’s Sunday Inquirer magazine in 1993. This program also features an original Filipino music that was recorded by the first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts. Not Olivia Newton John or Kylie Minogue. The first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts in the late 50s is a Filipina. tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7634373 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:09:35 -0800 no Personal Willi http://odeo.com/episodes/7633863-Kodak-and-Me Why do we take pictures? I’d like to share my personal experience with photography which began when I first bought my own camera at the age of fourteen (in Filipino). Why do we take pictures? I’d like to share my personal experience with photography which began when I first bought my own camera at the age of fourteen (in Filipino). Why do we take pictures? I’d like to share my personal experience with photography which began when I first bought my own camera at the age of fourteen (in Filipino). tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7633863 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:04:15 -0800 no Personal Willi xzz http://odeo.com/episodes/7633683-The-House-of-Perdition How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where know... How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where knowledge, dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches of the fruit tree beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The tree grew fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippine archipelago centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold reached out to pick a fruit, squeezed the sweet white pulp from its smooth purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I do not live in anymore the house now foreclosed by the bank the house I will never return to the house knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects the framed photos over the piano the cutleries in the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life. My life was defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why a voice despairs to tell the story of a house. We have all pondered ways to enter it and escape from it. I have hurt myself countless times, kicking and banging locked doors. I have left pieces of bent wire in keyholes. I have smashed windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and yellow tiles the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen – But the pull is not as strong as the clutter of accumulated and lost possessions, the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At the age of eight, I reached the roof where knowledge, dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches of the fruit tree beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The tree grew fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippine archipelago centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold reached out to pick a fruit, squeezed the sweet white pulp from its smooth purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I do not live in anymore the house now foreclosed by the bank the house I will never return to the house knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL tag:odeo.com,2007-02-02,7633683 Fri, 02 Feb 2007 03:01:48 -0800 no Personal Willi http://odeo.com/episodes/7609843-The-House-of-Perdition How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects, the photos over the piano, the cutlery, open the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered Does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life, mine defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why A voice despairs to tell the story of a house, kicking and banging locked doors. Pieces of bent wire left in keyholes, broken windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and Yellow tiles, the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen, the clutter of accumulated, the lost possessions the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At age eight I climbed and reached the roof of knowledge Where dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches heavy with fruit, beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The fruit tree fifty feet hig... How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects, the photos over the piano, the cutlery, open the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered Does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life, mine defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why A voice despairs to tell the story of a house, kicking and banging locked doors. Pieces of bent wire left in keyholes, broken windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and Yellow tiles, the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen, the clutter of accumulated, the lost possessions the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At age eight I climbed and reached the roof of knowledge Where dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches heavy with fruit, beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The fruit tree fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippines centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold, reached out to pick a fruit squeezed the sweet white pulp from its purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I no longer live in. The house now foreclosed By the bank. The house I will never return to the house, knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness, surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall, all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL How do you tell the story of a house? Do you go from room to room and follow the neat arrangement of objects, the photos over the piano, the cutlery, open the cupboard and let them speak? But a life remembered Does not always follow the path from the front door to the back. It probably could. But that is not my life, mine defined by occasions when I would find myself locked in or locked out. And maybe this is why A voice despairs to tell the story of a house, kicking and banging locked doors. Pieces of bent wire left in keyholes, broken windows. Sometimes the door is graciously ajar allowing a glimpse of the green and Yellow tiles, the scent of jackfruit in my grandmother’s kitchen, the clutter of accumulated, the lost possessions the need to make sense of it and make it all matter. At age eight I climbed and reached the roof of knowledge Where dominion and power await, dangerous as the branches heavy with fruit, beckoning. I inched my way to the ledge. The fruit tree fifty feet high from the ground, reached the Philippines centuries ago from Central America brought to the islands by the Spaniards. Up in the roof, I let go of my hold, reached out to pick a fruit squeezed the sweet white pulp from its purple rubbery skin. I leave the house I no longer live in. The house now foreclosed By the bank. The house I will never return to the house, knowing at one time I have tasted there sweetness, surveyed my dominion and courted my own fall, all at the same time. WILFREDO PASCUAL tag:odeo.com,2007-02-01,7609843 Thu, 01 Feb 2007 21:01:51 -0800 no Personal Willi House, poetry, story, Philippines, History, memory, return, childhood, reflection, filipino, homecoming, roof, retrospect http://odeo.com/episodes/4096593-Kodak-and-Me Why do we take pictures? I’d like to share my personal experience with photography which began when I first bought my own camera at the age of fourteen (in Filipino). Why do we take pictures? I’d like to share my personal experience with photography which began when I first bought my own camera at the age of fourteen (in Filipino). Why do we take pictures? I’d like to share my personal experience with photography which began when I first bought my own camera at the age of fourteen (in Filipino). tag:odeo.com,2006-12-19,4096593 Tue, 19 Dec 2006 12:54:30 -0800 no Personal Willi Camera, story, memory, photography, tagalog, filipino, pinoy, memoir, storyteller, rolleiflex http://odeo.com/episodes/3669093-Killing-the-Bats I read this episode’s story for the first time in 2003 at New York University’s Silver Center for Arts and Sciences. It was a big honor for me because three highly esteemed American writers were in the audience, poet Billy Collins, memoirist Patrticia Hampl and fictionist Mary Gordon. One of the most wondrous moments in storytelling is realizing much, much later how one of my stories is connected to an earlier story I’d written. You recognize emblems, patterns, a familiar arc in the narrative, something coming full circle. My last episode was about a time I spent in a Buddhist monastery last year where I observed a long period of silence. In Episode 4, I read what I wrote on my last day in the hermitage when finally, I was allowed to speak, a piece I had titled “Almost Like Batman”. I recalled our yoga exercises before daybreak, doing a shoulder stand position in an open hall, where bats would fly in and brush our feet, our toes up in midair. I had thought of Batman then and the tim... I read this episode’s story for the first time in 2003 at New York University’s Silver Center for Arts and Sciences. It was a big honor for me because three highly esteemed American writers were in the audience, poet Billy Collins, memoirist Patrticia Hampl and fictionist Mary Gordon. One of the most wondrous moments in storytelling is realizing much, much later how one of my stories is connected to an earlier story I’d written. You recognize emblems, patterns, a familiar arc in the narrative, something coming full circle. My last episode was about a time I spent in a Buddhist monastery last year where I observed a long period of silence. In Episode 4, I read what I wrote on my last day in the hermitage when finally, I was allowed to speak, a piece I had titled “Almost Like Batman”. I recalled our yoga exercises before daybreak, doing a shoulder stand position in an open hall, where bats would fly in and brush our feet, our toes up in midair. I had thought of Batman then and the time he supposedly spent in Asia where he learned how to vanish behind the shadows, which I somehow associated with an experience I called the incredible vanishing of the self. Almost ten years ago, I wrote a story that happened to my family when I was twelve years old. This story also involves an encounter with bats and ends in a note, somehow similar to how Bruce Wayne’s childhood ended with a sudden death in the family. This one is called Killing the Bats. I read this episode’s story for the first time in 2003 at New York University’s Silver Center for Arts and Sciences. It was a big honor for me because three highly esteemed American writers were in the audience, poet Billy Collins, memoirist Patrticia Hampl and fictionist Mary Gordon. One of the most wondrous moments in storytelling is realizing much, much later how one of my stories is connected to an earlier story I’d written. You recognize emblems, patterns, a familiar arc in the narrative, something coming full circle. My last episode was about a time I spent in a Buddhist monastery last year where I observed a long period of silence. In Episode 4, I read what I wrote on my last day in the hermitage when finally, I was allowed to speak, a piece I had titled “Almost Like Batman”. I recalled our yoga exercises before daybreak, doing a shoulder stand position in an open hall, where bats would fly in and brush our feet, our toes up in midair. I had thought of Batman then and the time he supposedly spent in Asia where he learned how to vanish behind the shadows, which I somehow associated with an experience I called the incredible vanishing of the self. Almost ten years ago, I wrote a story that happened to my family when I was twelve years old. This story also involves an encounter with bats and ends in a note, somehow similar to how Bruce Wayne’s childhood ended with a sudden death in the family. This one is called Killing the Bats. tag:odeo.com,2006-12-07,3669093 Thu, 07 Dec 2006 20:19:32 -0800 no Personal Willi story, Philippines, memory, killing, filipino, bats, memoir, storyteller http://odeo.com/episodes/3376273-My-Personal-Buddha-Batman-and-Bruce-Lee Last year, I spent time in a Buddhist monastery. Twice. All in all, a total of 30 days. No killing of any living thing. No talking. No writing. No books. No Ipod. No sex. No drugs. No booze. No watches. You wake up at 4 in the morning. No meat. You do not eat after lunch. Only Silence. Stillness. And outdoor yoga, hot springs, chores, monitor lizards, scorpions, snakes, wooden pillows. On my last night, I was allowed to speak. In front of everybody. Episode 4 includes the words I spoke that night. Also featured is a letter I found on the grave of one of my heroes, Bruce Lee, today’s birthday boy. Last year, I spent time in a Buddhist monastery. Twice. All in all, a total of 30 days. No killing of any living thing. No talking. No writing. No books. No Ipod. No sex. No drugs. No booze. No watches. You wake up at 4 in the morning. No meat. You do not eat after lunch. Only Silence. Stillness. And outdoor yoga, hot springs, chores, monitor lizards, scorpions, snakes, wooden pillows. On my last night, I was allowed to speak. In front of everybody. Episode 4 includes the words I spoke that night. Also featured is a letter I found on the grave of one of my heroes, Bruce Lee, today’s birthday boy. Last year, I spent time in a Buddhist monastery. Twice. All in all, a total of 30 days. No killing of any living thing. No talking. No writing. No books. No Ipod. No sex. No drugs. No booze. No watches. You wake up at 4 in the morning. No meat. You do not eat after lunch. Only Silence. Stillness. And outdoor yoga, hot springs, chores, monitor lizards, scorpions, snakes, wooden pillows. On my last night, I was allowed to speak. In front of everybody. Episode 4 includes the words I spoke that night. Also featured is a letter I found on the grave of one of my heroes, Bruce Lee, today’s birthday boy. tag:odeo.com,2006-11-28,3376273 Tue, 28 Nov 2006 17:48:56 -0800 no Personal Willi buddhism, Meditation, thailand, buddha, father, Hermitage, Stillness, martial arts, Monastery, batman, shadow, letter, bats, surat thani, shadows, vanishing, slience, wilfredo pascual, bruce lee http://odeo.com/episodes/3160413-Ang-Totoong-Dahilan-Kung-Bakit-Limang-Araw-Akong-Mawawala Episode 3 is in Filipino, featuring a reading of a love poem in Tagalog, which I wrote and was published in the Philippine’s Sunday Inquirer magazine in 1993. This program also features an original Filipino music that was recorded by the first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts. Not Olivia Newton John or Kylie Minogue. The first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts in the late 50s is a Filipina. Episode 3 is in Filipino, featuring a reading of a love poem in Tagalog, which I wrote and was published in the Philippine’s Sunday Inquirer magazine in 1993. This program also features an original Filipino music that was recorded by the first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts. Not Olivia Newton John or Kylie Minogue. The first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts in the late 50s is a Filipina. Episode 3 is in Filipino, featuring a reading of a love poem in Tagalog, which I wrote and was published in the Philippine’s Sunday Inquirer magazine in 1993. This program also features an original Filipino music that was recorded by the first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts. Not Olivia Newton John or Kylie Minogue. The first female artist to top Australia’s pop charts in the late 50s is a Filipina. tag:odeo.com,2006-11-24,3160413 Fri, 24 Nov 2006 21:10:44 -0800 no Personal Willi poetry, Philippines, love, poem, filipino, pinoy, pag-ibig, pagmamahal, tula, opm http://odeo.com/episodes/3060523-Calgary-Rose-in-Angkor-Wat tag:odeo.com,2006-11-22,3060523 Wed, 22 Nov 2006 00:06:22 -0800 no Personal Willi http://odeo.com/episodes/3073883-Calgary-Rose-in-Angkor-Wat We were both foreigners pining our hopes in a strange land. We could have gone to the most exotic, uncharted place on earth and I have come to realize that for some, this could simply mean a bold step outside one’s safe, domestic confines or a return back home. They are all the same. They are all worthy destinations. But always, something interesting happens when we meet a fellow stranger. Among other things, we allow the possibility of a door being slammed shut by another. When that happens, it is no longer the view outside the window that matters. We are forced to look inside and confront the darkness of our individual selves, a terrain unmapped. We were both foreigners pining our hopes in a strange land. We could have gone to the most exotic, uncharted place on earth and I have come to realize that for some, this could simply mean a bold step outside one’s safe, domestic confines or a return back home. They are all the same. They are all worthy destinations. But always, something interesting happens when we meet a fellow stranger. Among other things, we allow the possibility of a door being slammed shut by another. When that happens, it is no longer the view outside the window that matters. We are forced to look inside and confront the darkness of our individual selves, a terrain unmapped. We were both foreigners pining our hopes in a strange land. We could have gone to the most exotic, uncharted place on earth and I have come to realize that for some, this could simply mean a bold step outside one’s safe, domestic confines or a return back home. They are all the same. They are all worthy destinations. But always, something interesting happens when we meet a fellow stranger. Among other things, we allow the possibility of a door being slammed shut by another. When that happens, it is no longer the view outside the window that matters. We are forced to look inside and confront the darkness of our individual selves, a terrain unmapped. tag:odeo.com,2006-11-21,3073883 Tue, 21 Nov 2006 20:22:23 -0800 no Personal Willi travel, cambodia, Foreigners, asia, journal, east, strangers, angkor wat http://odeo.com/episodes/2915283-The-Stranger-Sitting-Right-Next-to-You While traveling in Laos, Thailand and the United States, I took pictures of passengers sleeping right next to me… While traveling in Laos, Thailand and the United States, I took pictures of passengers sleeping right next to me… While traveling in Laos, Thailand and the United States, I took pictures of passengers sleeping right next to me… tag:odeo.com,2006-11-19,2915283 Sun, 19 Nov 2006 18:48:21 -0800 no Personal Willi United States, thailand, travel, laos, filipino, pinoy, traveler, strangers, wilfredo pascual, travelers