In the Messy Corners of my Mind

Shame on me.

I didn't think. Hell, I don't think.
When I cook, I cook. I shove recipes aside. I heed no directions and instructional messages - helpful or otherwise, from good sources or not. I step into the kitchen, close my eyes as I tie my apron on, and feel. I mix whatever smells good and looks good to me. I pound and slice and mix some more.
And I know that the taste is just a bonus. It's the exhilaration I feel when I'm cooking that gets me going. The thrill. The adventure of looking through the cupboards and the fridge and just finding something interesting there. Interestingly mundane, maybe. But still interesting.
I love cooking. I love how it makes me "me".

I just won't think about it.

And I'd just go on. Mixing and slicing and pounding. Doing what I love best. I don't measure the salt as I go. I don't stick to exact lines and grams. I just laugh it off and hope for the best.
The dishes all contain a little of me - and I'm not talking about gross unsanitary things. I put myself into whatever I make - and yes, even if they don't really taste good in the end. That's exactly me.
So even if you find the meat a bit raw or the soup too bland, they contain my heart just the same. I never would have made them voluntarily, willingly, knowingly, if my heart wasn't in them.

It won't happen again.

I said I will give up cooking. That I will never ever cook a single dish again.
That was a lie.
How can I give up doing something which has become a part of me? Even, say for example, it was only my first time to cook yesterday, giving it up would be ultimately difficult. I'm counting months, days, minutes, of just being drawn to the kitchen, to the art of cooking. I am no artist but I feel like one when I'm in that zone.
Say, for months, days, minutes, I've wondered how it would feel like to step into the kitchen I've been dreaming of for years, and for almost every second thereof. I could not NOT want to visit it again and cook there again. I would. And I would want to spend every Sunday of my life in that kitchen. I would still want to cook and cook and cook some more.
Yes, even if I had already said that it won't happen again.

Soft as marshmallow, sweet as melon. Passionate as red wine.

What's with food and drinks? Unlike most women, I love to eat and I let myself eat. Of course, on a good day, I'd say no politely. At first. And then give in after a moment's insistence. It's a human weakness: hunger, thirst, they say. For a long time, I believed them.
But when I come across the most festive meal of my life, as yet, I can never view hunger and thirst as weaknesses or liabilities. I welcome them. I embrace them and let the longing encapsulate me. I fight against each pang of hunger, thinking about the calories and the hours on the treadmill. I resist the sway of liqueur, reminding myself that driving under the influence shall make my insurers not liable for any damage or loss whatsoever in case of an accident.
But then I go and take the first bite - not because I am human and, therefore, weak, but because I want to. And after the first bite, resistance will no longer be possible, especially when the first bite proves me right about this being the most festive and delicious meal I have had. As yet.
I don't blame the food decors and arrangements nor the chef. I take all the credit for having my fill. I'd like some more, but that would be gluttony.

And I know I have got to wait and work my ass off to slim down. I can't be greedy. I can't be selfish. Cooks should never be greedy and selfish and I want to be a good cook.

So this is how it feels to be home. Home away from home.

And I want to stay in this kitchen forever.

From www.youtube.com

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I saved the world today, and it felt good.

I woke up at 8am with birds chirping from somewhere near my window, stretched, went downstairs and grabbed myself some toast. The newspaper was already next to the cup of coffee my reliable housekeeper had made me. On the front page was Obama's picture, just like yesterday and the day before that.

I was reading my horoscope when it happened.

A raspy voice was cackling with glee. The hair on my nape stood and I paused, listening carefully. The voice was muttering to himself, in a sinister way.

"Red wire, white wire... 10 minutes will do. The MRT will be nothing but ashes. Ahh. Burnt corpses. Singed hair. Lovely. Good thing Ayala station is always overpopulated."

Everything happened in a flash. Or so it would seem to other people. For me, it's all in a day's work: ripping my "normal" clothes off my body (I can always go out and buy more clothes), running outside the house so I won't have to ruin my roof when I go while tugging on my super strength missile-proof skimpy black and red ensemble (yes, you'd call it costume or uniform or whathaveyou, I'd call it ensemble) and matching cape and mask (oh, and my knee-high boots of course!), staring up at the clear blue sky and zoom, zoom, zooming away to the scene of trouble.

I got to Ayala station even before the bastard finished taping the bomb onto one of the toilet bowls in the men's room. Just one quick kick was enough to do the job. Off to Mongolia he went. I wasn't too sure if he was conscious during his surprise flight but I sure hope he wasn't. It's always great to wake up in a different country altogether, without a clue as to what had happened hours, days, months, years (it depends on the force of the kick) ago. And of course, it's funny to think about the bastard's reaction when he finds out he wasn't in the Philippines anymore.

So I got down to business and carefully removed the unfinished bomb from the bowl. Phew! It stinks in the men's cr! Pigs.

There was no more need to look for some planet far, far away where I can detonate the bomb. My super zapping vanisher (low - power) was just right for that amateur bomb. One *pop* and, voila!, Makati was safe again.

In a flash, I was back at my breakfast table, my ensemble nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a blue and white polka dot pajama pair. Sipping my coffee, I started to read my horoscope in its entirety.

I saved the world today, and it felt good. It always does everyday.


SuperMe

musings

What if the world wasn't ending
and we are given the choice
to go back -
2 years
3 years
or maybe even 6 years -
just go back
to how life once was
and relive our selves
starting at that selected point.
Would we dare
to look the other way
and choose to take the busy elevator
than the long, gray steps?
Would we dare to tell the joke
which seemed too bland
for everyone's tastes,
save for that of the insane?

What if the world was again
the one we once knew -
millions of seconds
of minutes
of hours ago -
and the choice is ours
to make and break.
Would we remain still
and unfazed by the chance
to weave our own tales?
Would we tread the same paths,
the same causes, the same days?
Or would we dare
to walk where we could not
had the present world went on,
where the answers would not have mattered,
where the questions would have been left

unsaid?

But the world is ending
slowly, even painfully
if you think about it too much.
And there is no more Time to go back to -
there is only Tomorrow and So On.
We can't erase the lines
defining our palms
nor evade the seasons yet to come.
We can only dream to be back there -
years
scores
eons ago -
only dream, and sigh,
and dream once again
to be younger and freer,
to have another chance
at our very own lives.
Dream, yes. And nothing more.

cheer up.

*published with permission from both Friend and Higala*

Friend:So, why?
Higala: Because I can't go.
Friend: I dare not ask why.
Higala: I can't cope with the aftermath.
Friend: I'm sorry.
Higala: I believe in making things work. If you just continue holding on and making things work, it will work.
Friend: I dont know whether you are something amazing or just plain old fool. Perhaps both. Lagi ka sigurong mag isa nung bata ka. At nung lumalaki ka -
Higala: Kapag may kasama na ko, ayokong pakawalan.
Friend: Happiness is integral. Otherwise, you will have a patchwork relationship.
Higala: I want a stable relationship.
Friend: Stable, huh?
Higala: Ah... Love, love, love.
Friend: Perhaps there is still hope for jerks like us.
Higala: Of course. For jerks like you guys, there are fools like me.
Friend: What a pair that makes.

...
Friend: I hope you don't change that quick smiling attitude and cheerfulness despite agony which at times annoys, since i think the world needs more of that because we have grown to be more realistic.
Higala: SO, I'M NOT REALISTIC?!?
Friend: Realistic in the sense that we don't dare see whats beyond. We take things as [they are]. And perhaps the reason you smile and be happy and perky is because you see something more.
Higala: I dare not tell you but... I am near-sighted.

...
Higala: Thanks, Friend, for cheering me up.
Friend: No problem, your [j]ester is glad to be of service.
Higala: Wait. Knock knock.
Friend: What?
Higala: You're supposed to say, "who's there?"
Friend: Who's there?
Higala: Jester.
Friend: Jester who?
Higala: Jesterday. All my troubles seemed so far away...
Friend: *cricket*

Why do we drink beer?

1. To socialize.

2. To make it look like we're socializing.

3. To prove we can.

4. Because beer's 'hot'. (Fine. It's usually cold. But it makes you seem hot.)

5. Because of the acquired taste (thanks to hops).

6. Because it relaxes us somehow and makes us sleep better (the latter part of the sentence I don't really agree with).

7. Because beer increases the amount of good cholesterol (HDL) into the bloodstream as well as helps decrease blood clots. (Go, Google it.)

8. Because it warms you up (this number is waaay different from statement 4).

9. Because you get to think more clearly. Trust me.

10. Because it justifies your being a show off. And your being passionate. And emo.

11. Because it allows you to be and everyone else will either forgive you for 'being' or not take your words and actions seriously. (And then you can rest knowing that they'd shrug everything off thereafter. )

12. Because we want beer. And more beer!

13. Peer pressure?

14. Because we'd like to be on the morning news: Minor arrested for DUI.

15. Because we'd like to experiment with tastes.

16. Because we'd like to see (and feel) the aftereffects.

17. Because we don't like the hangovers that hard liquor causes.

18. Because we're Pinoys and huge fans of Red Horse.

19. Because our fathers drink beer. And our forefathers did, too. And their forefathers. And their... zzz.

20. Because beer's fun!

21. Because we don't want to outlive our friends by being squeaky clean and vice-free.

22. Because we want to live crazily for the moment and wake up the next morning to tell the tale. Or to make sure everyone else does not (tell the tale).

23. Because it livens up the world, somehow. Everything's vivid and magical. And, in it, you can be so happy - yes, in that drunken stupor.

24. Because. Just because.

Wunderkind

When you seek a place, a thing, a name,
When you try to gather all then sleep,
When you listen to every word, and sound, and grief,
When you're filled to the top and cannot breathe...

When you roam and wonder at the undiscovered sights,
When you cry and hunger for warmth and light,
When you kneel amid the thorns, amid the vines,
When you grope for understanding but are given a knife...

When you speak of tales, of wrath, of haste,
When you smile in pain and nod 'hello',
When you close your eyes and let the anger flow,
When you open your hand for a Touch you missed so...

... you wait for Magic to happen
and will Time to hold all Wonders.
That's when you realize you're perfect, but all alone:
and there's No One there to take in the Beauty with you.

February 10, 2006

blank stare

Blank, yet again, but still I have the urge to pour out the deafening silence onto this canvas. And I realize the 'blank' state is only an armor I resort to when times get dire.

Thus, though I'd call it blankness or even apathy, in all actuality, I am not devoid of any emotions. I'd be irritable and angry, even bitter. I'd be depressed, the pathetic loser that I really am.

The blankness is just my friend - a blanket to ward off further damage to my shell.

[cursor]

Inside, I bleed.

personal ghosts

No reasons, just what is:
I couldn't question the existence
nor do I want to - it just is.
The thoughts, the words
in my head or elsewhere
are.
They are.

Perhaps I know the why's
and the how's
but I choose to be ignorant.
After all,
only I know my truth.
Others can only guess.
You can only close your eyes
and wonder.

peanut butter-lover

Joe Black: ...But Allison loves you?
Quince: [Quince nods yes between stifled sobs]
Joe Black: How do you know?
Quince: Because she knows the worst thing about me and it's okay.

Almost there.

Browsing through my "parked quill", I saw an entry I had for June 23, 2005. The first line looked familiar, as well as the rest that flowed thereafter. I decided to update the last part, though, for Time's sake.

Additional note: I didn't just update the last part. I modified the entry from top to bottom, not completely but enough to change its feel.

I'm torn halfway between the gutter and the stars. To fall means to go back to certainty, with the stable pavement under my feet. To soar means to touch the sky, to lose myself in the process, and perhaps to realize there aren't enough comets for us all to call our own.

This is the farthest distance I've flown so far, not to mention the strangest route I've taken. Law is art and science fused, they say. Perhaps that is why I had thought I can just go halfway. I live for art; I'd rather die than study science. I had thought I would be torn halfway. But I've moved past the midpoint, just a short distance from the clearing.

In the course of three (yes, three) weeks, my then uneventful life experienced a lot of good times and enthusiasm, bringing back the bloom in my cheeks. And it was as if I were sixteen yet again. I gallivanted with countless of people who had been longing for a tease of the carefree life once more, and albeit temporarily. I've surrendered to sleepless nights due to booze, fun, and freedom. Letting my hair down, I engaged in unplanned conversations and trips, in adventures and misadventures.

And when I returned to the uneventful life I had, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I still had spontaneous bursts of energy and verve within me. Everything's fast-paced and monochromatic now, save for the ties and scarves and shawls worn by the expectant faces around me. But I still feel refreshed. I still have the urge to giggle at every unusually mundane sound.

And I realize that this is what I'd like to do (yes, 'this'). Though Code's pages mandate discipline, I choose to sway against necessity and imperativity. The right to expression. The freedom to be. And the choice is mine, as it had always been.

I've found my lines. I realized it as soon as I changed the title from "Halfway" to "Almost there."

You see, I don't search for my passion anymore. I make it - from scratch or otherwise.

Zero visibility

Flights from Cagayan de Oro to Manila on January 3, 2009 were canceled due to the weather in Cagayan. Good thing the airlines got the stranded passengers a special flight for the next morning.
So, since I didn't want to sit through another road trip to and fro Bukidnon yet again, I opted to check in at Malberry Suites here in Cagayan de Oro.
And now I'm torn between "blankness" and bleakness.

Can't see the distance
can't look through the fog;
I try to live as the minutes tick by
and for these minutes
I'd be able to understand the hours.
My plane has landed
yet it can't take off again
and I wonder: should I stay
still, where my feet are stable
or try to fight the rough
inconstant winds.

(You give me the answer
but I shrug it off.
I've always wanted to make
all my flights work.)