evilcon 2011

(Lotsa pictures lifted from the Monkey Keeper’s album and Jae’s album)

“Madam, I have been looking for a person who disliked gravy all my life: let us swear eternal friendship.”
~Sydney Smith, English writer  (1771-1845)

Ole!

EvilCon 2011 ended with resounding success, expanding waistlines, and the fuzzy warmth of friendship rekindled.

If you wish to know (I’m telling anyway), the proprietress of the Broken Coffee Cafe is one-third of a group that also consists of the Monkey Keeper and Super JJ. It is a long-standing tradition in our group each year to meet for EvilCon. The annual EvilCon is a harmless gathering that aims to resurrect the Age of Tyranny and to aid our trio’s rise to power as Overlords of the Universe.

In relation to the quote above (the gravy has nothing to do with it, though), the EvilDoers finally met this year after numerous cancellations of our plans to reconvene and plot world domination.

But nobody has to get nervous yet that the world will soon be ruled over by three beings with varying degrees of insanity because we never got our plans off the drawing board. The food, drink, and company effectively sidetracked us from our original goal previously mentioned.

The Venue

There is an eating establishment in Dumaguete called Moooooon Cafe. It actually has three O’s only, but since the management has taken liberty in doing the misspelling, I’m amping it up just a notch. By the way,  it’s pronounced as “moon,” as in the silvery orb that hangs over earth’s night sky in a 28-day cycle.

We chose the location for its ambiance and the fact that it was closer to civilization compared with our initial choice for the meeting place. It is one place in the city where I got a “New Orleans” vibe, despite the fact that Moooooon Cafe has a Mexican theme. This branch of the lunatics’ cafe (I mean that in a good way) was at Silliman Avenue and was the perfect venue for hatching evil plans and the ordinary occasion of meeting up with special friends.

Beber a Su Propio Riesgo

Or, roughly put, “Drink at your own risk.” Mooon Cafe has an extensive selection of beverages.

Here’s Jae doing a photo op with the drinks menu:

Here’s the Monkey Keeper posing for Victoria Secret with the drinks menu:

Here’s yours truly… Unlike my friends, I am seriously studying what to order for drinks. After all, I am such a drunkard didn’t want to end up with a pitcher of sewage silt to go with our Mexican dishes.

In the end, we decided on a Sun Cooler. The menu’s description said it has mango, watermelon, oranges, calamansi, grenadine, and a splash of vodka. I think the splash had to be equal to the volume of water you get after a ten-wheeler drives through a mud puddle at the side of the road. It completely drenches you. And I suspect that the Sun Cooler was also laced with anesthetic (just some thought). Anyways, after the first glass, we seriously needed more ice to dilute the substance. And the succeeding glasses made my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth. But can you believe it? I was sooo happy and had a smile plastered on my face the whole night.

Los Alimentos (The Food)

What to order? Mexican, of course! But at this point, I still debated the merits between having a burrito and a taco.

In the end, we had lots of cheese-laden food! All the cheesy goodness was slathered in our quesadillas and on the pizza and burrito and taco; it was more than enough to make my lactose intolerance enzyme weep, pack its bags, and move in with my serotonin.

Here’s Jae wrestling with her second taco:

Burp

The meal ended.

As ever, the Monkey Keeper is without her gadgetry. I think, in this picture, she’s Tweeting or sending an SMS to someone saying that she’s at a Prayer Meeting. Notice, though, that a slice of pizza lay uneaten. The pizza had the odd consistency of teething rubber so I will not recommend it if you happen to drop by the Lunatics’ Cafe, Dear Reader (not unless you really fancy having a teething-rubber pizza – or a pizza-flavored teething rubber, as might be the case – every once in a while).

I rue the time when the Sun Cooler became extinct. Besides, I was seeing double by then.

More Photos from My Friends’ Cameras

Just to show you, Dear Reader, that we all had a great time last night, here is a couple more pictures of our trio during EvilCon. 1 disembodied head = 1 EvilConner:

Funny how little was said during the entire meal but we still went home feeling better than we had in months. The warm, fuzzy feeling still lingered when I woke up this morning, and I found myself smiling all the way to work today. Till next year, guys! I miss you already.

(L-R) the Monkey Keeper, Yours Truly, and Super Joe Bokie

critters at home

While on the subject of critters at home, i’m posting a photo of Wol the dog and one of our cats, Rommel. They’re best friends.

Rommel hates paparazzi, while Wol can't decide what her best angle is

just another morning in the tropical jungle (featuring Wol)

This morning I found Wol lurking among the bushes. I wasn’t glad to see her at the side of the road hiding among brown weeds and dying lanzones seedlings.

Wol is no beauty. Her facial features reminded me of a horse that once kicked me on the arm. Her eyes protruded from their sockets, as if they regret being part of her anatomy. She has a severe underbite – a row of cracked teeth poised precariously on her lower jaw and stuck out from her gray lips… a demented homeowner’s picket fence. She waddled when she walked, an odd gait that raised her right hip with each swing of her leg. Her hair was the color of moldy straw, and was often caked with the detritus of dead things that she came across in her walks. She loved rolling over roadkill, cow dung, and other highly pungent canine eau de parfum.

She might get hit by a passing motorcycle (or, worse, a careering dump truck carrying fresh produce from the farms a little way yonder our house) that’s why I wasn’t happy seeing her today. Anyway, it wasn’t usual for her to be out roaming by the road. Usually, she just sat at the shed where we parked our motorcycles, contented with harassing the cats or playing catch-the-tail-of-the-clueless-dog. But something must have pulled her to investigate her surroundings. I tried shooing her off. Her attention was somewhere else though… took no notice of me at all as I backed my motorcycle that Tata parked earlier at the roadside.

Wol looked alert, protruding eyes more ready to pop out of the sockets any minute, nostrils flared in interest, ears cocked in the direction of the road that wound its way farther up the mountain. Then, as I made a first unsuccessful attempt at kick starting the motorcycle to life (which just sputtered and belched thick smoke from the antediluvian engine), I saw something huge and brown barreling down from the direction where Wol was looking.

The brown blur quickly became the hulking shape of a great wolf dog. It was as big as a baby killer whale. A baby killer whale with four legs that ended in claws that I only see on When Animals Attack specials. Its hackles bristled and its mouth was wide open, displaying an awesome collection of knife-sharp teeth. It was headed my way.

I tried starting the motorcycle again. And again. And again. But the engine only gave a helpless sputter. Someone in my head was yammering omigod, omigod… you’re gonna die… you’re gonna be eaten by a werewolf… no one will find your remains… they will bury an empty casket… omigod…hope it does not have rabies…hope it’s vegetarian…

Canis familiaris humongous was  now just three feet away from where I stood trapped on the motorcycle that – Fate would have it – also didn’t have a kickstand.

[Random thoughts at this point: If I just let the bike go and run, I might damage the motorcycle and do without transport to Camp for several weeks until I could find money for repairs (that's it if I were still alive by then). But can I outrun the werewolf? Wouldn't it magically transform into a hunky guy who has great disdain for t-shirts? Would I see winged people playing with harps when I die? Which funeral parlor provides the best service?]

The beast closed in, and I could already hear the rumblings from its mighty chest.

I braced for the worst. Being mauled by a wild animal on a lonely forest road is stuff from which nightmares come.

Inches away from me now… I could see the strands of the creature’s bristling fur. Then, without changing speed, the big monster dog veered away from me and headed towards Wol. I braced my heart against the certainty that my dog will be brutally murdered this morning. But the mauling that I expected and dreaded didn’t happen. When the dog saw Wol, his snarl transformed into a goofy smile, his hackles became smooth fur, and his powerful tail wagged like a deranged flag waver took possession of it.

Wol pretended to ignore the now obviously smitten stray and walked daintily out of the withered bushes. She looked my way and seemed to wink and say, “Coast’s clear, mum… the eagle has landed,” or some such blather.

The motorcycle’s engine mercifully came to life on my next attack on the kick starter. As I clanked down from that lonely mountain road, I saw the  big dog running to and fro in front of my Wol, enticing her to play.

tarot thursday

Today’s card is “Fortune”. It’s telling me to resist going against the universal flow and let all “hang loose” because the ride up ahead is unavoidable, inevitable. Also, the card warns of being too hasty in getting ahead without appreciating the landscape of my current surroundings. Maybe this is so because the best gifts usually come to us when we least expect them. Cheers, then, for the three weird ladies at the spinning wheel.

Searching for Earth Rainbows (Part 2)

(a continuation of sorts)

Sky. Dawn. Ocher. Blood. Tears. Rust. Sunlight.

The earth birthed these colors and they are now on my palette. Salima, one of the Talaandig artists facilitating this workshop, showed us how to invoke the numerous hues of the earth, channel them to our brushes, and give life to them in the images we wrought on canvas.

Ad gloriam ex luto

From the mud to glory. Or something like that.

See, we are now painting. But the smell of turpentine and linseed oil is missing. The canvases before us are slowly filling with the images ushered up by our subconscious… a bird of prey there, a tree over there, a road leading to nowhere propped on a makeshift easel of stone, a face, a bowl of rice, an egg. Soil on canvas.

This is Day 3 at the Talaandig Village. The fog has not stopped caressing our cold bodies. The rain even joined in the fray and has never stopped beating down on the tin roof, so intent was it to take part in the day’s activity.

Today’s activity was one of the things I looked forward to before coming here. And as I plunged deeper into painting with soil, I had several epiphanies.

That painting with soil is a primeval art form.

That soil doesn’t consist of a single hue. My makeshift palette of tin cans containing a vast selection of colors, the so-called earth tones, attested to that fact.

That soil is an essential part of our lives; if there’s no soil, there’d be no place where plants could grow. The great circle of life. And I would not deny that the visuals that came to me that day were akin to some scenes right off Disney’s “Lion King”, with the great circle of life montage (creatures of wing and hoof thundering on and on across a great plain) plus the soundtrack itself played in full crescendo in my ears.

I must’ve looked drunk to all the others. But… but… but that afternoon, I must’ve waken up something within me that slept for a very long time. Because, cliche as it may sound, I came out of that activity with an understanding of how each of our lives is connected to everything else in the universe. And, yes, i was cold sober when this realization came.

Let me show you what I painted under Salima’s guidance:

a long-winded alibi

instead of spewing words that sound good together, i decided that starting today i’ll write about things that are of relevance to promoting world peace and general goodwill for all of creation. yeah. the broken coffee cafe was finally going to contribute something good for all humanity — all the necessary information designed to end suffering and answer the ever-surfacing question of what the purpose of our existence is. is it to merge with the numinous, the divine? is it to further our ascent into the upward golden spiral, where we finally merge with the great creator? it is to evolve spiritually and to transcend the need for our physical forms?

my mind is primed. juices flowing, cogs turning smoothly as a well-oiled engine, pistons propelling all possibilities, channeling all of this to manifest my vision on this particular page, on this particular hour.

the thinking, processing part of my brain is now in overdrive, force-feeding my consciousness with visions of glorious treatises on how the entire world can achieve lasting peace and eradicate poverty and exterminate the root of all greed.

the answers are served in a tottering pile on a bone-china saucer.

good old ADHD (a.k.a. Old Ade) might have caught wind that something was brewing in my inner sanctum. he does have the key to the place (us being best buds since a long way back and all), and he let himself in… shambling through the darkened passageway and plonking himself in his usual roost on my left shoulder. quite the ideal spot for lounging the whole day, whispering his valuable adages and commentaries into my ear.

“wassup, feyoh?” Old Ade asked in his snuffling, wheezy voice. every time Old Ade spoke, i am reminded of a basset hound. don’t ask me to explain. it’s been that way ever since.

“oh, hi Old Ade. i’m busy with upgrading the quality of the Broken Coffee Cafe. I am making a treatise on world hunger right now. See these Venn diagram and three-dimensional bar charts with multicolored legends? I’m going to explain to the whole world how we can channel just a portion of the resources of the richer nations and…”

Old Ade nodded in his unhurried way. “Yeah, sounds awesome. And since you’re already online, just open a new tab on your browser. One of your friends on Facebook tagged a picture of you. Quite hilarious pose, by the way.”

“Really?” I squeal as I clicked on my bookmark for the site. The photo was there, alright. And I simply had to “like” it. But my hair looked funny in the picture, so I had to comment on it, too.

“That’s hilarious, right?” Old Ade said from his stoop. “By the way, that’s not the only photo where you’re tagged. Actually there are three pics. And your coworker commented on another one.”

I simply must look at the other photos and also check if the comment is in my favor. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the tottering pile of ideas on the small saucer came crashing down.

Old Ade still had another news for me. “You know,” he ventures after I typed in my third “LOL” on FB’s comment bar. “An ice cream cart is parked outside. I heard it has mocha flavor. Your favorite, remember?”

Mocha ice cream!

with Old Ade riding on my shoulder, I zipped out to the camp’s gate where an ice cream vendor beckoned. mocha ice cream in the morning rocks!

I finished the ice cream and nearly got back my resolve to finish my treatise on poverty. Old Ade chose the moment when I began guiding my feet back to the room to finish my writing. “See that dog?” He said. “He’s so cute, right? But he looks a bit lonely.” And I am not one who could ignore a lonely dog. So for the next quarter hour, I played tag with the charming tongue-lolling mongrel who also fetched sticks i threw out for him, and i scratched his belly which he offered up as a symbol of a newly formed bond between human and canine.

i definitely have to finish the treatise now. “hey, isn’t that a tree branch shaped like a fairy?” Old Ade had a talent for detecting unusual shapes in tree trunks, branches, leaves, clouds, and tablecloth stains. one time he even had religious folks under his spell with the water-stained bed sheet found with the alleged imprint of a famous person’s face (a.k.a., the turin shroud). one day it’ll be the Great Jacko on a waterlogged ceiling.

so, when Old Ade says a branch looks like a fairy, it definitely looks like a fairy. i went closer to the tree for a closer examination to admire the perfect rendering of one of the Wee Folks. the possibility of providing an answer to the ills of the world seems very remote now.

but I can still do it, I know. just one hour will do, and i can probably write the preamble of my treatise. i was a bit reluctant to leave the charming Wee Folk on the Tree Branch. but i managed. and i think my willpower is strong enough to resist the further promptings from Old Ade to look at, check out, or listen to something within a hundred-meter radius.

i made it back to the room. and i sank in back to my seat. Old Ade was unusually quiet as I typed in the first few words of my preamble. then… a knock on the door.

“this is where I make my exit. see you next time, kid.” Old Ade shambled off my shoulder and disappeared (like dissolve before my eyes disappear). the door knocker poked her head into my inner sanctum.

“hey, feyoh. can you help me with something?” that something lasted for the entire afternoon and involved strenuous physical and mental exertion.

by the end of the day, i was exhausted to my bone marrow. i was in no condition to write a coherent sentence, let alone a treatise of life-changing proportions.

i guess the broken coffee cafe will forever remain a mixed bag of literary detritus. everything’s from scratch and what i scoop out from the lowest shelf of the fridge. still, the condiments are free and the coffee’s scalding hot. bon appetit.

Introduction to “Searching For Earth Rainbows”

(This is Part 1. Succeeding posts will be published in the following days.)

_______________

“Oh dear lord, we still have 3 nights to go,” Kat said.

Like me, she was shivering from the cold. Underneath the Day-Glo orange blanket wrapped around her, Kat wore three layers of clothing. She’s wound a scarf around her neck, too. She had a pair of socks on, and like a topping on a sundae, she had a crocheted cap that was unintentionally color coordinated with her entire getup. Fashionably toasty warm, you’d think. But the cold was relentless in its attack, seeping through the very marrow of bones used to the stifling heat of the city. And Kat was from the city. And I don’t think she’d make it through the night. And she was right, we still had three nights to go in this place where the fog easily kisses the ground any time of the day and the rains beat down mercilessly on everything and anything that stood on its chosen trajectory.

We were in the heart of Mt. Kitanglad, the fourth highest peak in the Philippines’ host of mountain ranges. We were there not by active choice. We were there because of the nature of our work. This time, the goal was for the campers to intensely experience village life in this country, and the camp administrators chose this place smack in the center Mt. Kitanglad as the ideal spot for our grand vacation.

I’ve heard some say that working as camp counselor for Camp Half-Blood is a dream job. But that evening while I searched for ways to avert the frostbite threatening to attack my toes and while monitoring Kat’s condition (mentally reviewing my knowledge of CPR and the Heimlich maneuver, just in case…), I wondered if being camp counselor is the stuff from which nightmares are made.

I actually shared Kat’s apprehension. Three more nights of watching over a herd of hyperactive campers. The conditions were not optimal. It has rained non-stop since we got there. We had to walk some distance to take our meals. Meandering through the village could have been a walk in the park if the rains let up. I’ll give you keywords to help you to visualize our daily situation: mud, slippery, slide, dark, rain, curses, growling stomach, faulty flashlights, pitch black, cold, screams, howls, thuds.

“You know, the more you count the days, the more you’d want to extend your stay by the time you’re supposed to leave,” I told Kat. I’ve overheard that line somewhere, and I wanted to cling on to that idea, so I passed it on to my fellow counselor who I really assumed would not last through the night.

Ah, Mt. Kitanglad. There were rainbows here. We just had to find them.

It turned out, I wasn’t wrong on both counts.

(To be continued…)

first report from camp half blood

Boom-boooom-boom-bommmmm-boom-boooom-boom-bommmmm

I shall begin with the drums. Right now, the low throbbing of djembe drums cloaks the entire place. The sound – primitive, steady as a seasoned hiker’s footsteps, wild, necessary like heartbeat – wakes me from my doldrums and infuses my blood with a vision of how it had been in those times when grandma and grandpa Homo sapiens still had winter homes in prehistory’s prime real estates: caves and forests.

Other visions come spilling in: A necessary hunt before the start of winter so that the whole tribe does not starve during the cold months, and drums are beaten as the hunters depart to find the animals who are willing to give up their current existence so that others may live. And there’s a war council being called in the heart of the forest. Through the grave summons of the drums, the neighboring tribes are reminded of their alliance. They will come with warriors, of course. And they will be on the warpath.

But the drumbeats I hear today have nothing to do with war. The intentions are peaceful. Outside the room where I am writing this, I can see a group of students having their Asyano class in one of the bamboo huts that serve as alternative classrooms in this alternative school. Palms beat solemly on instruments with ancient origins. Goathide stretched taut across a rounded piece of wood and embellished with beads and carvings. The djembe. And it is just another afternoon in the school where I now teach. I will go off-tangent for a while so we’ll have a clearer picture of what’s going on. Imagine Percy Jackson.

Okay, if you haven’t heard yet about Percy Jackson, I will allow you leave the room to look him up. Considering that you’re reading this post online, you can open a new tab on your browser and let good ol’ Wiki and Google help you out.

-

-

So, where were we? Let’s say that the place where I am at right now is a school. But not a “normal”, strait-jacket bastion of institution that has somber buildings that have peeling paint and disintegrating pieces of furniture. Hmmm. Imagine Percy Jackson in Camp Half Blood. I am now in Camp Half Blood, where they teach demigods all they need to know in order to survive the world where monsters hunt them down and mortals always get in the way. But in my case, it is a group of kids from across the sea, from a country north of this country, whose telenovelas and fashion statement have absolutely infected (I mean that in a good way) Philippine culture. And I am part of a group of teachers who “impart knowledge” that the students would have otherwise missed had their parents enrolled them in the strait-jacket educational institutions that are in abundance in their country.

So, aside from the basics of speaking and writing English and the nitty gritty of Science, Math, and Social Studies, the kids learn how to cook; make musical instruments made out of a grass varietal abundant in this part of the archipelago (read: bamboo); make fashion accessories that they designed; dance to the groove of hip-hop; swim like dolphins and other marine creatures; and basically get in touch with their artistic slash creative sides that otherwise would have been lost if they had their education in a totally competitive environment. Oh, and the drum lessons are integral, too.

This Camp Half Blood espouses peace instead of war. Acceptance instead of discrimination. Free meals instead of hunger. Cooperation instead of individualism. Free breakfast, lunch and dinner (including snacks) instead of starvation. So, if you stay tuned in the coming days, Dear Reader, you’ll be getting sporadic reports of how I’m faring in Camp Half Blood. Right now I have to pack my gear because the school is going on a quest ot speak with the Dolphin Oracles in the southern part of this island. Ciao, then. Till next time and thank you for dropping by.

never mind

I’ve moved again. Perhaps for good. No guarantees. I float where the North Wind takes me. This time though, I’ve dropped my iron anchor on the forest floor. I’m determined to let my roots grow here. Hah. Goodbye, other people’s dreams.

I am a hermit, channeling the graces of a disincarnate Medicine Woman. Don’t mind me for now. I am steeped in witch’s brew. I’ll get to spring cleaning presently. But for now, let the spiders weave their shawls across the ceiling. Try to ignore the layer of dust on the furniture and the bat droppings on the counter. There’s plenty of time to deal with those soon.

Meanwhile, I’m listening to things grow. New life cracks open from its shell. Bulbs dig deeper into the mossy earth, getting comfortable and dreaming flowery dreams. Fish sigh in greenish waters. Fronds rustle with undecipherable secrets. I drink them all in.

Those marbles… where are they now?

doomsday musings

Last night, Tata and I stayed up until close to midnight discussing doomsday scenarios. We don’t watch too much horror movies but we gave each other a good scare over what could possibly transpire when end-of-the-world prophecies from different civilizations are to occur in our lifetime. We’re sissies this way.

True, scientists already published reports that our world is indeed in the throes of a major change, as evidenced by more powerful storms, longer droughts, increasing top wind speeds, and rapidly melting glaciers. But those reports take on a different gravity when you’re living at the neck of a potentially active volcano and you’re, more or less, on a ringside seat during one of Mother Nature’s live performances.

Here, MN’s live performance features trees toppling down for no reason, howling winds, and rains straight out of Noah-and-his-Ark’s days. Also, we are privileged to watch the unfolding of every season; only now, the seasons are skewed. Other causes for unease are the howling winds that blow stronger than ever and the rains that threaten to stay for good.

March in this tropical jungle is supposed to be sweltering hot, and a short stroll around the yard can already impart a thick coating of dust on our feet. However, last night, we huddled and shivered under blankets, mugs of unsugared coffee in our hands. Today, the clouds kidnapped the sun, and the whole world is lit in a miserable shadow. A fine mist hung a foot above the ground and it has never stopped drizzling since mid-morning.

Strange times. I expect to see more sandwich board-toting folks soon.

fitful sleep

(In a Southern City)

Stabs of worry woke me up from a fitful slumber. The rumble of a truck added to the sense of agitation that swirled around me in the cold blue dark of dawn. I groped for the lamp’s switch and chased away the crushing weight of anxiety with a warm yellow light.

In waking life, there are still unresolved issues. My studies have been halted because of non-existent funds. My employer refused to communicate regarding the status of the company and until now has not given our November and December wages. It’s already two months past November, and I kid myself that everything is still going to turn out all right. Another co-worker resigned yesterday. I worry about her. She had no other means of providing for herself, had always depended on the funds from her job.

Bills to pay.

Mouths to feed.

Bodies to clothe.

Wants and needs to satisfy.

I also wonder how long I can wing this one out.

contemplations of a parachute jumper

(In a Southern City)

I’ve uprooted myself again.

One boat ride taken yesterday morning landed me in another city by dusk. And I miss my loved ones left behind in my tropical jungle home. Perhaps I am not really cut out for a nomadic existence because my heart bleeds each time a ritual of parting takes place.

Still, I wear the mask with the painted smile. I have duties to attend to here, in this other city. It’s my own free-fall jump. Without the altimeter. Without the false sense of security attributed to the straps of a nylon parachute digging on my glenohumeral joints. Tah-tah, love. See you on the next month’s turning. Or if I manage to land safely after this crazy dive. Just like that – usually.

But I’ve made the decision now. There was a clearer deliberation after spending several weeks in a place where the air was clear and the nights were pitch black. There, I saw things in their proper perspectives. Eureka amidst the palm fronds.

I am taking a packet of seeds on my next journey back.

another impulsiveness on a sun’s day

I brought rain to this tiny city, that I did. The city was in the throes of sunny weather yesterday and I brought my gloom along for the bus ride to this place. The moment I stepped off the yellow Ceres liner, raindrops splattered down from iron-grey clouds. Welcome! Welcome!

When the bus drove off, the streets were empty of any other means of transport. Most people had sought shelter from the sudden downpour.

That I was far from home was something of which I had no clear explanation.

It was one of those impulsive decisions that I’m prone to have every once in a while. I don’t know how it happens. Probably has to do with a certain slant in the sunlight or the barometer reading at 6:09 in the morning. I don’t know what sets off the impulsiveness.

Or probably, it has something to do with the waxing and waning of the moon. Like legendary folks who have powers of lycantrophy but rue the after-effects of chasing prey the morning after (the excess hair, mud, and gristle on the torn bed sheets and the telltale finger or claw on the puke that one has to flush down the drain), I feel out of sorts when the impulsiveness passes and I discover that there are things that happened which I normally wouldn’t have done.

Fortunately for me, I had kin in this city. I made the impromptu visit and was greeted with warmth. I stayed the night and set out the next morning lest I had the fit again. As I boarded another yellow bus for Dumaguete, the clouds darkened again. The rain caught up with me while the Ceres liner was exiting the city limits. It drizzled throughout my trip all the way back to my tropical jungle home.

Perhaps I need some prescription meds or a silver slug amulet. Or probably a heavy duty raincoat or a golf umbrella.

your messiah on a harness

It’s the second meeting with friends, and before us lay the ruins of our lunch: shawarma-rice containers, corn chip and chocolate wrappers, empty soda cans, and the remnants of candy/marshmallow/rice cripies-sprinkled ice scramble. We’re in the food court of one of Dumaguete’s older shopping centers, meeting up in what we all hoped was going to turn into a regular event, a getting together of Super Jj, The Monkey Keeper and yours truly.

We just finished our “main course and side dish”, and The Monkey Keeper was holding court by narrating a series of experiences she had on the second day of January. The noise coming from the mall’s amusement center provided the background music for her retelling of a story told by someone who was supposedly enrolled in SU’s creative writing program.

What this creative-writing-program kid told her started off as a promising horror story. So, Super Jj and I made ourselves more comfortable in the best way possible when one has to deal with Lee Plaza’s food court chairs. This was a story, and we love stories.

We shut off the noise from the arcades so that we’ll catch each unfolding of the plot as The Monkey Keeper retold the story of a grave digger who had a penchant for looting the graves of  rich dead Chinese who were certain to be buried with ancient coins in their caskets. Predictably, like any good rehashed horror story, the ancient coins of the dead were supposedly cursed. Jj and I waggled our eyebrows: This is going to be good!

However, the story suddenly branched off into a badly concealed deux ex machina – complete with the inevitable exploding volcano, earth tremors and landslides our country is notorious for. Then it became a Filipino parody of Washington Irving’s Rip van Winkle, which then morphed into – what it seemed to me – a Dawn of the Dead story line. From that, the story mutated into a parable, with the grave digger being transformed into a Messiah figure on a harness. Jesus on a harness. Then the narrative evolved into a prose with an ecologically nihilistic theme that, all of a sudden, became a humorless standoff between death and salvation. It ended there… a parable of the lost soul that had Jesus Christ on a harness and the figure of a gullible Grim Reaper.

The original writer of the story actually feels good about his magnum opus, and would willingly tell anyone who shows half an interest about it or if they mistakenly buy into the false advertising that this story was “the best one ever written”. And he does not care for feedback.

But we had feedbacks, and we discussed the story’s merits (or lack of them) for a good part of the afternoon, causing someone to fail to return to the office after her lunch hour and nearly forgetting that she’s supposed to pick up one daughter from school.

Anyway, here’s the general aftertaste left by the best story ever on our psyche:

The Monkey Keeper felt that she just heard the plotline of another local TV station’s soap opera (teleserye).

Super Jj gave a trademark one-eyebrow-raised expression and a yell: “What????!!!!!!!!!”

I echoed Super Jj’s yell… So frustrating. Like being promised candies and chocolates but was instead given a cucumber and grapefruit because these latter ones are healthier and better. Blech.

It would have been a very good story… ~Sigh.~

*

I’ll put a disclaimer here:

Judge not, lest ye be judged.

I admit to writing off-tangent plot lines myself. But still… the kid’s enrolled in a creative writing program that’s supposed to enhance his writing skills. I think he’s missing out on a wonderful opportunity to really shine as a writer if he continues to proceed with that single story that he considers as his masterpiece.

vagrancy and the cold

(In the tropical jungle)

It’s freezing. And I am broke. That’s how the new year caught up with me… penniless and shivering.

I wonder how vagrants survive during the winter months.

Still, the entire household finds means to get by. At least we don’t purchase gas for our cooking fire. Although the firewood is quite damp, we can still build smoky fires to heat our instant coffee and cook our dinner. It’s all about survival this first week of 2011. That and practicing how to be grateful for the simplest blessings in life.

I wrote something down on the pad of paper I always keep handy on my work table, and my scribblings say:

I will not heap curses upon your head; instead, I ask the Universe to pour blessings unto your life that through you others may be blessed as well.

There.

I penned this down when I was nearly tearing my hair off in frustration. Funds that I expected to arrive before the old year ended didn’t come in. There was no sumptuous new year feast that I envisioned months before. I am now flat broke and powerless to influence the glacial flow of funds. Still, I am humbled that I have understanding and generous loved ones to tide me over this lean period.

Here in the tropical jungle home, we’re busy finding ways of tightening the proverbial belt. Just this morning, a person who buys scraps and junk came by and we were happy to sell off the cans and bottles that Ta’s sister has accumulated from the past year. The cans were weighed in at 28 kilograms. Our contributions to the war effort.

I’m trying to put off the inevitable decision-making that I must face before the middle of this month.

This all sounds vague as of the moment. Maybe it’s for the lack of caffeine. I’ll scavenge around the house for loose coins so I could buy instant coffee.

Don’t mind if I can’t greet you a happy new year just yet.

Still, brightest blessings be upon your life always.

here is home

(In the tropical jungle)

It’s freezing cold. I just finished a couple of articles about electricians… wrote from what I knew about electricians – that they are in charge of things, um, electronic. Actually, I did fill in the article with grit that I grabbed from a government-run website that described the nature of the electrician’s job and the qualifications in order for a person to become one. Dry stuff, but I do take comfort in the thought that what I’m doing gives me the means to line my nest with warm quilts and my stomach with rice, meat and vegetables.

Rain patters softly on the roof and finds its way in through the holes in the rusty GI sheets; there’s barely a dry surface on the floor. The waterfall quality of our roof and the fact that the central cottage is about to cave in if the dogs sneezed together are the things that make me wish that I could extend my stay here until I could help set things right again.

Perhaps these things are making me decide more speedily on where I should spend this year. Home.

It’s not Kansas. It’s home.

My tropical jungle. Here, I am amidst the ferns, the moaning bamboo forests, the swaying coconuts, the tree frogs, the coffee-hued soil…

The past two years that I lived far from home were essential. The time apart placed things in their appropriate perspectives. But I guess it’s time to buy that return ticket. Before the dogs forget my scent. Before the ferns have flourished and withered. Before the jungle refused to embrace me as ever her own.

sensual morning

My eyes were closed but I knew I was awake. My sense of hearing was the first to stir this morning. I was brought to consciousness by the knocking of polyurethane against metal. A plastic trash box being emptied unto the barrel that served as the main midden pit to be collected later by the “environmental technicians.” Manong Frodo, one of the hotel’s own environmental technicians – probably up and about before first light – already swept the parking area clear of fallen leaves and last night’s inevitable debris.

I heard the cries of the jeepney barkers calling out their destinations, perhaps wishing that passengers would be more convinced to choose their rattling time machines over all the other rattling time machines parked in front of the church. Then the honks of car horns, squeals of brakes, rattle of motorcycle engines, thunder of eighteen-wheeler trucks, and wails of an ambulance drowned out the barkers’ cries.

Inside my room, I heard the rustle of sheets of paper being agitated by the rotating ceiling fan. I had quit using the AC several nights ago, and could note the return of my joints’ flexibility with each slumber that I was not under the mercies of the blasted air conditioning (but perhaps that’s just me tasting the edges of my twilight years). The fan had an uneven whir; it gave a thump midway to every completed rotation.

Then my sense of smell kicked in. Because I was using the ceiling fan, I kept the bedroom windows open for better air circulation. Now, the day’s aroma became more pronounced. The metallic tang of barbecue wafted in, courtesy of the chicken barbecue station across the street. Then, the clear, sharp scent of mango blossoms tickled my nose. There was a mango tree right outside my bedroom window, and the blossoms were perhaps opening up to catch the Sun’s early rays.

After the enticing fragrances came the aggressive and poisonous odors of fumes spewed by cars, trucks, motorcycles, jeepneys, and cigarette smokers. The stench reminded me that I live in a dying world.

I opened my eyes then.

On the wall in front of me was a woven rug depicting Mecca. This morning, with the Sun’s light pouring in from the window, the tapestry was bathed a golden glow. Above the the rug were two of my sketches done in eyeliner. Their frames glinted with touches of silver turned gold. From the piece of the Universe that I could see out my window, the sky was cerulean, with somber fat cotton clouds.

You bet this is going to be a good morning.

nasty new habit

See, I’ve done it again.

I’ve been staring at this “add new post” page for almost an hour now. Sepultura provides my background lullabye, furiously playing  Convicted in Life courtesy of good ole Youtube.

Nothing comes. I meant to write an earthshaking narrative to compensate for the time that I have neglected writing anything here. But nothing comes. Empty like the desiccated pulp of a lemon wedge after it gave up its life for the tequila.

My days are filled with various leavetakings and new hellos. All’s a whir that I barely have time to filter my experiences. There’s my full time job as a content writer. There’s also my role as a gatekeeper in this new house, answering doors like a butler who knows too many insider stuff about the master and mistress of the house. I am a personal shopper and a 24-hour apothecary, too. Then I decided to vary the routine a bit. When the dust settled, I see that may have bitten off more than I can masticate.

Earlier last week found me poring over medieval manuscripts and getting reacquainted with Sophocles, Aristotle, and the Bard at an intimate level that would make even the most hardened stripper blush.

I spent the latter part of the week reviewing my rickety background on grammar – and discovered that for all the years I spent as a – quote – copyeditor – unquote – I got by on the barest information about sentence coherence, grammar, and overall structure. A chuckle escapes me when I recall the “brainstorming” meetings in the old Shoe Factory about how to address recent issues in authors’ manuscripts, and I chuckle some more when I recall the most harebrained explanations put forth by the Unimaginative Shoemakers in those days. How naive we all were.

I successfully coerced myself to overcome my pathological shyness to read aloud Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy” in front of a panel. The experience left me both shaky and elated.

All these things I did with the intention of graduating two years hence with a Masters degree.

I did mean to write down my experience down to the minutest detail, but I feel drained. Stared at the lappy’s screen for an hour now, Soulfly and Sepultura failing to raise me from my zombified state. This staring is fast becoming a habit.