Nothing Fancy

Life is short, so goes the old cliche.

I feel the truth of this in my bones. And so as I ruminated on this nugget of wisdom, it gave me a choice between two actions.

One, ignore the cliche. We all become worm fodder eventually, and we cannot do so much about it… except be 100% organic so the worms would not suffer from any terminal disease or long-term side effects when they do their bit for Mother Nature and go through the process of breaking down our lipids, adipose tissues, muscle mass, bones, et cetera, so we could revert to being of the earth, literally. Not that the generation of worms would also be here for long.

The second option left me thinking about the paradox of everything. Enough prepubertal musicians have belted out what they wish to do since life is, indeed, timed like a parking meter — even though I have yet to see a real parking meter. Tee hee.

Also, films abound about what one would do because his or her days are numbered. To nail the message home, we see characters willing to go to outrageous heights to fully experience life because the parking meter is slowly ticking to zero. And predictably, there is a sense of self, contentment even, at each ending.

As expected, we become aware of our own

Pain

Bite me.

Please.

Draw blood. Let raw nerves scream in agony.

Bite me. Please.

I hurt today. It is the hurt that throbs at the temples and makes one choke. It is the pain that radiates from the heart and permeates the soul.

So bite me, please. Let the pain be something from a fleshwound. Not this. Not this grief that threatens sanity and sears the spirit.

 

Sunlickers

As my years have stacked up, I’ve been having several health complaints, one of these is my borderline sugar level. My doctor advised me against indulging in too much sweets. I could manage without the candies, the brownies, the bonbons, the donuts, the cakes. But… but what is life without ice cream?

Somehow, a part of me rebelled. Nobody takes ice cream away from me.

Here’s how I got around the good doc’s injunction.

Runningboarding on a Safeway Bus

Today is a total deviation from the hectic schedule of work because I spent the entire day running errands for the household instead.

And there, I slipped. I mentioned work, didn’t I?

I’m — again — doing the workaday grind five days a week,  part of the labor pool, one of the bazillion commuters standing on the train station platform, drenched in sweat while waiting for the boxcar to carry me to my destination.

If the station is so crammed with commuters that one cannot drop a pin in the middle of the throng, I skip the  overpopulated cattlecars and ride the bus.

A bus ride in the metro is actually an exotic activity in itself — a unique flavor that the Department of Tourism should not miss in exploiting as another sport that tourists must experience firsthand while vacationing in this here tropical paradise of ours. CamSur has its wakeboarding; let Metro Manila have its runningboarding on a Safeway Transit line.

Here is the main perk:

Lystan

• The age of the drowning man has arrived.
• Consequences of choices are ripe for the picking.
• Candlewicks pick up flame and lick thick waxes down.
• Entities dance to tuneless dirges.
• Dreams of aisles and veils portend the desire of a dying heart.
• Unnurtured soul cries — silently, bitterly — behind fierce mask.
• Lost believer making their way back to the beckoning fold.
• Pains, joys, tribulations mingle for perfect sustenance.
• Cast adrift in sunless seas, tides ebbing, flowing to final oceans.
• Ends of worlds no longer matter.
• Maps no longer bear compass points to lead the way.
• Directions are meaningless — the only choice left is to trod onwards.
• Forward, forward, forward to bleak horizons feet doing the work.
• Goodbyes are spent, hellos are still minted and unused.
• Oceans swallow sleeping ships and spew them back to empty piers.
• Baggages are packed, unpacked, and packed again.

Tropical Depression

photo courtesy of guardian.co.uk

Perhaps it is the bleakness of a city cloaked in gray filthy fog that has dampened my spirit and made my soul long for home.

Perhaps it is the realization that coming back to the city of my birth does not have the same significant heft as staying in the mountains with the people I love.

Perhaps it is just the fickle side of me awakening and realizing that the only creatures that I talk to whenever I am home are two stray cats who have found refuge on the window ledge of my kitchen.

So this is how loneliness looks when personified.

No wonder others find comfort in the thought

Tuesday Confessions

Give leeway for my addiction.

Around the witching hour, I commune with the unholy in the safety of my room, windows darkened by woolen blankets to ward off intrusive eyes.

Throughout the day I visualize the gratification I get from each hit I take. Withdrawal symptoms are obvious in the way that I can’t wait to get home for my fix — itching hands and skin filmed with cold clammy perspiration.

I am fixated on doing it. Again. And again. And again.

There is a shallow sense of accomplishment each time I indulge. The hallucinatory fireworks, the evanescent contentment, and the virtual congratulations of nonexistent entities are more than enough to fuel the drive. There may be few others who can understand the rush it gives, and they themselves may not admit to their own addicted selves that they are hooked.

It’s never easy to get to this level. Still, after surmounting all the odds and the dangers

Old Song for Headmusic

I’m purging myself of several traits and thoughtforms that no longer work well. In the process, Metallica’s Until It Sleeps serves well as my head music. Such an old song, and I don’t even exactly remember how it goes; but it’s there looping in my head because one deranged dj left the booth for a tinkle but not before hitting the autoplay switch on — think guitar riffs, wailing leads,  pounding drums, slapping bass plus the Metallica hair before Mr. Hetfield decided to go for a cleaner, scrubbed image.

Here’s the lyrics I culled online.

Until It Sleeps (Metallica, ca. 1996)

Where do I take this pain of mine
I run but it stays right by my side
So tear me open, pour me out
The things inside that scream and shout
And the pain still hates me, so hold me until it sleeps

Just like a curse, just like a stray
You feed it once and now it stays
How it stays

Shovels and Pickaxes

circles come to close
days of madness cut the chase
pools oiled with distilled me’mries
of yesteryears and stale tomorrows

promises unfulfilled yet unbroken
lies left unsaid truthfully enough
behind musty curtains of longing
they sigh and wait sweet visions

spite for spite or might for might
it matters not at the junction
crossroads leading to crossways
choices ready ripe for picking

days come to close
circles grow mad within limits
yesteryears bathe in pools of tomorrows
mem’ries buried now deep underneath

image courtesy of deathby1000papercuts.blogspot.com.

First Ever Poll of the Deranged Palmist

Dear Interested Observer,

Before you proceed, I should warn you that there is a spoiler here for the Harry Potter series. Turn back if you don’t wanna know what happens to Harry and somebody else in the next movie.

Thor on a Thursday

Thunders rend the morning quiet, an obeisance to the deity for which this day, Thursday, was named.

I pad about the darkened kitchen, groping for coffee things.

Here is a mug. Here is a teaspoon. Here are the creamer, the sugar, and the grounds.

I shamble to the thermos and fill the mug for my morning brew.

I hear droplets of rain tapping on the glass windows, begging shelter from the cold.

Outside, Thor continues to ride across the leaden sky.

Steam warms my chilled cheeks and thaws my frosty paws as I take a sip of my pre-daylight elixir, drinking a toast to the god of thunder who chose to be afoot at this enchanted hour.

Message from the Raindrops

Truth be told, I miss copyediting.

Book On My Bedside Table: Necronomicon

And now, on to something more related to the hearth and the home.

I recently went on a trip to the mall with the good intention of buying a couple of rubber mats for our bathroom and came home with a commemorative edition of the works of H. P. Lovecraft, Necronomicon.

Introducing: The Volvo XC60 (A Rare Automotive Review in the Broken Coffee Cafe)

I’ve fallen in love again. But this love is forbidden. I know it will end in heartache and tears.

I’ve fallen for one who is far above my station. So unreachable. So desired by many others. My new love is from Sweden, from a family known for its strength, power, and dependability. Their family cherishes the value of quality and makes those who are entrusted in their care feel safe and secure. But there can never be an “us”.

I will just always be on the sidelines, watching the love of my life pass by.

Chlorophyll in My System

Today, I am considering becoming a semi-vegetarian. Seriously.

Flashback mode for a moment.

After several weeks of gorging myself with fried chicken legs, roasted chicken, DQ Blizzard, pork chops slathered with gravy, ground pork in tomato sauce, chicken afritada, beef teriyaki, braised beef, beef in a pot, instant noodles, sunny side up eggs, pan-fried tilapia, and the ever-present soda, I found that I was more fatigued even after more than eight hours of sleep.

Lethargic is the word.

Fox Downhill Series — Final Leg in Montalban

| View Show | Create Your Own

It will be another year before the whir of gears and shouts of “Bike! Bike! Bike!” to

Visit of the Lauds

"Bringer of the Dawn" by Rassouli

And then the girl/woman opened one eye, pupil dilated by the dream she just had of paradise, of powerful rivers, of bluest skies.

She opened her other eye and drank in the sight of the scene before her.

It wasn’t a dream after all.

She was still in that paradise. Nearby, the river roared and boiled. Above her, the sky slowly, enticingly turned from rose to turquoise.

It was a happy place.

Full of power.

Full of the divine.

The girl/woman rose from where she lay. Arms outstretched, she uttered thanks for the dawning.

photo courtesy of Liebestraum

Speed Freak (Not a Chick Lit)

(Hmm. Stardate June 30, 2009: I am currently working on this story. I don’t know how this will end but this is the background about a girl named KC Rainer and her life as a motorcycle stunt rider. Oh well, enough of the staid and long-winded introduction Sit back, put your feet up, and enjoy. I’d appreciate any comment on this; solicitations not accepted, though.)

………

She was flying above the crowd of people who had gaping mouths and eyes glazed over with amazement.

From her airborne vantage point, she saw flashbulbs go off from numerous cameras all over the stadium.The air whistled past her. Her helmet muffled the roar of her Thor699 motorcycle. She felt the vibrations of the pistons working inside the powerful engine through her jumpsuit.

In a series of deft motions, she shifted her balance, pushed herself against the handlebars, and stretched her legs out behind her; at the same moment, she grabbed the seat of the Thor.

Flying.

Fourth Leg, Fox Philippines Downhill MTB Series

UPDATE (06-22-09): Fifth leg will be held in the Grotto Track in San Mateo, Rizal.

Safe ride, everyone!

More Downhill Updates.

| View Show | Create Your Own

The 4th leg of the Fox Philippines Downhill MTB Tour was over and done for with last May 31st, Sunday, with riders from Dumaguete dominating most of the categories.

Stuff of the Future Cafe Menu

Just to orient the readers of the cafe and to prevent any misunderstanding about any stuff I am posting here, I am now entrenched in Quezon City, part of this country’s capital region. For landmark purposes, the area five blocks away from where I live is the only place where the MRT and LRT lines intersect. Another landmark in the area is the place that local celebrities fondly call the “Big Dome.” And as another clue, the area where I live was formerly called — in the Martial Law Era — the fortress of bag snatchers and of lost souls who grope anybody they find vulnerable within darkened movie theaters with sticky floors. Thank goodness these types were also banished by people power!

I also have a new source of livelihood and a new jungle through which I have to negotiate in order to survive. Which also means that I’ve left so much behind and I badly need a way to de-stress and to battle the homesickness that threatens to overwhelm me in my most unaware moment.

With the cafe opening up from a new home base, join me in the following days for the usual insane ride.

It’s up to you to decide if there are fireworks going on.

Oh Well… Might as Well…

Who’d have thought that there’d be an empathic public demand from the lone reader of this blog?

Due to this single person’s gnashing of teeth and clanging of chains, here I am, writing stuff again.

Ok, Lurch. I guess soul searching does not mean that I have to shut out everything. I now believe in miracles, as even this country’s president ordered the bumbling customs officials to stop the imposition of taxes on books.

I’ll keep the cafe open.

For everybody else who saw the closed sign for more than a couple of weeks and has now found this spot in the great www open again, I am sorry that you had to put up with my ambivalence and the emo mode of my last post. I sincerely wish that I could do damage control by serving coffee in a more tangible setting. But since I couldn’t, I’d offer up what I write here for your regular dose of fiber.

The Broken Coffee Cafe will stay open from now on, 24/7, just like any BPO company mushrooming all over this archipelago.

And you know what, dear lone reader of the nonsensical stuff I place here? Girl, I’ve got stories to tell.

Phil Finance Usec Espele Sales’ Uneducated Remark About Novels Et Cetera

Novels and other reading materials, according to Philippine’s Undersecretary of Finance Espele Sales, are not educational materials.

As a book lover myself and an advocate of not making a fool out of ourselves especially if we are in a position of public trust, there are a number of things that I would want to call this woman.

I don’t know where this government official finished school; from where she came from, they probably relied on oral narratives to transmit the lessons to their pupils, which is not a bad thing in itself. However, it is clear that Espele Sales missed out on a lot of things, especially when it comes to interpreting matters of laws and mandates and international treaties.

I usually have no bone of contention for particular members of the government. My brand of angst against anything related to the government is over the way

Ta

Been waiting for the right time to flaunt my bragging rights. I guess this is no longer a premature moment to dance a jig and take out that magnum of Dom.

There are two reasons for my camp to celebrate right now.

Opening an Old Can of Worms

Living in Cubao usually brings on a degree (or two) of  stress for me.

Now, as memories washed over me day in and out, there are so much that I remember, and I wish I was old enough then to have the power to undo some of those “atrocities.”

I remember that, when I was a kid, the house in Cubao always had food on the round dining table, ready for anybody who cared enough to sample the dishes, from 5 AM to 10 PM. ‘Tis no joke; one of my aunt-grandmothers took it upon herself to do the cooking and the bi-weekly marketing at the nearby Nepa Q Mart.

The dishes on the table, as I recall, were replaced according to the time of the day, more frequent than what happens at Aslan’s Table at the beginning of the end of the world (read the Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader to have an idea of what I’m talking about).

The whole thing ran like clockwork, and one had the feeling of being feted in a hotel’s

Counting Days

I wish I have a calendar nearby.

Has it been more than a week already since I got back here, in this place where the ashes and bones of my ancestors lie?

Must be a week.

I carved a hole in my heart and placed memories there, then I covered the hole and tamped down the dirt around it. Later, when the time is right, I shall come back and dig the memories out and mourn all that I’d left behind.

But not yet.

I can’t afford anything that I want, anything that I see from shop windows and roadside stalls. I can’t afford life.

For now.

My diaspora has begun again. Dutifully going through the motions of self-exile. I still miss people, but I am better now at hiding how I truly feel.

It’s time to put on the warpaint.

In Cubao

In Cubao, people sell bananas by the kilo.

In Cubao, people ask for spare change after fanning your sweating face with cardboard torn out from milkboxes.

In Cubao, people bark and dogs play strip poker.

In Cubao, blind people lead people who can see while crossing the street.

In Cubao, eating places are meeting places and meeting places are missing from street corners and center islands.

In Cubao, pink and blue are the national colors – just don’t cross the line if you don’t want to spend the night in a slammer.

In Cubao, taxis burst to flames right before your disbelieving eyes.

In Cubao, a smile could be a threat and a frown is a show of approval.

In Cubao, like all the places I’ve been,

Ride on in Peace, Philip Molina

In life, we all take risks.

That part-time sage Tata told me once when I expressed worries about his penchant for downhill and motocross and anything else that has two wheels and could go really, really fast.

Nobody should live in a bubble, I guess. And merely living on Earth, a small sphere floating in space, where meteorites and asteroids and space junk float on collision course at warp speeds, is itself a risk. We could perish anytime. It is a fact that we should all be ready to accept.

Still, underneath the stratosphere, in terra firma, I worry each time Ta runs — at speeds that could top 80 kilometers per hour — down a dirt track with 30-meter drops and berms that could potentially end with the untrained or unlucky hugging a tree or crashing against boulders the size of houses.

The reality that downhill mountain biking could be fatal was brought on home again last night. I watched the news

Bored and Tried so Hard to be Crafty

I don’t have the patience of a saint. But, considering the turn of events since last February, I do have lots of spare time in my hands. Which got me to thinking that maybe I’d do something useful for a change. So, a few days ago, after a marathon re-reading of several Robert Ludlum pulp, I wandered around the house for things to tinker with. There were several options:

1. Beads and wire for accessories
2. paraffin and wick and essential oils for candle making
3. pen and paper for sketches
4. pet dogs to pester
5. fish in the pond waiting for feeding time
6. scraps of cloth for a bored somebody with

Winged Things

They’re not things, per se. Meet some of my neighbors and housemates in my tropical jungle home.

As best as I’m aware of, the first two are butterflies. The one at the bottom is a moth perched on my bag.

Faith and the Cockroach

“What is that, Mama My?” Faith’s worried voice floated out from the bathroom where I’ve sent her to wash her hands before coming to the dinner table.

I stuck my head in the bathroom. “What’s what?”

“There,” Faith’s gaze was fixed on the wall near the door, her forehead was furrowed with undefined fear. I followed her gaze and nearly gave a yelp. Crawling on six obscene hairy legs, its long antennae contaminating the path it aimed to follow, was a cockroach. A dark, smelly, scary, aberration of Creation cockroach.

Kill it, kill it before it

What’s a Recipe for Guava Jelly Doing Here?

Note: I was supposed to submit this for some magazine or another, one of those impulsive decisions I get every once in a while, which often lead nowhere. This “article” was supposed to be my first attempt at sending – through the traditional avenues of submitting a legit manuscript – something to big publishers and agonizing for a month or so, crossing my fingers often, all the while unceasingly  wondering if the editors will publish it or not. Through events not under my control, the submission came back to me unopened. Scrawled across the big envelope were the words “RECIPIENT MOVED; NO FORWARDING ADDRESS AVAILABLE”. I should really stop reading back issues of magazines. Everything’s so… obsolete. Anyway, for what it’s worth and for lack of energy to write anything far more engaging, I present today’s special:

The Mess

I’ve been bitten by a wayward spring-cleaning bug today, and my arms are still aching after my rampage through months-old dust and clutter in my mother’s cottage.

You might want to grab a chair and a mug of brew if you’re going to read this. Go on, make yourself comfortable. I feel like a long-winded story today.

So, there I was, bored nearly out of my wits. It’s been more than a month since my last experience of routine, and I guess I was having withdrawal symptoms. This freedom thing suddenly seemed so cold and lonely… Visions of Bundy clocks and high heels and well-pressed clothes and daily schedules that begin and end predictably danced before my eyes. I was desperate to go back to the corporate world… Luckily, the portion of my brain that does my sanity check kicked in just then. Whew. I almost went over the edge there.

I shook my head to clear thoughts of how

Writing tip #1: Do not open a story with weather

Odd summer. I woke up to leaden skies and a chill in the air. Ominous signs of rains later. This is going to be a slow day.

I found out we ran out of instant coffee when, bleary eyed, I went to the kitchen to fix myself a cup. The coffee canister sat empty and quiet, with only a  smudge of the aromatic powder stuck on its side. We’re running low on sugar, too. Ah, the joys of being unemployed. Being broke is like a constant refrain of an old cheesy song. Leave job, no food in fridge, bills go unpaid, and eventually, loved ones leave.

I hope this mendicancy is just temporary. I won’t be going to Manila until after the Holy Week. Planning on spending Easter roasting fish and getting sloshed on five-year-old rum with the people I love in my tropical jungle refuge.

I took sidelines again, hoping that what I’d earn from them will help tide us over the lean days. Might also read palms again. Dumagute-based for now, but then again, maybe not. Reading palms constantly drains me. Or maybe I should start a business. Scratch that out. I don’t even have a couple of hundreds to my name; how would I finance any business ventures? Maybe I’d take a look around geese farms. One of those feathered critters might just have golden eggs.

Ah, another joy of being unemployed. It affords me to hallucinate for free.

Pinay Brides Aren’t Always the Sweetest

How bad can marriage turn out?

This thought was definitely not on my mind yesterday while I puttered around the kitchen cooking breakfast.

I was busy slicing spices and cursing at the woodfire that insisted that the ideal place for the smoke from the semi-dry wood was in my eyes and nostrils so I didn’t hear the beeping horn of some vehicle that stopped by the road near our house. When I became aware of it, I immediately dismissed it as just one of the many solicitors and special offer folks selling their wares; the incessant horn beeping might just be a way to get the attention of potential customers. I ignored it because I wasn’t planning on buying anything anyway and because my mother and my grandmother were disapproving of people who beep their car/motorcycle/bicycle/bull horns to call attention to themselves. I guess I do, too.

But moments later, Ta’s sister

Farewell to the Kaleidoscope

Death made a visit again…

This time, the loss was most felt by the Philippine Music Industry.

Francis Durango Magalona passed away yesterday at age 44. Big loss.

He was known by several names over the years: The Man from Manila, Kiko, the Master Rapper [a title bestowed to him by Philippine media], The Mouth, and Francis M to name a few of the handles.

The morning of yesterday, I was humming to his song “Mga Kababayan” and was wondering vaguely if he’s still active in the music scene. It took a few hours for the news to travel, and by

The Commonality of Life

Aaaaand…. she’s back!

Tee-hee.

That’s just me dragging out my own welcome wagon.

Did anybody miss me at all? I was gone for a spell — visiting kith and kin [but more of the kin variety] in sunny Cagayan de Oro, part of Northern Mindanao that is the biggest island of this floating landmass called Pilipinas. That short vacation was what I needed for the final stage of my decompression mode.

My family has a cottage in one of the hills that are part of the mountain ranges near the city airport, past the Macahambus Cave and canopy walk. The place where my family’s cottage is comfortably ensconced is quite a secluded area, which was formerly home to some ex-members of the New People’s Army group. Ideal place for

OC Becomes Me

Here’s a really nice link about obsessional thinking:

http://www.anxietycare.org.uk/docs/obsessionalthinkingonline.asp

Oh yeah… I think I may have it.

Mr. Xavier (also known in some circles as The Job Hater’s regular pester, or the Borat-defender fiend of the Abyss, or — a long time ago — as Alvin of The Shoe Factory) gave a trumpet call yesterday in one of my posts (see his comment on the post titled “Life Just Threw a Curve Ball!”).

I was curious about this obsession issue because I feel that I have an acute case of it; if I allow myself to give in to it, I may ruin all that I have and all that I am. So, earlier, I trawled through several sites and came across the article whose link I’ve

Life Just Threw a Curve Ball!

Gawd, I miss the people at The Shoe Factory.

I never thought I’d say it this early, and someone had mentioned that it seemed too easy for me to let go and break away. But it isn’t like that at all.

Today feels lonely. Ghostown lonely.

I miss the banter of my group. Kim, Redcaptrio, Tetet… We were together in one shift, and there were always moments set aside each day for nonsensical conversations that sent us to giggling fits. Then there are also others, like the Sandy Egans, the old Severians… As one Shoemaker said, our bunch contained colorful personalities.

And who would have thought that I’d be pining for the

The Escapee

“Ok, go!”

Strong hands pushed her over the edge, and Ann found herself plummeting toward the bottom of the shaft. She heard herself screaming but her mind was reviewing the jumble of things that happened in the last few days. That meeting with the Elders, shrouded people who told her about the truth of her background. Then the Guide, who pushed her just now. He was disguised as one of the prisoners of the fortress, not saying much and, at one time, also bullied her inside that prison. But after Ann met the Elders, the Guide revealed himself to be an ally, telling her important things that she must know before getting out. Things

Deluge

Seeing so much nature shows on TV has lulled me into a false sense of complacency. There isn’t anything amazing about rain in the tropical jungle or the thunder and light show that illuminates the purple night skies on certain times of the year. But Mother Nature has a way of jarring ahedonistic inviduals, such as myself, out of their complacency.

It happened last Saturday, February 7. Nothing much. Just a strong downpour that beat a steady roar on our tin roof when I woke up to the alarm at three in the morning. I had the morning shift that day. But with the downpour going on outside, I hit the snooze button, reasoning to myself that at three AM, the waterworks will have a chance to peter out by four or half past four. I went back to sleep and dreamed happy dreams. Until the alarm sounded again at four fifteen.

Reaction: Philippines License to BLOG?

Why do I write?

A large part of it is psychotherapy for my overloaded gray matter. Tata says that I think too much that he fears for my sanity, which could snap any time if I mull and percolate for a great part of the day. And this concerned person who has tattoos on both biceps and bellybutton area even asks if I sleep at all because each time he has to go to the bathroom to drain his kidneys in the middle of the night, he sees me with eyes staring bug-eyed at the ceiling, deep in thought.

I think too much, and that’s why I am thankful that writing was discovered or invented because, at least, I have an outlet for the thoughts jostling around my head like a pack of sugarhigh kids with ADHD. At least, twenty plus years on, I’m still sane, to some degree, at least.

Writing allows some of the thoughts to the surface, where they could do their hyperactive attack on paper, in a computer monitor, on a sheet of white paper wedge between a typewriter’s roller

Brangelina in Tata’s Brains

Now I found out why Tata really likes the movie Mr. & Mrs. Smith, which stars Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt [no adjectives before the names of both Ms. Jolie and Mr. Pitt, take note].

It came out while I sat behind him as he drove down the lush tropical jungle that is our home down to the sweatshop where I earn a living.

The discussion that afternoon had been my approaching exit date from The Shoe Factory.

Oh, I haven’t mentioned it here yet? Silly me, it completely slipped out of my deranged noggin. But, it’s true, avid readers and friendly neighbors. I have — the adverb “again” is appropriate here — resigned from The Shoe Factory.

Date of effectivity: February 16, Year of our Lord Two Thousand and Nine.

Last actual day in the factory: 14th of

In Defense of the Little Girl Who Had No One

This is Faith.

She is now almost five.

T’ Boat is Ready

Ahoy! T’ Cap’n speaks:

Whack that nail thar so it sets flush to the floorboards. Splash that paint thar that the parts eaten away by barnacles be hid.

Backstitch! Backstitch, mates! Ye can’t sew canvas with those fancy bullion stitches! What’s the matter with ye? Didn’t yer Aunt Gertrude teach ye how to patch yer own bloomers,  ye brickheaded scullery maid?! Ye be a disgrace to yer seafarin’ ancestors!

Now, all yer hairy ears to me. Listen well. ‘Tis the maiden voyage for this here ship we call t’ MV Oompaloompah Go Baby, Yeah! She be ready in a couple of fortnights.

Fill the barrels and kiss t’ maids goodbye and soap t’ deck, you landlubber sod!

Moving On… Again

It was night. All was peaceful and quite… not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

But rats gnaw at bamboo slats, owls hoot from their treetop roosts, hens stir in their nests, and dogs howl at the moon.

Ahh. It’s good to be home.

Six months after an impulsive decision brought about by skyrocketing prices of commodities and fuel, enduring insane living conditions, loneliness, attacks from a homicidal chicken, I’ve decided to come home to my beloved tropical jungle.

Get a move on, Tarzan, the Deranged Palmist rules the roost again.

Call in the beasts of hoof, of feet, of wing, and of fin. The forest is now in council.

***

Gnnnn. I couldn’t stand living in the boarding house any longer. Yesterday, amid howling winds and pouring rain and with the help of my friends, we hauled my stuff from the lowland cave and hied back to the mountains. Ta was amazed at the volume of the things I’ve accumulated in my six-month stay in the boarding house, which filled the back of a mini pick-up.

The best part was when Faith, after helping with the unloading, looked at me with a big smile. “You’re going to live with us again,” she said and gave me a big hug.

I love being a mountain woman.

Un-Funny

It’s a new year once again and I’ve lost my funny bone. It was gone around the time I let Li’l Nagger in late one night in the second week of November.

I discovered my loss just yesterday when people around me exchanged remarks and waited for my reaction. Somebody had to clue me in that what were being said were supposed to be jokes.

But I wasn’t tickled pink or green or blueish green. I said “Oh” and left it at that.

Yes, I lost my funny bone. Because when others around me are bursting their carotid arteries from laughing too hard, I hover in the background and tell them to clear up the mess.

These days, I’ve discovered I have a signature facial expression. Very akin to a ramp model’s pout but I call mine I-ate-a-pickled-pineapple-slice pucker.

Heh. I am shriveled and wrinkled. My mentality is that of an eighty-year-old virgin (not that I know a lot of eighty-year-old virgins).

Still, my heart is pure but my intentions are muddy. I do not recognize the woman I see in the mirror.

But I am hoping that this is temporary. That I shall still find my dear old funny bone among the rubbish in my garden’s compost pit and that I could somehow reattach it without any major surgery required.

We shall see.

We shall see.