have skills, will work

ha. here i am touting the title “deranged palmist” and yet i feel i haven’t lived up to the handle.

for the sake of my well being, which is suffering from being stifled in an office cubicle most hours of the week, and hoping that this may somehow help spread the word about other stuff i do after my day job, i shall be reading palms again (and cards as well).

preferably, considering that i am based in dumzville in the philippines, it’s one-on-one, the more up-close, the better. send me fireworks signals through derangedpalmist@gmail.com for those of you who are interested. readings shall be by appointment.

long-distance readings will have to be arranged on a case-to-case basis as i am still figuring out if scanning palms, receiving the .jpg or .bmp image through e-mail, and sending out my reply through the wide WWW is ethical.

ciao for now.

picked this up from lurchie

hey lurchie, if you are reading this, know that i’ve followed your suggestion of how to increase traffic to my site and listed the broken coffee cafe in the Million Blog List (i’m #942).

and lurch, i’ve also listed myself in wiki’s wikibog directory, as per your suggestion, too. yep, i added my blog addy to those categories that i think were appropriate.

and, oh, for everybody else reading this post, the Million Blog list is simply an experiment to see how long it will take for the 1,000,000th blogger to list him/herself in the million blog list’s site. as lurchie said, there’s still a lot of numbers waiting to be filled.

I’ll wait and see in the coming days what surprises this might bring.

thanks monkey keeper.

feeling mushy


when you say “I love you” it feels like you are forcing me to say it back.

it doesn’t work that way. you wait. you wait for it, nurture the moment, feel my heart, hear it tattoo your name on my chest. just — just don’t whine out a limp i love you and expect to hear me say it in the same tone as yours.

if i do say it, it will be because i was swept by your presence, your very nearness has intoxicated me, and i want — i want the whole world to know, to hear, that it is you that i love. the wind will carry my message, to the clouds, to the earth, to the seas… and all of creation will know that i love you.


not-so-manic monday

Here we go…

It’s Monday again, another start of the work grind cycle. But wonder of wonders! I am (almost) happily cruising through my shift. I am actually grinning. And I know not from where these good vibes are coming from. Mayhap this is hormonal?

Well, whatever it is, I like this sort of lightness, which is akin to bubbly-feely, bordering on fluffy bunnyish.

Oh, Faith turned four yesterday. It is something that the entire familia is grateful for. We had a little party for the little one. Her proxy grandmiere bought her a dress and she insisted on wearing it the entire time (dragging dust at the racetracks for our annual Ligiron grand prix race) and even going to bed wearing it. Faith said she likes the dress because it made her look like a princess. This morning, I finally managed to make her change her clothes for something more play appropriate.

Speaking of the Ligiron race, it’s now become an annual thing.

This year, we had eight riders who competed for the championship cup. The race was pseudo supercross, pitting two riders at a time and eliminating the slower rider until only one dominates in the final heat.

For those not familiar with what a ligiron is, it’s a four-wheeled contraption assembled from a rag-tag collection strips of wood, scraps of rubber, and thin planks of bamboo. The wheels are constructed from pieces of thick plywood and treaded with strips of old tire treads. These materials are whipped to shape with a few strikes of a hammer on rusty nails, and voila! a rustic riding contraption is born! The closest thing I can compare what happens in a Ligiron race is the American soap box derby, but in a more exotic locale and with indigenous materials for the vehicle.

The standard lubricant to keep the ligiron’s wooden axles going was cacao (Theobroma cacao) pulp. However, modernity has caught up with the mountain folks, and this time, it’s good old grease that makes the ligirons reach speeds of 60 km/h on a downhill ride.

That, with a strong sense of adventure and honest to goodness guts qualify you to be a rider.

Risks are higher, with the potential for splinters to the ligiron disintegrating upon landing. It is more frightful to crash against another ligiron made out of bamboo slats while it’s being driven at 45-60 km/h than colliding against an alloyed bicycle in downhill cycling heats. Fortunately, nothing like that happened yesterday.

And the tracks (made by Tata and his barkada) by the way, wound around coconut groves, through forests of bracken, a field of boulders, and then led the rider up a dirt jump that suddenly drops 30 feet down the forest floor before reaching the finish line, which is, to suit the tropical jungle surroundings, fashioned out of an abaca (Musa textilis) trunk.

The riders were thirteen- to sixteen-year olds and their driving skills continued to amaze me. I took some videos (and photos too) that I’ll be posting on my multiply site soon.

As it was Faith’s birthday, every race participant and most of the spectators were the guests to the small agape meal that we had.

It was a fun weekend. I guess it’s what’s fueling my Monday good vibes.

weekend lament

veiled. padded. glum.

come to think of it, i haven’t used the word forlorn lately.

days like this are here again. i feel cut off from all of reality. again, i am viewing the world through a lens, and again, i feel that i am not part of anything that goes on over there.

maybe it is time to try something new. or maybe it is time to go up the attic, unlock the trunk, get the dusty nine-league slippers out, and head out the door to goodness knows where.

i am a believer in the good found in each person, which is just waiting to be unearthed like a genie coming out from a dusty lamp. yet often, dusty lamps are just empty dusty lamps. so i guess it’s no wonder that i am lugging about a bagful of frustrations.

but there’s hope, i think. i am a believer that this, too, shall pass.

i could use a weekend off.

to the child


i watch you sleep your quiet slumber. i hear your soft sigh as you turn, rumpling the hello kitty bed covers.

this is another night i lie awake as you sleep on, unmindful of the tempest of the rest of the world.

nights like this i stay up, losing sleep over the near tomorrow that will surely come. hoping i have the right answers to the questions that will bubble forth and take form from your tiny mouth.

questions of why it is me raising you, when you are supposed to have a mother of your own.

questions of why you live away from your mother and brother, and how come your mother does not come at all to take you to school, to ask about your day, to play, to tickle you, to comb your hair after those chaotic interludes that happen every time you take a bath.

questions of why it is not your mother who kissed your hurt away when you scraped your knee.

i would still not know how to answer you. But know this: you are special, an angel God sent when i thought i was not ready for any responsibility. And answering that call, i chose to take you as part of my life when all those who are supposed to love and cherish you have shut their eyes and turned away from the biggest blessing that could have ever arrived in their lives.

for you see, if others have thought you are a burden, each day i am thankful for having you to enrich my life, for teaching me to be patient and gentle yet to be strong and brave, too. You have put enough fear in my heart to make me grow courageous in facing a tomorrow where you and i are together.

i cannot make the world free from any hurts you might feel nor any falls you might take. but all ways and all days, i will be here — to take your hand in mine. if need be, i will be here. that is a promise as well as a prayer. 




i’ve watched this movie twice over the course of twenty-four hours. it may be the slugs, or the action-packed scenes featuring rats chased by underworld sewer rats, or it might be the one rat’s wistfulness for the family he’s never had and has found it in the company of very unlikely individuals, individuals below his class; he is, after all, a rat who belongs in Kensington, the royal borough.