Shhh… I’m Sleeping And You’re Not Welcome Here.

September 28, 2009

As if I haven’t had enough. This time, the dream had a sense of finality. By some twist of fate, we were destined for each other. Hahaha. How many decibels could my subconscious have been screaming for you to have dreamt of that?

 

Twice a week is too much, too painful. Don’t visit me that often. You’ll only make me want to live in dreamland forever. So please, just stop.

Risotto Vs. Udong

September 25, 2009

I heard my Dad call me a princess behind my back. Any normal papa’s girl would’ve been elated. Not me. For by this, he meant that I was sitting on my ass the whole day, being waited on hand and foot by slaves, leaving him in charge of preparing the food (and serving me, but what’s wrong with that picture, eh?Ü ) 

 

Okay, so I haven’t exactly been Martha Stewart. I admit, I’m not the chef-y kind who slices and dices with precision and efficiency. I can follow a recipe, but I take forever to peel off onion skin; ergo, the need for a kitchen assistant to do the nitty gritty bit.

 

I decided I would prove him wrong with the princess status, so I woke up the next day and whipped up brunch from my inner creative cook (and the recipe book I brought from home). I even did all the slicing and dicing myself. My blood, sweat and tears yielded fried rice, basil pesto omelettes and mushroom risotto with tuna. It sounded like a good idea at the time. Plus it tasted fabulous! Even if I do say so myself… which I did.

 

My dad was a different story. Not a peep from him at breakfast. I think I heard him go “hmm” with a curious look on his face, but that was it. He ate the risotto (out of courtesy?), but he didn’t say much. And from the amount of leftovers, it wasn’t exactly a hit with his palate.

 

Unfortunately, I was so preoccupied preparing my sumptuous feast that I completely discounted what a simpleton my Dad was when it came to food. So, eager to redeem myself, I gave it another try at dinner. This time, I decided to play it safe and kept an ear out for what he wanted to eat. Udong. Grrreat. Don’t get me wrong, I like that stuff but next to my risotto and omelettes?? Come on! Where’s the challenge?! So after I called our trusty cook from the city, on it went with the slicing and dicing again. And voila, udong!

 

This time, our farmhands joined us for the meal. I didn’t want to waste my risotto, so I reheated it and set it beside the udong. The udong didn’t last fifteen minutes. They devoured it! It even garnered “Ito ang masarap! Na-master mo na lagi ito!”, from my picky-eater of a father. What?! THAT, you praise?!?! As for the risotto, it seemed I was its only fan. When I asked them why they didn’t want to try it, the answer I got from the caretaker’s husband was, “Aw, abi nako pagkaun na sa iro!” WHAAAAT?!?! I was livid! I was beside myself, my inner creative cook thrashing like a caged wild animal in my head. I could not reconcile how, an entire plate that cost less than P20 (in my guesstimation), could possibly be more favorable than one I got from a ridiculously expensive fancy, hardbound Italian cookbook from Powerbooks.

 

How?

 

Dangit. I give up. Risotto- 0, Udong- 1.

You

September 21, 2009

She had another dream about you. It’s almost never the same dream, but always with the same tenor. You coming close, teetering along the borderline of her subconscious making her think you’re real this time, and drifting away, like an echo fading in the distance… always making her ache for more… time to dream, time with you.

 

You did it again. How do you manage to torment her after all this time, even in her sleep? Why do you get her hopes up like that, and let them deliberately falter to a thousand pieces?

 

She was stupid to think she didn’t want you. She always has. She knows she can’t have you now. But she’s always been stubborn, always wanting what she couldn’t have. And a part of her still believes, or hopes that, as the old cliché goes, it’s never too late.

 

But her pride won’t let her. Or rather, the instinct for self-preservation. She’s rejected many, and of karma she’s afraid… afraid to have the tables turned once again, once too many.

 

So what else is there left for her to do? Nothing. Nothing but wait… patiently, and pray for God’s best…

 

And hope that it’s you.

Domesticated

September 19, 2009

As I do my chores on this golden Saturday afternoon, I contemplate on interesting things to write about on my blog, and take a break as I ingeniously decide to chronicle my tales of rousing the domestic diva within.

 

It’s been a little over a month since I started my new “job”. I don’t really know what to call it, but I guess others would describe it as an extended vacation, or a hiatus from the real world. I quit my job last July and decided to take a few months off before re-entering the school/work force to accompany my dad at the farm in the island. To do what exactly? Think. Contemplate. Introspect. Ponder. (Hahaha)

 

So here I am, enjoying what my mind can only seem to process as summer vacation. Ten hour sleeps, flip-flops, long summer dresses and floppy hats, yoga and tea by the sunset, and finally being able to read the stack of books I bought last year and promised to “get around to someday”. Except that, since I am technically the lady of the house, I have a few -ugh- domestic responsibilities.

 

This weekend alone, I harvested (yes, I used that word) basil leaves and made my own pesto sauce. I painted the bed frames of our room gold (oh my perfectly-manicured nails…) and swept (with a broom!) the house clean in the absence of our caretaker, whom I babysat for while she got admitted to the hospital for being hardheaded and insisting to use freaking “albularyo medicine” on that knee infection. With single-handed effort, I attempted to squeeze three extra mattresses under the bed- pushing and pulling, at one point desperately yelling, “Sadie, help me!” as my dog sauntered in the room (Yeah right, like my 4-pound miniature dachshund could do much damage. What was I thinking?). And finally, lying down on the floor in spite of my white peasant dress to give it the solid hard kick that ended the struggle in success. I also just barely escaped having to take out some poor fish’s innards because of the paint I got on my nails. And to my horror, I found myself volunteering to Papa that I would do it next time. Ack! Where’d that voice come from?? Hmm… Have I really changed that much?

 

Had my younger, wilder days really made me desire this transformation? (Next blog, maybe. hehe)

 

One thing is for sure, island life has improved my Bisaya greatly. Okay, that’s an overstatement, but at least I don’t sound that out of place here anymore. My tone is beginning to resemble those of my Cebuano cousins’, opting for “Ambot ra. Wa man siya sa ba’y ‘ron” when asked by the farmhelp where my Dad is, instead of what should have been my usual response “Wala man siya sa house”.

 

Of course it still needs work. Earlier, I asked the sota to place the fallen coconut leaves on one pile outside the gate. Seemed basic enough but somehow the conversation went like this:

“Maiko, kuwa’a nang mga… mga (gesturing to the leaves)”

“Kanang bukay?”

“Huh?” I stared, dumbfounded, really not knowing what on earth “bukay” was and no thanks to my delayed deductive skills, managed to reply with, “Uhh… Yeah, kanang ana sa coconut unya ibutang sa gawas sa gate.”

Some save, but points for the EFFORT!

 

What a far, far cry from my former city life. But I LOVE IT!

 

I just remembered this was supposed to be a short break and my fingers are getting a little carried away. Besides, the horse needs to be ridden and the dead bugs ain’t gonna sweep themselves.

 

 

 

 

P.S.

I’ve just been informed that it’s lukay, not bukay. Sheesh. Not only am I sort of illiterate, I’m sort of deaf too. I stand corrected.

 

 

Muddy Fox

September 18, 2009

9-14-09

 

There it lay on the corner of the tiny room.

 

Battered handles, weathered leather seats, decrepit pedals, tarnished sprockets, flat, aged tyres… An old rusting mountain bike to the naked eye.

 

An old rusting bike… A remnant of a forgotten past…

 

Of lazy summer days, of adventure after adventure in the neighbourhood, of chasing away enemies… A forgotten past of carefree fun, in spite of skinned knees and bruised palms.

 

An old rusting bike… Its value hidden beneath the grime.

 

Battered handles, weathered leather seats, decrepit pedals, tarnished sprockets, flat, aged tyres… signs of the years it spent wasting away in a garage… locked up somewhere in the vaults of someone’s memories.

 

An old rusting bike… Its acquisition a reminder.

 

Awakening the long-sleeping drive, to keep sight of the goal, push hard and keep on going until it smells sweet of victory from the freedom of the maiden voyage.

 

An old rusting bike…  Like gasoline, in a sense of purpose.

 

A story of triumph behind every journey, igniting the burning desire once more to learn, fall forward with grace, get on back up…

 

An old rusting bike… A key that holds the secret:

 

LIVE –as neither ghost of past nor future– NOW.  

 

There it lay on the corner of the tiny room. An old rusting mountain bike to the naked eye… A remnant of a forgotten past for some…

 

A symbol of significance for one.

 

Private Locker

September 17, 2009

I hear congratulations are in order. I am writing my first blog. Ever.

 

I have written many blog-ish entries. But there they lay, in the dusty corners of my mind. I decided to break the habit once and for all. Thanks to my friend- err… let’s call him Six, for his privacy’s sake. Mostly for mine though, since I am slowly coming to terms with the denial of my mind’s celebrity complex. Again that’s my mind’s. NOT MINE. Denial. Anyway, he started his and I declared that I, too, ought to. Just to give my mind the satisfaction of seeing some of its work on display for the whole world to see. Not that I intended to actually push through with it, definitely not a few hours later. Kind of pathetic in its urgency if you think about it. Though years back, I always knew I’d replace my antiquated journal with a blog, eventually. How was I to know eventually was today?

 

So I used a nom de plume. Celebrity complex to the hilt, eh? Typical. Always wanting it both ways. Fitting in and standing out, blunt openness and total discretion. What is it with me and privacy?? Probably some long-forgotten, deep-rooted psychological issues. But that’s a whole ‘nother blog. Too deep for a first-timer anyway. But I’m sure a select few will be able to tell. It’s me- hidden beneath pretentious masks, but still distinctly me. 

 

Sue me that I decided to join the bandwagon umpteen years later. I never did like trends.  I consider my mind as the title implies. A private locker. One that even I sometimes forget the combination of. Oh well. At least now, I can rant and rave all I want and not have to own up to anything or anyone. Like my dirty little secrets. Hidden in my very own private locker with a secret combination. My celebrity complex mind digs. Ü