February is not just the month of love. Things always come in opposites, and with love, hate.
Exactly a year ago, I found myself cursing my friends. I even disowned them, and friendship in general, through the public instrument of a blog entry.
The euphorics of the month contribute to this season of hate. With everyone busy with their lives: valentine's, midterm exams, and elections, those who have little to attend to find themselves alone and deserted. Some find themselves insulted to the bone by friends who, under the guise of being pressured by the times, treat them as underlings.
Eventually, I will forgive.
But I will not forget. It is crucial to know what your friends become when they are trapped in a corner. Because those horrible monsters are still them. And if you really love them, then you'll love them as they are, (occasional) fangs and all.
It is unfriends season. But seasons change.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Alat
Alat
Joseph T. Salazar
Ang dunong
na kanyang
inililihim
ay kasing
lawak ng asin:
Binhi
ng buhay
sa ilalim
ng tubig.
Talim
na sumusugat
sa nanuyot
na lupain.
At hibla
na sumasaplot
sa tabang
na ayaw
nating tanggapin.
Nakamamanghang
isipin
na kung
masusunod
ko lamang
ang kanyang
tagubilin,
makakaya kong
lunukin
ang lahat--
Ang buong
dagat
at anumang
misteryo
na kanyang
isisiwalat.
Joseph T. Salazar
Ang dunong
na kanyang
inililihim
ay kasing
lawak ng asin:
Binhi
ng buhay
sa ilalim
ng tubig.
Talim
na sumusugat
sa nanuyot
na lupain.
At hibla
na sumasaplot
sa tabang
na ayaw
nating tanggapin.
Nakamamanghang
isipin
na kung
masusunod
ko lamang
ang kanyang
tagubilin,
makakaya kong
lunukin
ang lahat--
Ang buong
dagat
at anumang
misteryo
na kanyang
isisiwalat.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Why I hate flowers and Valentine's..
I used to like flowers. They are pretty to look at. And they smell nice too. Well, sometimes. I used to pick the little amount that we had in the garden to present to my mom, or my pre-school teacher. There was something about the way they received the little gift. I always noticed it. For a second or two, their eyes would evince a certain surprise, a certain sense of joy, a certain satisfaction, a certain something I couldn't explain.
Until a certain suspense-killer-thriller book came into the hands of the pre-puberty me. It was perhaps one of the most dangerous indoctrinations of my life. But alas, the damage is done.
The book was about a killer who warned his prey of his plans to kill them. Sounds stupid? Then prepare for the next line. He warned them through poems.
In one of his romantic murders, he wrote (I quote this through how it was imprinted on my twelve-year old mind, which I think is more reliable than my current memory):
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
The only flowers you'd getThis Valentine's day
Will be on your grave.
My twelve year old mind wasn't able to process the naivete of the killer's mind. What stuck was: Flowers. Valentine's. Grave. And I was dead scared. Probably because I knew, through that little sense of feeling that we had as children, that there was something more to the poem than an ill-rhymed manifestation of a deranged mind.
That feeling turned into observations. On Valentine's, my dad always brought home flowers for my mom. Most of them were ill disguised, either in tattered boxes, or crammed into hastily folded newspaper. I knew my mom feigned most of her surprise, but I swear the joy was genuine. Then the fight they had the days before would be history. I thought it would be nice, one day, to be given flowers that were meant just for me. For once, I thought, I'd like to feel what my mom felt when she opened the hastily wrapped package and smell those roses as if she were a 3-yr old on her first trip to a garden. For once, i thought, I didn't want to be the one wrapping the gifts.
Then years passed. Valentine's days passed. Teacher's days passed. Christmases passed. And the flower market just grew richer and richer because of me.
But somehow, the flowers never found their way back to me.
Then came the deaths in the family, and more flowers were delivered, but this time for a greyer purpose. The romantic murderer again creeped up in my mind. Flowers. Valentine's. Grave. I gew scared, as time passed, that I just might be another of his victim.
Until I finally made a resolution that I will do my best to deserve those flowers. That I will be the best I can be. I always thought that if you work just hard enough, you'll get anything you want. It's the American Dream at its best, and it can apply to flowers, too.
I thought that maybe, if I love just hard enough, I'll get what I want. As a bonus. Like those mp3 players the credit card companies give out on Christmas.
But alas, no flowers found their way to me. I thought I finally got them last year, when, upon entering my dorm room I found a dozen roses on my table. The guard said someone had it delivered. But when I checked the note, it turned out to be a simple case of misdelivery. So simple, tears fell on my books as I studied that night.
During these times, I always think if I've loved enough already. If I've been doing stuff wrong. I've learned to tell people, over the years, that I hated flowers. And that I hate Valentine's. That it was a commercial piece of shit.
But really, and I have the courage to say this today, that I am just scared. Scared that I haven't been loving the people I want enough. And scared that I'd end up dead without being able to make the people I love know that I love them so much. I don't want the only flowers I receive in my life to be the ones that will be on my grave. I do not want to die without having loved my best.
I do not fault other people for having not read about that romantic murderer who left love poems of death. As I said, it was the biggest indoctrination of my life. I do not pass the blame.
I know that if there is anything to learn from every year's torture of seeing flowers on Valentine's, it is that we should all learn to love the best we could. And to love with every bit of our selves. And if we receive flowers as a bonus along the way, then good for us. If not, then we're not really the flower type of person. Sad, but there's really nothing left to do.
But we should never stop loving. And that is what I am just about to do. It's just another day in the year to love, again.
p.s. Come to think of it, I'll be keeping that book for my future kids.
Until a certain suspense-killer-thriller book came into the hands of the pre-puberty me. It was perhaps one of the most dangerous indoctrinations of my life. But alas, the damage is done.
The book was about a killer who warned his prey of his plans to kill them. Sounds stupid? Then prepare for the next line. He warned them through poems.
In one of his romantic murders, he wrote (I quote this through how it was imprinted on my twelve-year old mind, which I think is more reliable than my current memory):
Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
The only flowers you'd getThis Valentine's day
Will be on your grave.
My twelve year old mind wasn't able to process the naivete of the killer's mind. What stuck was: Flowers. Valentine's. Grave. And I was dead scared. Probably because I knew, through that little sense of feeling that we had as children, that there was something more to the poem than an ill-rhymed manifestation of a deranged mind.
That feeling turned into observations. On Valentine's, my dad always brought home flowers for my mom. Most of them were ill disguised, either in tattered boxes, or crammed into hastily folded newspaper. I knew my mom feigned most of her surprise, but I swear the joy was genuine. Then the fight they had the days before would be history. I thought it would be nice, one day, to be given flowers that were meant just for me. For once, I thought, I'd like to feel what my mom felt when she opened the hastily wrapped package and smell those roses as if she were a 3-yr old on her first trip to a garden. For once, i thought, I didn't want to be the one wrapping the gifts.
Then years passed. Valentine's days passed. Teacher's days passed. Christmases passed. And the flower market just grew richer and richer because of me.
But somehow, the flowers never found their way back to me.
Then came the deaths in the family, and more flowers were delivered, but this time for a greyer purpose. The romantic murderer again creeped up in my mind. Flowers. Valentine's. Grave. I gew scared, as time passed, that I just might be another of his victim.
Until I finally made a resolution that I will do my best to deserve those flowers. That I will be the best I can be. I always thought that if you work just hard enough, you'll get anything you want. It's the American Dream at its best, and it can apply to flowers, too.
I thought that maybe, if I love just hard enough, I'll get what I want. As a bonus. Like those mp3 players the credit card companies give out on Christmas.
But alas, no flowers found their way to me. I thought I finally got them last year, when, upon entering my dorm room I found a dozen roses on my table. The guard said someone had it delivered. But when I checked the note, it turned out to be a simple case of misdelivery. So simple, tears fell on my books as I studied that night.
During these times, I always think if I've loved enough already. If I've been doing stuff wrong. I've learned to tell people, over the years, that I hated flowers. And that I hate Valentine's. That it was a commercial piece of shit.
But really, and I have the courage to say this today, that I am just scared. Scared that I haven't been loving the people I want enough. And scared that I'd end up dead without being able to make the people I love know that I love them so much. I don't want the only flowers I receive in my life to be the ones that will be on my grave. I do not want to die without having loved my best.
I do not fault other people for having not read about that romantic murderer who left love poems of death. As I said, it was the biggest indoctrination of my life. I do not pass the blame.
I know that if there is anything to learn from every year's torture of seeing flowers on Valentine's, it is that we should all learn to love the best we could. And to love with every bit of our selves. And if we receive flowers as a bonus along the way, then good for us. If not, then we're not really the flower type of person. Sad, but there's really nothing left to do.
But we should never stop loving. And that is what I am just about to do. It's just another day in the year to love, again.
p.s. Come to think of it, I'll be keeping that book for my future kids.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
the not-so-secret recipe of the ultra-delicious toasted flaked beef con crispy potato tots
Also known as Corned Beef with Potatoes.
The maid is currently out of town (wow, maid na ngayon ang nag o-out of town), and I've been assigned as the reluctant chef of the house. Having been an apprentice of Rachel Rae for two years (that was before post grad school, 30 minutes every late afternoon), I consider myself a savant of delish food to go.
Procedure:
First, get those potatoes and wash them. I used Joy dishwasing liquid but my aunt said that was unhealthy, so I just soaked them in water for a few hours (lost track of time--I was reading Gaiman).
Second, cut them into tiny bits. Don't peel 'em. My aunt scolded me for not peeling them. I told her, matter of factly, that nutrients are stored in the skin of legumes and to remove it would be a waste. She bit it. Whew. Because really, I just forgot.
Third, fry 'em in butter till they turn crispy. Amount of butter--depends on how much you love your life. How long to fry--about two commercial breaks. If you didn't peel your potatoes, maybe it'll be a good idea to make them extra crispy. Think Safeguard commercial, except that the soap is really a potato. 99.9% of germs.. Then, set aside.
Fourth, open your corned beef can. Be careful. And choose Purefoods. For once let's agree with and not question Kris Aquino. But don't choose the chunky ones that look like pet food unless you want to emphathize with Brownie, or Bruno, for that matter.
Fifth, put in garlic in your pan like there's no tomorrow. You're eating at home and to hell with hellish breath. Fry, again till they turn a bit crispy.
Sixth, put in your corned beef. Don't add water. Ugh. You want a toasty effect on your dish. It is not a stew. If you think it's cooked (I leave this to your judgment because I personally can't tell when beef crosses the thin red line between being "rare" and being "done"), rejoice. You're about to finish.
Finally, put in the crispy potatoes. Sautee a bit. Then shout "I am the Iron Chef!" in a husky voice. Woof, woof. That seals the cooking procedure.
There. Thanks to the glory of canned food, you can have a gourmet dish in less than 30 minutes.
Don't ask me though what's inside those beef flakes, or if they really are beef. We are not privy to such secrets. This is one of the rare times that we should concede and think that ignorance is bliss.
If you've tried it and didn't like it, call 911-1111.
The maid is currently out of town (wow, maid na ngayon ang nag o-out of town), and I've been assigned as the reluctant chef of the house. Having been an apprentice of Rachel Rae for two years (that was before post grad school, 30 minutes every late afternoon), I consider myself a savant of delish food to go.
Procedure:
First, get those potatoes and wash them. I used Joy dishwasing liquid but my aunt said that was unhealthy, so I just soaked them in water for a few hours (lost track of time--I was reading Gaiman).
Second, cut them into tiny bits. Don't peel 'em. My aunt scolded me for not peeling them. I told her, matter of factly, that nutrients are stored in the skin of legumes and to remove it would be a waste. She bit it. Whew. Because really, I just forgot.
Third, fry 'em in butter till they turn crispy. Amount of butter--depends on how much you love your life. How long to fry--about two commercial breaks. If you didn't peel your potatoes, maybe it'll be a good idea to make them extra crispy. Think Safeguard commercial, except that the soap is really a potato. 99.9% of germs.. Then, set aside.
Fourth, open your corned beef can. Be careful. And choose Purefoods. For once let's agree with and not question Kris Aquino. But don't choose the chunky ones that look like pet food unless you want to emphathize with Brownie, or Bruno, for that matter.
Fifth, put in garlic in your pan like there's no tomorrow. You're eating at home and to hell with hellish breath. Fry, again till they turn a bit crispy.
Sixth, put in your corned beef. Don't add water. Ugh. You want a toasty effect on your dish. It is not a stew. If you think it's cooked (I leave this to your judgment because I personally can't tell when beef crosses the thin red line between being "rare" and being "done"), rejoice. You're about to finish.
Finally, put in the crispy potatoes. Sautee a bit. Then shout "I am the Iron Chef!" in a husky voice. Woof, woof. That seals the cooking procedure.
There. Thanks to the glory of canned food, you can have a gourmet dish in less than 30 minutes.
Don't ask me though what's inside those beef flakes, or if they really are beef. We are not privy to such secrets. This is one of the rare times that we should concede and think that ignorance is bliss.
If you've tried it and didn't like it, call 911-1111.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
si blueboy at si yellow 4...
Two superhero names, one not-so-super day.
Kanina sa kantina, puno. Nalilito na nga si ate sa mga sineserve niya kaya nung nag order ako ng melon shake, sinulat nya: "1 large melon shake--Blueboy." I-dedeliver daw.
Hindi dumating ung melon shake. Marahil dahil naka-VIOLET ako.
---
Isang conversation noong undergrad:
Ikaw, para kang si Yellow 4
Ha?! Yung sa Bioman? Yung naka indian outfit, at namamana..yung tumbling nang tumbling kahit walang kalaban?
Oo, dahil lagi kang namamatay. Pero makalipas ang isang episode, biglang buhay na ulit.
He was right. I guess. I've lost more than once, only to stand up and fight again. Pano naman kasi, bioman ata to. Pano na lang ung Bio Revolver, Bio Team Kick, at ang Bio Electron Wave kung mawawala ako?
Kanina sa kantina, puno. Nalilito na nga si ate sa mga sineserve niya kaya nung nag order ako ng melon shake, sinulat nya: "1 large melon shake--Blueboy." I-dedeliver daw.
Hindi dumating ung melon shake. Marahil dahil naka-VIOLET ako.
---
Isang conversation noong undergrad:
Ikaw, para kang si Yellow 4
Ha?! Yung sa Bioman? Yung naka indian outfit, at namamana..yung tumbling nang tumbling kahit walang kalaban?
Oo, dahil lagi kang namamatay. Pero makalipas ang isang episode, biglang buhay na ulit.
He was right. I guess. I've lost more than once, only to stand up and fight again. Pano naman kasi, bioman ata to. Pano na lang ung Bio Revolver, Bio Team Kick, at ang Bio Electron Wave kung mawawala ako?
look ma, he can use a knife and fork!
There's this really buff guy reminiscent of the bouncers in Ascend (who scared me to death) who ordered a cheese-topped empanada and hot coffee. Good combination. Then he religiously cut his empanada using his knife and fork. The arm positions were perfect and the strokes, superb. I could almost see the perfectly sized morsels cleanly put aside on the plate. Neither too think nor too thin. And he wiped his mouth before he sipped his coffee! Wow. I don't see that much these days. Miss Minchin would have been proud.
I felt like an eight-year old in a zoo, dazzled by a wii-playing Panda.
Spank. I suddenly chastised myself. I was born in the 21st century, I thought. Literally, anything IS possible.
Makes one amused, but proud and hopeful at the same time. *grin*
I felt like an eight-year old in a zoo, dazzled by a wii-playing Panda.
Spank. I suddenly chastised myself. I was born in the 21st century, I thought. Literally, anything IS possible.
Makes one amused, but proud and hopeful at the same time. *grin*
a typical saturday?!
Lunch at SR Thai with Edward. 11 years ago we first ate here. Pleasantly, it hasn't lost its taste.
Banapple merienda c/o Joy. The best cakes in the world. (fyi, they have an army of fairy cooks operating a cake factory past those cherry red kitchen doors! I've seen them!) Advanced happy birthday.
Eastwood videoke c/o Chris. Belated happy birthday. Everyone's notes seem to have improved... save for Nikko's. Ehe. Peace.
Fazoli's c/o of Block T1. God, how we've all changed, and not changed, the past 2 and a half years.
Mom & Tina's dinner. A cozy, heartwarming meal attended by searing conversations. Serious exchanges one second, and libelous remarks the next. God, I miss college and Oscar.
(Costume party in Cubao X, cancelled due to shortage of wizards' robes and, um, the boy who couldn't decide)
Malate with newfound friends. Smoke, beer, and pheromones--the perfect cocktail, anyone?
A busy, busy, busy Saturday. This is so different from my usual weekend spent with coffee and a pile of work, but nevertheless as fun... ahem. Ahem. *choke*
Banapple merienda c/o Joy. The best cakes in the world. (fyi, they have an army of fairy cooks operating a cake factory past those cherry red kitchen doors! I've seen them!) Advanced happy birthday.
Eastwood videoke c/o Chris. Belated happy birthday. Everyone's notes seem to have improved... save for Nikko's. Ehe. Peace.
Fazoli's c/o of Block T1. God, how we've all changed, and not changed, the past 2 and a half years.
Mom & Tina's dinner. A cozy, heartwarming meal attended by searing conversations. Serious exchanges one second, and libelous remarks the next. God, I miss college and Oscar.
(Costume party in Cubao X, cancelled due to shortage of wizards' robes and, um, the boy who couldn't decide)
Malate with newfound friends. Smoke, beer, and pheromones--the perfect cocktail, anyone?
A busy, busy, busy Saturday. This is so different from my usual weekend spent with coffee and a pile of work, but nevertheless as fun... ahem. Ahem. *choke*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)