Sunset

(under Wild Iris collection, by Louise Glück, b. 1943 -)

My greatest happiness
is the sound your voice makes
calling to me even in despair; my sorrow
that I cannot answer you
in speech you accept as mine.

You have no faith in your own language.
So you invest
authority in signs
you cannot read with any accuracy.

And yet your voice reaches me always.
And I answer constantly,
my anger passing
as winter passes. My tenderness
should be apparent to you
in the breeze of the summer evening
and in the words that become
your own response.

Faith, It does mean

What it is never there if?
never meaning of entry, a slight mention
bound at being unfound,
imagine. Any possibility of such dread.

The heart, looms within the mind its 'real'.
What it claims to have tangibility
is engaged as does a fisher
on lifeless lake with an undisturbed
choice to stay, fishing for sights instead
knowing that 'that school' will
in time right come. For is everything it
so becomes: patience,
even the boat's name. Going off
watch of things to keep,
the view; the water, feels clear as
sky on its face, and equally
reasons don't baffle the fog, they're the ends
perceived enough during the trek
drawing the fin-backed answers closer
to real seeing, and touching.

Where it's preordained is this and oft,

heads warn, much as they wear
asking why -- another why --
and seems good why nothing at all. 'Cause
tiresome millions of it spread.
At the point of nothing, lost.
Fast, fasting goes: the impatient wait.
It is snatched. 'Way it is, the fire, snatched.
Contoured mystery, that which the universal
expanse yon hides, loosens grip;
figures one to himself: 't has been hard
--will itself let go, disown after
being kept years of. For anon, eyes must see;
the body, too soon must touch.

So are, what makes the painful world, these.
Only moment of believing thought
is hastening tempted by. Along, bitter
glimpses cave in, stalked from all which,
on rest should have lain. Trust hangs on
barely, then recurs! Forward -- gifts worth
their history, the forgotten: restored to gluttons
for truth, and therefore beauty. The instant
when shoots uniquely, graft in. Sacred

after long and tedious, seeking toil. Brain ceases
to be unbelief, earthly -- whereupon pours
an apologetic gain. Not that there remains
tropic conviction, but those daredevil
senses of it fill out the cry, the fondness that is:--
love. Meanings in the core refreshed have they
when a traveler to a land promised, has been told:

It's not bad to stop once in a while as you trip down the good road. Stop,
to satisfy your curiosity of something that catches you by the 'weak'
(which is, one tool unready in time) so that, if you decide to walk on again,
you'd be able to see that the road is like a lovely maiden. Splendid. You'd
apart from the ordinary, even say: "I made the exquisite choice."

Life (by Jo Shapcott, b. 1953 - )

My life as a bat				My life as a frog			My life as an iguana
is for hearing				is for touching			is for tasting
the world.				other things.			everything.
If I pitch it right				I'm very moist			My tongue is very fast
I can hear				so I don't get stuck			because the flavour
just where you are.				in the water.			of the air is so subtle.
If I pitch it right				I'm very moist			It's long enough
I can hear inside your body:				so I can cling			to surprise
the state of your health,				onto your back			the smallest piece of you
and more, I can hear				for three days			from extremely
into your mind.				and nights.			far away.
Bat death is not listening.				Frog death is separation.			Iguana death is a closed mouth.

Second Acclaim

'Nobody's fault but mine. Time is all I need to overcome myself. Be reconciled after which, with the old necessary norm that should have continually bound us. In the name of friendship.'

Wishing the way of acknowledging defects then were as wonted as needed. I recount it was therapeutic to have watched 'American Psycho'. It shifted my paradigm. I thought I knew I had only to understand thrill in the common meaning of 'suspense' or so hold every climatic intensity under breath for that sole purpose yet, even more so, I empathized.

There endured supreme control Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) could never himself outdo, and for which he'd been fully conscious, keeping journal of the fine details. Exceedingly accurate for the sort he is, the constant, ingenious evil wasn't inside of him. Rather he in it. So immense that it lurked, got in and out, making iniquities and self-realization alternate his deeds. Beneath the circumstances designed by the hands of deception, he was being natured upon which he hopelessly and psychopath-etically coped with. Life he lived to full measure of perfection but a price must be paid for getting weary of it: starving for murders, so madly done at ease, piled, and hidden. As though having annexed one to the other is nothing more than relief of stress by an exerciser.

Since everyone seemed virtually far, he'd nobody to look him inside. Clearly he needed someone at least with whom to deal the very delicate matter. His side of the world however was, understandably impossible, just to imagine the source of good or strength by which to live, nowhere in place had been. No room for genuine attachments definitely, no peace thereby. Though his was an open-ended story, who'd ever concede to vouch it would have convergence attain to his resolution?

He literally had everything but it's consolation on my end to have come to see with profundity that I'm not as ruined. One may correlate here that to feel shame on the person is to surpass one's self-pity. Tis Better off yourself, not wormed by having to perpetrate, calling into account the fact that, being somebody average or below par, you could to some extent make regrets go out. Even if only desperately.

I strayed from my usual course as only meaning to eulogize the art of Christian Bale in it (erstwhile made in 'The Dark Knight'). Nonetheless the while, it was worth. Bale's portrayal had been adorable, i come to wonder who else would communicate the heart of the leading role the way he sold it out. Perhaps his (not-so) striking semblance with Jim Caviezel (whose beautiful eyes compare to Christopher Reeve's--holistically penetrating to soul-purify) helped collect the fitting countenance, intact for the character. Prove it misleading. Whatever crap there is to say on 'Terminator Salvation', I'm sorry to excuse myself from. The story or the visuals may have brought unnecessary exaggerations somewhere, but he simply did not overact. I just can't yet surmise how watching him do supporting position for Johnny Depp in 'Public Enemies' would fare. This is not, of course, in any way to raise questions on the latter's ability, having known him since his debut by Wes Craven. It's just to put more hopes on an opportunity that Bale would be set apart to signify tasks which conspire with the promising twists, equally essential and haunting as those of the Wall Street's fancied psycho.

Captions

(under Tilt collection, by Jean Sprackland, b.1962 - )

We are described
in the language of rain on a train window--
not running down the glass, but lashed across it.

Awkward text, hammered out
against the direction of travel, almost
too jumpy, too broken to read.

Out there is where we meet,
two inarticulate ghosts on the screen of the night.
It's the only way we can look at each other.

The captions punch and stammer over us.
I watch you blink. I watch you watch me blink.

The Garment

(under Vita Nova collection, by Louise Glück, b. 1943 - )

My soul dried up.
Like a soul cast into fire, but not completely,
not to annihilation. Parched,
it continued. Brittle,
not from solitude but from mistrust,
the aftermath of violence.

Spirit, invited to leave the body,
to stand exposed a moment,
trembling, as before
your presentation to the divine--
spirit lured out of solitude
by the promise of grace,
how will you ever again believe
the love of another being?

My soul withered and shrank.
The body became for it too large a garment.

And when hope was returned to me
it was another hope entirely.

The Burning Heart

(under Vita Nova collection, by Louise Glück, b.1943 - )

"... No sadness is greater than in misery to rehearse memories of joy..."

Ask her if she regrets anything.

I was
promised to another--
I lived with someone.
You forget these things when you're touched.

Ask her how he touched her.

His gaze touched me
before his hands touched me.

Ask her how he touched her.

I didn't ask for anything;
everything was given.

Ask her what she remembers.

We were hauled into the underworld.

I thought
we were not responsible
any more than we were responsible
for being alive. I was
a young girl, rarely subject to censure:
then a pariah. Did I change that much
from one day to the next?
If I didn't change, wasn't my action
in the character of that young girl?

Ask her what she remembers.

I noticed nothing. I noticed
I was trembling.

Ask her if the fire hurts.

I remember
we were together.
And gradually I understood
and though neither of us ever moved
we were not together but profoundly separate.

Ask her if the fire hurts.

You expect to live forever with your husband
in fire more durable than the world.
I suppose this wish was granted,
where we are now being both
fire and eternity.

Do you regret your life?

Even before I was touched, I belonged to you;
you had only to look at me.

Once upon a wakening hour...

a recurring thought sat on a corner with a broken spirit. Stilled as such, came an inner sound. A sound whose beating and plea the possessor knew haven't been paid heed on for years. A sound lost on avenues too many of world's which, upon return, I felt beyond recognition. Bare.

What day or which date that turned up I remember not, even my unique appearance in the fading crowd would only clutch fugitively. Two congruous encounters however, in a bus ride, in a one of billion ordinary days apart from routine, were way way off. Bound to leave a mark with a wonderful threat and thus far more alarming than A(H1N1) or any other pandem[-onium] to the highest alert, or maybe quite a spasm of hyperbole that when I verged on declaring a state of calamity unto myself, it took on for a beseeming rescue.

That night, the girl wasn't another preacher with a sermon. She talked as if it were her last, tossing heavens around us, I couldn't think of a thing in there that didn't feel her radiance. In the flesh of her words was that sound, rebuking through, both alien and familiar, but rather sweetly. It held still in me. Froze to linger about. Perhaps because the sound was delivered with love, and the message was love. Of that, much I'm certain, remembering the wisdom and the strongest man who ever walked the earth. The promise, for which convictions deepen.

So I gave what's in my heart to give -- even with the right degree of cheerfulness (or I meant not to blame being less cheerful) but her passion was something that overflowed, having the former, selfish principle to drown. It came that I've had nothing else with which to blow my mind away. Not even with a somewhat relative other, than I got moved like this, delightfully mocking.

I could never DO that which I wish so feverishly I could (as before) believing that life by it, holds the beauty of infinity. Because that's how it pays off unimaginably, on speaking of things not of this world or its parallel.

The next morning, while still moderately high with the other night's tale (and reality alike), a beggar stepped in my bus riding home. Abashed got a fraction of skepticism left in me when, as he closed our distance down the aisle I caught the heart of his mumbling becoming more lucid:--'Dati po akong macho dancer. 'Dun po sa...ngayon, humihingi ako ng kahit anong tulong sa kalagayan ko para magamot. Mas mabuti na 'yung nagpapakumbaba, kaysa nagmamataas.' I could have philosophized claiming he's no excuse or beyond compare to such and such a person who makes do living by some hackneyed modus operandi. Suddenly I couldn't, on seeing how acutely blistered the man's arms were. That, besides his sound and the pronounced honesty in it I could attest, was sufficiently moving. For a moment of pure necessity that ought to be, to get stuck by and be soberly... PIERCED, wherefore I may be stopped from all cares to look inside with significant rumination, and hear the sound.

More to the sound's depth is life, I know, which can never go deliberately betrayed once the voice commands to be tuned in. Breathing to blow the wind vane one may use to find his path.

Like POUNDing in the transit HALL

Ezra Pound (b.1885 - d.1972) on 'IN A STATION OF THE METRO' aids the audience with his side of scrutiny, assaying:

The "one-image poem" is a form of super-position, that is to say, it is one idea set on top of another. I found it useful in getting out of the impasse in which I had been left by my metro emotion. I wrote a thirty-line poem, and destroyed it because it was what we call work "of second intensity." Six months later I made a poem half that length; a year later I made the following hokku-like sentence: --

"The apparition of these faces in the crowd:

Petals, on a wet, black bough."

I dare say it is meaningless unless one has drifted into a certain vein of thought. In a poem of this sort one is trying to record the precise instant when a thing outward and objective transforms itself, or darts into a thing inward and subjective.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Above was a kind of piece which inspired Hall's vivid manifestation of the outward-in and also responds with the beauty of inductive transformation conceivably pragmatic by his own version of:

IN A STATION OF THE METRO (by Daniel Hall, b.1952 - )

Some kind of trouble up the line somewhere, as yet unannounced, only its subtlest effects having arrived, premonitory. Absence gathers in the bedrock hush of a hall accustomed to an intermittent uproar. Utterly lost, a starling blunders from perch to perch, as if learning to fly, while we sit stiller and stiller, rehearsing our eventual departures. This hardly counts as travel, though, this hive-like circulation, this confluence and divergence of desires. The look we wear, most of us, because of the one woman who sits alone weeping loudly, messily, as if she would never stop, as if she had always been crying -- the look we wear says, I am not even here. Against the wall stand three European boys with heavy packs. One, an Italian, is talking with obvious excitement; his companions listen, each wearing his northern skepticism like an elegant scarf. Behind their eyes, a cold swarm of Aristotle and Hegel, a string theory of critical theories in infinite regression, teeming, ramifying. They glance furtively side to side, awaiting the inevitable opportunity. We wait; the companions wait; only the starling, the weeping woman, and the Italian boy are not waiting, but plunging recklessly ahead, having now so little choice. The rails cannot believe their luck, as their daylong headache begins to ease, tentatively, miraculously; the tunnel blackens and deepens -- or something worse than deepening, for depth implies a limit. Shifting from English to French and back, the boy now and then slips in a word of Italian in his excitement, then blushingly removes it. The sobbing is a bellows, ripping at the air, in and out; scored above it, a weak falsetto wail. The vowel is Russian, maybe, or Irish, the inflection untranslatable. Her hair hangs straight and lusterless, and her eyes are so swollen with tears she looks like the victim of a beating. A fistful of crumpled papers and a photograph. The boy's companions are no longer listening, they've demolished his argument, each in his own mind, and are ready to have at him as soon as he is done. Still virtual, hypothetical, the train is accumulating mass in some other realm, but the rails are singing in an ecstasy of relief. On the stairs, one of a pair of cops points his stick in the direction of the woman; they stand on spread legs, idly wondering whether to move, whether to bother. And then the mildest runner of pain shoots through the rails, gratifyingly familiar, and builds to an excruciating crescendo. In mid-thought, lips parted, the boy looks away from his friends -- everyone looks up, squinting toward the light and ruckus. Everyone but the woman, who folds in around herself, and then flings her arms outward, scattering the pages and the photograph, which in the tumult of arrival fly everywhere, the pavement, the train, the bird, the surging crowd.

Admit One

Biding my time last Saturday in Trinoma, North Ave. --

I looked about and 'round the peach went on borders. Rather than new, the diner was a perfect stranger against my most familiar recollection. A few seconds later I guess, I found myself going over the menu like leafing through blank pages, asking 'why the hell isn't in this place what must be in it in all certainty?'. As if I got lost in translation in the middle of that awful figuring of how-did-it-ever-become-this-fine, struggling until a crew person came over to clear the hurdle out. 'Yung inasal?' I asked so. 'Po?', she snapped back with slightly puckered brows. Might not make sense to get to the bottom the way I did with the reply 'Di ba Bacolod Chicken Inasal 'to?' for her to retort 'Pancake House po ito, sa kabila 'yun,' which made all the more sense then.

Ah, ok. Shoot! What the... Didn't I look at the signage (when surest I was I did) or just shot straight in? I hurried out (so embarrassed of course) not wanting to feel more responsible to understand, only acknowledging that it's the worst case of wrong-entry to date by far, so my system should have 'prudence' ascertained at the level of virtue (this time on). Wow.

Anyway, I did not have inasal for lunch at BCI, after all. I thought twice at the sight of sizzling gambas in the menu, hence was ordered with a glass of iced coffee. Savoring the chow while laughing at my own package of weird stuff that day, a beautiful thought of 'avowal' came along.

I knew I've been capable of internalizing failures in the past but if I wouldn't relieve myself of an annoying truth (now), doomed shall I be. Self-betrayed. The old school habit of shielding with rancorous pride must be outgrown so I've decided. No time is the best time to be ready as I'm my own barrier, and knowing that further resistance does not go with good nature. The once was 'ever un-blogged' becomes noteworthy enough to have me blog the freak out. A minute of the other day, with some milliseconds of click to follow were all it took to give in to 'avowal'. And so it (which I thought highly the person deserved to know) was transmitted, though with intensity and pause somewhere, I weighed options and consequences, prior.

I managed to have given in for the first time. Managed therefore to have beaten my bad old record. Boy was that no simple task like when gasps are choked on you watching suspense unfold from bud to bloom.

It's fair to offer myself the crucial break for much too long have I tarried. Now that I have license (I suppose), I could heartily care less about tomorrow and stick to essentials. And perhaps eagle-free to soar. To finally wake up one morning and find out I'm not the same girl who used to love foolish talks. Because I'm in something new.

Never have I been this much forgiving toward myself, I swear.

travel guide, SMT's ultimate and

whether or not it's bound to repeat itself, it's history. Blogging which not every smarthinker's high enough to suggest as this is much too personal and exclusive for the team. For the partial proof that we had indubitably born witness however, and in case anyone's looking up for a good gist of contingent planning after those same spots under the sun, here's to preliminary toast:

SMT Team Building in Caramoan Island, Camarines Sur and Albay
May 23 - 25, 2009
Departure: 5:00 pm, May 22, Friday at Raymond Bus Stn., Cubao							Revised Budget
			common	Expenses	per head			Price	Qty	Total
SMT shirt				printing	300		T-shirt	300	15	4500
Manila - Sabang Port		5:00pm (Fri, May 22) - 5:00am (Sat, May 23)	300	load/fare	500		Load	300	1	300
Sabang Port - Guijalo Port		5:00 am - 7:00am (Sat, May 23)			120		Traspo
Guijalo port - La Playa Camp Site		7:00 AM - 7:30 am (Sat, May 23)	800	jeep rent			Manila to Sabang	500	15	7500
							Sabang to Guijalo	120	15	1800
		Activities in Caramoan					Guijalo to La Playa	800	1	800
DAY 1 -- May 23, Saturday
Breakfast/unpacking, pitching of tents, etc.		7:00am - 12:00 nn	400	kitchen/foodd	50		Food - breakfast(Cris and Fe)	50	15	750
Island Hopping (incl. packed lunch)		12:00 nn - 5:30 pm (Team bldg activities)	2000	boat/food	50		Food - Lunch (island hopping)
Back to camp/Dinner		7:00 pm - 8:00 pm		food	50		kitchen	200	1	200
Team building activities		8:00 pm onwards	3200	hotel/camp			food	50	15	750
DAY 2 -- May 24, Sunday							Boat - Island Hopping	2500	1	2500[1]
Breakfast		5:00am - 6:00 am		food	50
Island Hopping (incl. packed lunch)		6:30 am - 12:30 pm (Team bldg activities)	2000	boat/food	50		Tent
Back in hotel/packing up		1:00 pm - 1:30 pm					rent 4 tents	600	4	2400
La Playa Camp Site - Guijalo Port		1:30 pm - 2:00 pm	800	jeep rent			use of space	300	1	300
Guijalo Port - Sabang Port		2:00 pm - 4:00 pm		boat	120
Sabang Port - Naga City		4:00 pm - 6:00 pm		fare	90		Food - dinner	50	15	750[2]
Naga City - Hanzel's House (Albay)		7:00 pm - 8:00 pm		fare	95
Dinner at *Hanzel's house		8:00 pm - 9:00 pm (Team bldg activities)	800	c/o Hanzel			Food - breakfast (grocery)	50	15	750[3]
							cup noodles
							coffee (3 in 1)
		Activities in Albay					plastic plates
DAY 3 -- May 25, Monday							dishwashing thingy
Kawa-Kawa Hill Trekking		4:00 am - 7:00 am		fare	20		loaf bread
Breakfast at Hanzel's house		7:30 am - 8:00 am	800	c/o Hanzel			water
Mayon Volcano trip		9:00 am - 1:00 pm	800	c/o hanzel			chichiria
Lignon Hill / Cagsawa Ruins Trip		2:00 pm - 4:00 pm	1800	car rent
Getting ready to go home		4:30 pm - 5:30 pm	800	tbldg			Boat - Island Hopping	2500	1	2500[4]
Early dinner		5:30 pm - 6:00 pm	800	c/o Hanzel
Going to Manila From Albay		6:15 pm - 4:00 am	1000	token	750		Food - Lunch
*Hanzel - a confrère whose haciendas in Albay we each had been promised to acquire a parcel of. Yeah. So comes his all-time dearest to quote: "Dream on, mga bopols!"('' ,)

Wishing...

there’s a way we could be brewin’ on here ~

^~^ very sugary end ^~^

In fact I am not at all getting picky. Everything is fine. Stay with me a while, would you?

Some like it really burning (grrr...)

cold...

under the tropics. 'Happened to gather a few exotic prescriptions to get lightly imbued on and lounge the heat out. Gotta be punchin' much as the...

Homemade Kahlua

Ingredients: 8 cups sugar 8 cups water 10 tsps. vanilla 1 cup instant coffee (use a good brand) 1/2 gal. 80 proof vodka

Directions:

Mix sugar and water. Bring to a boil. Add vanilla and coffee. Simmer on low to medium heat for two hours. Cool to room temperature. Add vodka and mix. Store in liquor bottles or gallon milk containers.

Ready in: 2-5 hrs
Difficulty: 3 (1=easiest :: hardest=5)

Serves/Makes: 18

Pineapple Tangerine Margarita

6 tangerines, tangelos, or mandarin oranges
2 cups fresh pineapple cubes, tightly packed or canned pineapple chunks
2 tablespoons , rice syrup, or other sweetener
1 teaspoon lime juice
2 cups ice cubes
1/8 teaspoon mild chili powder
1 pinch salt
Pineapple wedges dipped in chili powder for garnish

Juice tangerines. You should have about 1 3/4 cups juice. Place in blender with pineapple, sweetener, lime juice, ice, chili powder, and salt. Blend on highest speed till smooth, about 30 seconds. Serve margaritas in goblets garnished with pineapple wedges.

Pina Colada Sherbet

1 15- or 16-ounce can cream of coconut

1 15-1/4-ounce can crushed pineapple, undrained

1 cup orange juice

1/4 cup light rum

In a blender container or food processor bowl combine cream of coconut, undrained pineapple, orange juice, and rum. (If using a food processor, process only half of all the ingredients at a time.) Cover; blend or process till nearly smooth.

Pour into a 9x5x3-inch loaf dish or a 2-quart baking dish. Cover; freeze about 4 hours or till firm.

Break sherbet into pieces. Place sherbet, about half at a time, in a blender container or food processor bowl. Cover; blend or process till fluffy. (Or, place in a chilled bowl and beat with an electric mixer till fluffy)

Return pineapple mixture to pan. Cover and freeze at least 4 hours or till firm.

Makes 4 cups.

Peach Daiquiri Ice
(This refreshing ice takes only 10 minutes of effort)

1 16-ounce can peach slices (juice pack)

1/4 cup sugar

2 tablespoons rum

1/4 teaspoon finely shredded lime peel

2 tablespoons lime juice

Drain peaches, reserving 2 tablespoons juice. In a blender container or food processor bowl combine peach slices, sugar, rum, lime peel, lime juice, and reserved peach juice. Cover and blend or process till smooth.

Pour peach mixture into a 1- to 2-quart freezer container. Cover and freeze at least 4 hours or until firm. Let stand at room temperature about 5 minutes before serving.

Makes 4 servings

Make-Ahead Tip: Cover and freeze up to 1 week.

*******************************

I'd been scheming, tripping thoughts about (in anticipation of my CamSur affair at hand) when they suddenly popped in. Something undoubtedly crack to remind myself or someone else of, to not spoil the summer chill. 'Glad to have them found sitting on some entrancing sites around the corner. Ergo let me toast a glass of sparkling credits to cdkitchen, razzledazzle and margaritatexas.

'Been hoping to make a nice, refreshing one for my sugartop as well. ^@_@^

What makes...

"If I had eyes in the back of my head, I would have told you that you looked good as I walked away..." -- Jack Johnson





























a scene go with harmony and dissonance alike? It's in the way you choose to see it. ~~

aqualiciously...

At the threshold of happening, behold. What our skin is bound to touch, and explore.





A Glimpse...







Now isn't that daredevil enough?

My brown itsy-bitsy top's done; the bottom's on its way. A set of torquoise stockinette and another one of orange (apparently not-so careered, haha..) adding up sometime soon. That should do it well.

Right, right. Believing in a bunch of non-gray skies, aquamarine shades, warm greens, and a freaking sun much around for a complement well-toned. Besides, I'm usually dolled down so nature's on its course to spare me from mismanagement of getting so carried away. There. Remind me to really keep it simple. (such an embarrassing sight to see me get overwhelmed--my ever truth)

What exactly have we in there? I've certainly got smart company to cheer up with, play with, bond with. Name it. Major that's going to be. Then at random: plans of salvation. Not about to break down details here yet, only 'what's often thought but seldom done.' Huh? Well apparently, the peninsula's gotta brace itself for this.

Lain on a bed of creamy sand or elsewhere in its vast, we ought 'o be: chillin', reelin', bathin', kissin' (and be sun-kissed in return), jammin', munchin', drinkin', singin', dancin' (hopefully).. and be bubblin' underwater (well, yeah for most part i suppose).. then be hoppin' and hoppin'. I can imagine how it's happening pretty much, so can you. Now that's the real escapade to cure p-f (plan and forget) syndrome, mine seriously.

Aawww!.. Can't wait to be storm-taken there.

***All other cares thrown away: the heck with the world crises, the flu... Agh! youw little devil youw! ^_^***

And that's how I'm deciding to come along then... Just what am I forgetting? Hmmm... Where else will my extra pack of energy reserves go? Oh yes, meditating is necessary. Mind and heart over matters with the real planner. Here's crossing fingers to do achieve what's conceived, but don't want to be exhausted thinking this much all-blown-up then finding unmet expectations rather in the end, of course. Well, who knows?

Follow-up on this? Surely the much-awaited evidence on pixels might just prove better than docs. Pasalubong, etc. Tsk! Stick around for the picking. Outrageous is most likely, the next best word.

This three-day chance of a lifetime is soon bygone so hey typhoon (undone?), it'll be sweet of you not to blow it.

Another exclusive weather report:

Intensity XII (predictably so): Been marred. Been impaired. But there's nothing in what you are or in what you do that will make me change the way I feel about you (John Cusack-inspired line in the Martian Child). I do hope you always see beyond clouds. The trembling. The truth in my eyes. Forgive me.

Ga-Blog!

Welcome! Perhaps it will set me free to say I like you. I like you so much. (Just guilty about feeling strange, you don't deserve the way I react to it. My piece of sh*t. My apologies). Ahhmm. (winky me to you.. ^_^)

To clip or not to clip. Next to skin, 'am suddenly finding myself wanting to DO my hair, or just maybe. By the way, this Seamus Heaney's contemporary sonnet crisps at the roof of my tongue:

A Clip

Harry Boyle's one-room, one-chimney house
With its settle bed was our first barber shop.
We'd go not for a haircut but "a clip":
Cold smooth creeping steel and snicking scissors,
The strong-armed chair, the plain mysteriousness
Of your sheeted self inside that neck-tied cope —
Half sleeveless surplice, half hoodless Ku Klux cape.
Harry Boyle's one-roomed, old bog-road house
Near enough to home but unfamiliar:
What was it happened there?
Weeds shoulder-high up to the open door,
Harry not shaved, close breathing in your ear,
Loose hair in windfalls blown across the floor
Under the collie's nose. The collie's stare.

(A poem too brief for a clear story i guess; surely earns my scrumptious nibbling that even if tone changes somewhere, would still lead me where it's headed, making me certain I'm safe beyond struggling. Or I dunno, please give it a shot yourself)

*breaks* sabay...

Could it be? That the Powerpuff Girls are an evolution of Astro Boy's female counterpart, or -parts? Look. Big eyes. The height. The boy flies, so do the girls. But he's one while they're three. He's a robot. They're not. (Or are they by one peculiar chance? guesses...) And except for the sole-blast I must add. Bothered about it just a pinch. A draft of my curiosity, if you want.

At dahil dyan, I'm suddenly impressed to have the shirt with the statement this punk --

Donations accepted, used or brand-new (talo-talo na, hehe..) or if you reserve the care to tell me where it's selling. It may be all over the place, some chicks just don't have the luxury of time to move around.

Teka. I can't get over this barako mode. Tamang-tama, magma-mayo uno na.. so it's time to labor for tons and tons ('kala mo naman) of charm to recover.

Tunay nga ba, na HETO! ang blog ng mga genuine pigs?

Halo-Halo ('romancing the store')

It's chickening. Is it having more chickens (in meal) than necessary or chewing on smoke that has rendered my brain try too hard to cope with the going? The gap! Losing bytes and bytes of memory, working piecewise and very seldom continuous. Poor brain..Weird, kasi pa'no ko hindi maaalalang may nakalimutan ako sa bagay o gawaing nasa sistema ko na? Someone just broke my heart with the breaking news kaya nagkakaganito 'ko. Hard to believe it came without the slightest hint. The back of my head must be dinged at least, don't you think?

It's so disappointing to the point, maton na ko ngayon. All charms lost for the moment. Sige na nga. Iisipin ko na lang 'di na naman ako deserving. Ouch. My confidence hurting every time.

So, palamig muna. Let me have some blended ice with the following ingredients:

(you may customize for me if you want)

1. BANANA CON BITTER MELON QUOTES:

*I love you not because of who you are but because of who I am when I am with you.

*Just because I don't love you the way you want me to doesn't mean I don't love you with all I have.

*The worst way to be missing someone, is to be sitting right beside him knowing you can't have him. (melon!)

*Never frown even when you are sad because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.

*To the world you may be one person, but to one person you may be the world.

(quite a booster? =])

2. MACAPUNO PARA SA'YO 'SUGARTOP':

AKO'Y LABIS NA NABIBIGHANI NG 'YONG KARIKTAN. Ipagpaumanhin mo kung 'di ko magawang tingnan ka ng tuwid, sa aking pagpipigil na madarang nang tuluyan. Ako'y masasaktan lamang 'pagkat 'di lingid sa 'king SA IBA ANG IYONG PAGTANGI.

3. NOSTALGIC NATA&KAONG OF THE PAST

Sabi ko raw sa journal nung January '07: I sadly remembered my old times with ******* and like how I could have had a dream come true if he felt the same way. I wish I were his rose. For if it were I whom he spent his time with.. if it were I whom he had learned to love, then I would be unique, set apart from all the other roses after his sight. But I guess I was just so naive at being capable of such an imagination. I had less of knowing how to acknowledge my heart's own weakness. Whatever thorns I got for defense wouldn't do any good against the hurt..of the truth that lay in ambush and was about to eat me alive. And it just did, after my prince left me. Torn to pieces by the imaginary monster that was truth..that we weren't meant to be. He knew so little about it because his own world is made of huge concerns everyone rarely minds having.

And so I'm not his rose, the one who is (goodness knows who), must be unique not only among the roses of the earth but the flowers of all the universe.. for it is she that my prince had tamed. For that, I've become just like all the other roses who may be beautiful but empty, because I'm not unique. Because I'm not his rose. -- inspired by 'The Little Prince' by Antoine de Saint Exupery

(Baloney! Wala lang. Just checking how much I've pulled myself back from here. Winks.)

4. UBE POEM BY ANNE SEXTON:

THE NUDE SWIM

On the southwest side of Capri
we found a little unknown grotto
where no people were and we
entered it completely
and let our bodies lose all
their loneliness.

All the fish in us
had escaped for a minute.
The real fish did not mind.
We did not disturb their personal life.
We calmly trailed over them
and under them, shedding
air bubbles, little white
balloons that drifted up
into the sun by the boat
where the Italian boatman slept
with his hat over his face.

Water so clear you could
read a book through it.
Water so buoyant you could
float on your elbow.
I lay on it as on a divan.
I lay on it just like
Matisse's Red Odalisque.
Water was my strange flower,
one must picture a woman
without a toga or a scarf
on a couch as deep as a tomb.

The walls of that grotto
were everycolor blue and
you said, "Look! Your eyes
are seacolor. Look! Your eyes
are skycolor." And my eyes
shut down as if they were
suddenly ashamed.

(both classic and dynamic; very timely for my summer mood)

Blog-Ag!

So, breaking free I was (or have been). Problem is (or hopefully not), I've got random details in mind I need to put up with.

My goal: TANSO! -- still far from its finishing touches. Well, I have the sun to blame for not being generous enough for grabs. Like 'oh c'mon sun, I don't need you to shine, your job's beating.' I can feel my suntan lotion screaming: Cooperate! Pleayazz...

Uhmm.. A-ha! I remember, the roof has me buried by the work-home-work-home cycle. Oh yes, we've rare times together then. 'Haven't been thoroughly acquainted, yeah? Suffice to say I've got you. Sun. End of your boring story there.

Another thing: knitting bikini.. KNITTING BI-KINI?!! What the..really is that necessary? Hate it. Hate it. [gavel pounding]. I'll admit it anyway. Knitting bikini, so. And yes, I've got one site 'for the dummies' ready for it. 'Am actually feeling less pretty in most cases but it's gotten rhetoric. There's just nooo stopping it now. For which getaway? Dunno yet, will definitely keep myself posted.

K, I understand. Now, keep your cool. Next..

(With an intro: long sigh)--This is some verdict. The catalytic girl's proven guilty beyond reasonable doubt NOT HAVING DATED (ANYONE YET?! Whoa.. with popping eyes right there). Since when? OMG, You hell sure she's from this age? (Sshhh... a secret too dark for the telling). 'Swear dude, I'll bet my next paycheck to slap-wake you, it's real.

Settle down guys. Of course, she's got deal to accept, oath to take--that, ok (pause) before June-09's over, she will have been asked out (or vise versa, whichever comes first) by a 'qualified bachelor'. 'Mean, well.. at least. Mmmm.. sounds yummy.

Consequence if not? To be constricted by the world's deadliest boa. Nahh..scum! She'll simply be depressed, that's all. Nothing inflicts more suffering quite like it. Yeah, the hell with it.

Haay... Enough of the hopeless romantics (101) PLEAZZE.. Let's (for a break) have some shot of a gin (take note), one made suave by a dead snake preserved in it (having sweet aroma). WOW! I just saw my mom tried it unhesitatingly, as if it were an elixir to make immortal. As if in a scene from 'Survivor Series.' Let me tell you I'm curious, but drinking it for real? A-a. No way. It's rattling weird I could picture IT come to life. (Shivers). More weird than that? It's sitting on the countertop sink of our house.

DISCI-PLAN! Boy you've got to. If the work's light (like mine, like it isn't at all), better put some useful add-ons in between. Couple of days back, my plan to change template had been interrupted by XML (chenelin) error. Whatever that means.. has me going for stuffs not-so-my, oh my (html, css, javascript). But believing what it's worth? That used to be Bel's lil push there. Thanks shorty! Though I know you don't find my own application hip.. Ugh!

can't seem to get enough, well..

IT'S hot, hot, hot. But, I'm not.

And I'm stuck. Humid stuck. Figure that? ..soaking must be terrible!

WAA-TTERR!! Here I come. That's terrific in the end I know. K, settle down now.

Down.. Cut it. Now, that's better. Not usually the way I come off eh. Just sticky all over I guess. And it can't be helped.

Besides, my sweat gland's become active again. So, 'am an excessive sweater, OK. Happy to realize at least that beauty soap just won't do here. Wise budgeting? piece o' cake! So!! 'Doesn't come as a surprise at all to have pores leaking. Mine, yes. Care to lick its leak? Ewe..

Hu! hu! hu! (sobs).. can't even shoot that 'lovely guy' a nice stare. Shame on you untidy pores! By the way, hey.. cut that out for a moment.

I chose to be sporty, right? Oh yes! Then, how's summer heat to be taken care of? Lots of water to plunge in, free-styling from end to end. Wait. I have significant report to make. What, a confession? For the record, I had the PSC's 50m-pool length covered six times, wearing a t-back one-piece (behind shorts, of course what do you expect?). Haha..the pool had eyes (bunch of kids 'round, for the censoring board, *that sake alone* who would have helped it?). Everyone's busy anyway, so was I.

As aforementioned (bore word again..), TANNING.. one ultimate goal to consider (for the lovers of darker, deeper complexion, excuse me). Well, that's just drop-dead HOT, right? Bronze dark's as RAVISHING as it gets, but not as gay to feel stereotype-trash about when almost everybody seems to be signing up for it.

(Well, well.. Thanks for those who ignore. Haha.. for giving away better odds, just like that)

What did I just say? Grabe. Wasak!!

*** A break away (if that's how it must be) ***

WHOA! Finally, I have decided.. to pull out this blog (or is it really one?! in the first place) out of the gloom, and into the L-I-G-H-T. As if from a cave of no return. Yes, I've just realized I wasn't being fair to the general audience who needs normal breathing. Hehehe ^_^..^_^

But I do appreciate the genius it was. No wonder what with the 'TOLSTOJAN' -- ok, let me take a little opportunity to explain that. Leo Tolstoy, being my inspiration. I had both 'pride' and 'shame' in keeping that. 'Pride' in the sense that I very much look up to the person's spirituality.. like no one's ever done this kind. You're gonna have to really dig man, to see that. 'Shame' because for some reason, I couldn't make such a definite stand.. like who cares, it's weird and stuff. We're so INTO THE WORLD! And I just can't be so detached. K, fair enough? Clear am I?

K..k.. nowadays, there's a lot to explore. BUT!!!! Worrying about IT is my first hate (h-e-y-t-!!) so there's no way (HIGH-WAY!) i'll allow it DO me. Why? I've had it scream the hertz off my good neurons so brain coordination gets screwed, if you can picture as such (nasty!). It's been summerrr..

What I'm obsessed about? TANNING.

And like, I'm one hell of a dummy all about it. If you can please, to the best you could, leave a comment with your due advice, that'll be GRREAT!

Where do chicks, or at least a chick, a babe.. hang(s) out nawadis ? Spot 'one' at the PhilSports (PSC), or Ultra however it's called. Yes, 'been there twice a week and would like to keep that routine, because I've come to LOVE WATER.. so this one-hell-of-a-babe won't be missed, well at least by the sun's beat, the WATAAAHH.. no one else comes close.. ^_^