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. ~~