Friday, September 30, 2011

Poached Eggs

source: *

My first attempt at cooking poached eggs was a failure. Oversight due to a tiredness and four am judgments do not help at all. It was fun, though. I tried to emulate the boil-water-then-stir-then-drop-the-eggs-in method I saw on Masterchef. The attempt was shoddy and half-hearted. I shall try another day.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Kris Aquinio, Pantene, and Grammer

I'm not really the type to discuss things like commercials, but when I just saw this a few minutes ago and I knew I had to talk about it here. Seriously. One would think that a commercial from an international company that features a figure touted to be among the countries top endorsers has no room for a gross grammatical error above. Seriously.

So, Miss Aquino, what's you're secret?

This commercial is still aired on t.v.


What could I give, or lose, to reweave this life?


You roll with the blows and make peace with what is past. 
The morrow is what you make it.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Design Inspiration

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Sunday: Peeves

For the nth time, I've attempted to change my lay-out. I really have to develop certain skills. I always doubt my eye for color when I work with all the technical css-html stuff. I wanted to put together a pastel-psychedelic theme but I fell terribly short of the mark. The technicality is annoying me. I was never the css-html code person. My attempts at microsoft's frontpage application back then were graphic-based. I'm a GUI person. I put together what I need as a base and fine-tune things using the technical stuff as needed. I have always preferred working with tangible things - I do a lot better when putting together things for a bulletin board compared to my shoddy work here. I know I could always learn more of css and html, but I really can't be bothered because I'm not interested, but that might change when I get back to school(hopefully) next year. I suspect being an Advertising Arts in the Fine Arts program will require me to leap over that hurdle. At the moment, though, it really doesn't help that I am limited with what I can do with blogger's default lay-out editor alone, but that really gives me no excuse. I need to get my act together. Another change may come in the coming days.

Friday, September 23, 2011

Transcript VIII: Jedi and Padawan Bloopers

My best friend is giving me his entire set of film slr for free.

Build a darkroom asap.

I'll try film - old school approach.

You'll figure it out.

I'm sure it's easier than math.

How are you gonna upload your shots?

I'll take photos of the negatives.


Good nutrition has given me intellect but not length of bone.

That just made me laugh.
And I've told you before: height isn't everything, Obi.
But it does help from time to time.

So, yesterday was teacher evaluation day.

How bad did you do?

My students answered this on the comment card:
Strong Points of the teacher.
They wrote, "sexy."

Hay nako(I'm not surprised).

Whatever gave them that idea.

I'm pretty sure you did.
You claim to be such a lot.

Ah, impressionable young minds.

What did they write in the weak points portion?

I dunno, they usually say i scare them and shit.

They find you sexy and scary.
Not surprised.
I imagine one of them's a joke.

Rain more on my parade, will you? Haha.

What sort of monster are you?
I suppose you're a vampire.

I dunno.

Lestat? Armand?

You can be Lestat.

I'm Renfield, lolz.
He was a lawyer

I need to read more Anne Rice.
So, which vampire am I???

Not Anne Rice - Bram Stoker.

Ahhh. I haven't read a Stoker yet.
Will take note of that.
Which vampire am I, though?

Victor of Underworld.

Damn you.
I have the right to be young and sexy!

Whatever you say, Spiral. Haha.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Transcript VII: Ugly Stares

Enter Serenity
Master Jedi

Manila was weird, but i learned how to ride the bus from NAIA3 to edsa.

How was it weird?

I rode a jeep from Taft to MOA. I sat beside this chinese kid.
He kept staring at me. I kept wiping my face.
Abi nako na koy kugmo.
(I thought I had snot on my face)

You look Singaporean.
He must've thought you were a kin.
*epic musical score plus eye candy transformation*

I dunno.
I decidedly felt so ugly.
Like - weird.
Maybe because dugay na ko wa kasakay ug jeep.
(maybe because it's been a long time since I last rode a jeep)

I think you were right to have felt ugly.


You didn't get to prep much did you?
I get feelings like that whenever i don't get to dress up properly.

Nope, cause I just came from the court.
I was just wearing an undershirt.
"Ampangit ng katabi ko, titigan nga"
(the person beside me looks ugly, I should stare at him)

So that's what you do.
You stare at ugly people. Haha.

Well, no - Pah!

I have decided that this convo is funny.

It is. Anyway, ni-die down na akong fascination for Calculus.
(my fascination for Calculus died down)
I now think it's much ado about. Ewan(I dunno).
But at least i now understand it's origins.

Ha! Wait till you see Vector Calculus and the rest of that shit....
Damn it.
You know...there's an explanantion.
You wanna here it?


God, this is like the jeepney all over again!
This is my explanantion:
when you type, you type words automatically.
Sometimes, di nag ko-connect ang language brain and lizard brain.
(sometimes, the language brain and lizard brain aren't in sync)





Someone's flustered. 


More than an elder brother I never had, it's at times like this when I sorely wish he were my father.
Or at the very least my father was like him, no matter how slightly.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Brain Fart XVI: Math My Day

Turning negative to positive is simple. Just square it.

The Immortal Words of the highschool sensei crush.


"...sinusumpa ko yang mga love love na yan..."

He cursed love last October 19, 2010.

Sunday, September 18, 2011

On Ineptude

The blame is mine alone. Never draw strength from others. 
You were born alone, you will die alone.

Friday, September 16, 2011


The better piece, aged and peeled.
Circa 2010.
I was in sixth grade. It was a project in art class. I thought I could pull it off. I assumed I could call upon a skill barely used over the last three years with ease. I birthed a disaster. It was a mockery of my incompetence. My brush strokes were a mess. It looked flat - the shades were barely there. It was without life. 

The classmates liked it. The teacher appreciated the attempt. I knew deep down it wasn't what I visualized. I screwed up, like I always have. My skill at execution barely allows me to achieve my vision. The better piece made during third grade endures, the other one is now lost.

The Universe's lesson is this: bleed out and practice.

Sunday, September 11, 2011


Her going had always been inevitable. Between the peace of my afternoons and my many vigils at dawn, her refrain has always been one of delay. She was never alien, and about her was an air that enticed my sense of foreboding, my erratic glimpses of what was yet to be, and though I should have been gripped with a fear that crippled the bravest, those chains never bound me. Strange though it was, it was more human than divine, closer to my heart than what familiarity, or perhaps sense, dictated. Her existence, and the denoument it brought, was already known to me before I even learned of it, not unlike the last few dog-eared pages left for days to allow the entire tale, and one's understanding of it, to ferment, and read only at the most opportune moment, to find one's illumined conclusions correct, no less than expected.

She was there when I first remarked how bitter a cigarette's smoke was, and she was there when I promised myself I would not repeat that mistake. She was there when that oath, like others before it, was broken. As I pondered on mimicry and survival, she was there, swathed in the blue-gray smoke, her fingers tracing lazy spirals in the haze as she stared at me while I abhorred the antics of those with me. She was always with me: she danced when I thought, and laughed when I pondered, and approved when I planned. My defeat was hers. When I was violated, she was raped. When I reeled from the blows, she was broken. When I died inside, she was the hint of a memory.

"I suffer from your sloth," she told me hours earlier. 

"Surely, it is your imagination?" I countered, denying her of the truth.

"We both know it isn't. Look in the mirror," she said as she proceeded to stand beside me.

Our reflections stared back at us. She was gaunt.

"You see? While your lethargy plumped you up, your resignation has sapped me of health!" she exclaimed while she looked at me. The same fire in her eyes was shone in her reflected self, which prompted me to look at mine. They were empty coal-black tunnels, with neither warmth nor...

"What happened to your resolve?" The frustration in her voice was all too apparent.

I just looked at her, smiled and said, "you know what happened."

Her soft, thin hands balled into fists at her side. "You're impossible." Her wan tone matched the smile that never reached my eyes.

The embrace that locked us together was not planned. I can only hope that my many wordless thanks were felt. "I'll grow stronger," my words where whispered breaths that reached her ears.

"You will," she answered as her form ghosted away, the saline pearls upon my left shoulder were the only memory of her presence. 

I found myself inert upon my bed, the ceiling and its oxidized paint meeting my gaze. My thoughts meandered nowhere-bound, weathering the time like they always had. I drifted into the landscape of my dreams, realizing this only when I woke up in the mute afternoon light of yesterday's morrow.

The dog-eared pages would be flipped and new chapters will be met, but not now. I deserve a moment of my humanity.

Wake Me Up When September Ends
Green Day

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Idle Wednesdays

From Lusternia:

The Insightful Yiratcho Chum, Keeper of Clairvoyant Reveries tells you, "Consider that the goat who seeks to eat the stars will always be hungry. But that goat will travel through many lands and see many wonders."

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Tuesday Trill

I'd tell you I love you, but you are chasing time, chasing your dreams.
I am unsure if you feel the same.
Will we ever get our fairytale?

Monday, September 5, 2011

No Brainer

In the immortal words of sister sine:

Do not overthink your encounters, dear.
It's just sex. It's just sex.

Sorry ditse. I couldn't resist.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Brain Fart XV: He He Hi Ho Hu

There comes a time when "hehe's" will fail to mask rebuke and defensiveness.

Dung No More


Shaco here, head of the Damage Control Department.

I had to surface earlier than expected.

Well, now that my job's done, I have to go.



Damn you, Spiral Prince. Don't go off like that again.

Thursday, September 1, 2011


It comes unbidden in the dead of the night, like an abrupt awakening from a dream, like getting pulled from the depths just as you made peace with drowning. Unlooked and uncalled for, yet powerful in its own turn. The image is seared into your head, what could have been that is now lost, perplexing your mind in ways the tangled sheets beneath you can never emulate. The olfactory experience is incised into your senses, as persistent and as tenacious as the sweat that has imbibed your bed: a wraith long thought to be exorcised, but it haunts and catches you unaware. The erratic drum beats that pound in your ears deafen you. You cannot hear yourself breathe, but you know you are. The experience, involuntary, has, after all, become part of the repetitive chore of living through each day, slaving through each night. 

Your throat, as dry as you are soaking wet, thirsts. The water container is covered with seven month's worth of dust, each speck an admonitory finger pointed towards you in malediction. You are guilty of sloth, of idleness, of jadedness, of resignation. Their voiceless cries out of outrage are lost, degenerating into a multitude of ellipses in the face of indifference. The door used to creak throatily months back, its jarring noise caused you to shudder one too many times before the loss of your patience spurred you to douse the rusty hinges in oil. Its opening and subsequent closing are now marked by a dull thud. The darkness need not be purged from the small living room, thank your four years of walking those six meters to the kitchen door.

Attempt number MMMCMXCIX is made to flick the kitchen's light's switch. Sometimes, you hit, most times you miss, and so fumble before letting your hands crawl towards the intended destination. With the door closed, you proceed to take a drink from her water dispenser. You once told your peers, and later on, your mother, that you called your landlady "the Wicked Witch," although sometimes you wondered whether "She of the Many Faces" is more apt. You grin at the thought, however, the dim fluorescent light veiled your playfulness with something more sinister. 

This isn't stealing. After all, the Landlady told you when you first stepped into the threshold of this house that you are welcome to get food and water whenever. You drink your fill and now find yourself staring at the yellow piss arcing through the air. It is as yellow as the beer you drank hours earlier. For reasons you cannot explain, you find yourself ensnared by its scent: the smell of inhibition's demise. There is a twisted sense of satisfaction over this display of perverse revelry in an olfactory stimulus. Had you been more sober, you would have abhorred this, but there is no one to judge you within the small confines of this lavatory, and thus you indulge.

Back in your bed, you find your stares met by the ceiling. Only your gaze, wayward in its wandering, is the only reminder of motion in your stillness. The gyres of your mind turn even as you mirror the inert night. The flare of your skin's dryness, as well as the spells of brazen acne that dared intrude the planes of your mortal shell could all be traced towards your lack of water intake. You are dehydrating, as what the Lost Monk told you. Perhaps it is only fitting for you to be so. The Tarot associates water with emotions, and this withering avatar of drought that you have become is a testament to what is slowly dwindling within you.

Other fears and paradoxes rise to confuse you even more, ghosts old and new that entice your addiction to over-thinking. Maybe you will learn to live with them, some could be banished. Perhaps, like smoking, you can reconcile with others enough to be as friends with them at need, only to mutually rebuke each other later on. It could be as your relationship with alcohol: erratic, quasi-cyclic, but enriching and rewarding and a balm for your being. It is now prudent to stop this rabble and succumb to the Dreaming, after all, this spell is transient. It will vanish in the morning, and perhaps leave hang-over in memoriam.