What Goes on in the Kitchen

We mix. We make.

TAPA.

is KING.

Mashing all ingredients, she looked at the crackling pan. (Was it me or did I glimpse electric zingos beaming from her eyes?) And she looked

absolutely


EVIL.

In the Span of Three Hundred Words

I suppose I should really thank my lucky stars that I'm not planning to be an environmentalist--or else I’d have to spend the rest of my life attempting to clean up everybody else;s mess, and not once succeeding in that respect. You see, after much contemplation, I think that there is absolutely no possibility of ever parting with pollution. We ourselves, by simply existing, are insensible hazards to Mother Nature; just the fact that I am t-y-p-i-n-g this is supposed to elicit a degree of horror comparable to trampling on an underground colony of roaches and/or starting a forest fire. The last two may seem disconnected, but since every little thing in the sacred balance of Nature counts, these actions may well result to the explosion of the earth (followed by an escape into space and a flogging from alien life forms). But on a more serious note, everything above is true; living in this world is a double-edged sword. The way we're living now, we've become so dependent on those things that do most harm that we don't have much say in the matter. And even if we do want to help... well, it's the thought the counts, right? If it's not about the expense of nature-friendly technology, it's most likely some other issue that's stopping us from using our brains for someone else's good this time, rather than that of mankind. If only, if only--!! I can spend three hundred words lamenting over present frustrations in just trying to make people care enough, or even just making myself believe that small efforts do count in this war. As I've said in countless other essays on ecology (that I've been tasked to do since time immemorial), everything about us is s... helpless and hopeless! I'd personally love to strangle people responsible for staining wonderful Guimaras, or demolishing entire mountains for nothing; or even our own government for letting this happen! It's one thing to say "Ah yes, we are sad, we are poor; Boo-hoo, we must cut off our limbs and sell it to the highest bidder just so our economy will be MASIGLA," and etc, etc, and another thing to make a strong decision roll with the extremely hard, bone-breaking punches just so we won’t end up losers by our own doing. It's ironic to be so rich with all resources needed, yet to be so lacking with everything-—yes, even our brains have passed us by in our undying quest to survive.
Still, if there's one consolation to think about (after ripping off half your hair in frustration), it's to realize that we have as much capacity to do good as well as evil, and acting upon that realization. As Captain Planet always said "The power is yours!" Not exactly the most refreshing thing to hear this Eco Month, but beyond cheesiness and all, we must all remember that this became a cliché for a reason.

Thoughts Recounted on the Ride Home

Smoke.

"Antipolo! Antipolo!"

The loud voices of the barkers added to the din of traffic's rush hour.

"Dito! Dalawa pa!"

I hurriedly jumped onto a jeep. The vehicle started moving just as I moved the rest of myself in. In my panic I had failed to see that it was bursting full, and that the barker's promise of "dalawa pa" was a mistake in arithmetic. Just as I considered the doom of riding stooped for the rest of the joy ride, a wave of command from the barker opened up a space in between two butts-- the promised land! I scrunched myself in delicately onto the small space; anymore pushing in would warrant a popping of someone's pelvis. I was now seated, and although comfort was unthinkable at the moment, I was seated nonetheless. I clutched the ceiling hand rail tightly, body straight and calm, ready to roll with the punches. Now properly positioned, I was free to look around.

I could see women mostly, from my viewpoint; I supposed the men were hanging at the back of the jeepney somehow, flapping around. Opposite me near my left was a mother with her three children, the youngest, a little boy whom I guessed was about a year old. He was looking at me with those wide eyes of his. I returned the stare, then tried to smile, then dropped it altogether; it occured to me that my smile could be mistaken as sinister and suspicious-- a thought rather disturbing to any mother. The two other of her brood was seated next to her, both of them looking ready to cry from the heat, smoke and loud music. Poor kids. There was a man next to them, and judging from the way he jutted out from the regular row, I could tell that he was in the same discomfort as I was. He was bobbing his head to the loud and crackly song that was music. For some reason, I liked looking at him enjoy the beat; I wanted to bob my head along too.

My bottom slipped an inch more off the vinyl. If I wasn't careful, I'd find myself sitting on nothing at all sometime soon, I chided myself. I hung on to the hand rail even more tightly, as the vehicle lurched and braked. Using the momentum, I deftly slipped back into my personal butt space, which was noticeably smaller than the last time I occupied it. It would take a tricky strategy to reclaim lost land, but I was more interested in seeing who else was with me.

I tried staring at the girl across me, attempting to draw her gaze and put my psychic powers to the test. Five minutes of the one-player staring game convinced me that my tactics were completely useless.

I decided to look outside the window. I found myself facing the rear end of a truck, eating its dust as the traffic crawled. I resorted to staring at my knees instead, taking note of all sensations I felt.

Itchy nose. Sweaty palms. Oily face. Oily hair. Itchy nose. Nasty throat. Smoke. Itchy nose. Butt pimple.

I stared at my toes, and the little hairs on them. I stared at the floor, looking at other people's shoes. To what degree of horrification will these peope have if a rat was left running amok on the jeepney floor, I bemusedly wondered. I imagined myself screaming along with them, feet up, shrieking "Kick it! Kick it!"

A familiar landmark jerked me out of my reverie.

Blink.

"PARA!" I bellowed, stumbling a little as the jeepney braked. (Fast braked? Hm.) I hopped off, ignoring the expletives thrown at me by other drivers.

I shrugged on my backpack as I hailed a tricycle.

"San po?"

"Dun lang sa kanto."

I watched the cement go by, willing it to go faster, faster in a dizzying blur of scratches and lines; faster, faster, to the comfort that is my home.

I couldn't wait to get a bath.