Accidents

On Accidents.

There I was, alone in the lunch line, checking out the gallery of edibles. From the big 'palayok' of rice, to the trays of 'ulams' spread out, to the bananas hanging sweetly, I took serious thoughts on what to eat. It was my 4th day without 'baon' from home. Our cook took a nice long vacation, and I was left with the city lunches offered nearby our building.

A bright silvery tray, those used by caterers in weddings and other luncheons, called my attention, amongst the dozen of food laid out. Perhaps it was the sweet honey yellow 'something' that was attractive. I asked Mr. Cook what it was. "Isda po ba?" He said yes. There were other fishes in the sea, I thought. But this.. it was something bright, and perky, and smelled of butter. I could not resist butter, and lemon. I could already taste it, while still in line.

I took spoon and fork, and sat down near the big TV flat screen which was showing some slick B-movie action flick.

I sliced the 'fish meat' and noticed the heavy-ness in cutlery exploration. I thought, "Oh well. I'm hungry." That was that. I forked it down, then proceeded in mouthing it. Then, I felt a bit aghast that fishy meaty was a bit too meaty and chewy, in fact. Yes. As I've thought. It was chicken. Chicken meat. The last time I had chicken was when my friends playfully offered me chicken, while on a boat trip in the middle of the sea, in northern Palawan. Supposedly, they forgot the fish and cooked only chicken. You see, I don't eat anything meat.

Here I was, eating chicken, watching a movie with truck and motorcycle chases in tunnels. And I could've not eaten. But I already paid, and I was left with 20 bucks today. And there, the sobriety of economics and the notoriety of accidents.

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18 Apr 09

This is 6 years from when my lola died. It was the first time, as I recalled, that I cried / sobbed / heavily. I remember that time, how oddly that I forget random things. They randomly knock to remind me of these. We were in the hospital corridor, looking mum. It was a Good Friday on a Catholic calendar. We rushed there straight from the ancestral house in Mexico, P.

My uncle opens the door. There, you can see her sleep. She would've smiled if she knew how to, after years of bearing down pain in bed. After those, stories of numbness and a broken spirit; all those that you've listened to. If I knew how to smile, when I saw her, I would have. Sometimes, death makes you smile, in a short while. Then afterwards, you'll feel your lungs collapse and it's harder to breathe. Her pale skin is glossed by tears. Everyone is looking at her, confined in an unflattering bed, in an unflattering white pale fluorescent light. No wonder hospitals invite gloom. Their feet shuffling around, indecisively.

I headed out, passed the nurses, passed the stairs, looking for somewhere to sit. I am at the lobby, grey and concrete. There I find my uncle, smoking. I did not smoke, but I wondered how it eases the loss.

I haven't cried in a long time, but there.

Bored

Bored bored bored in the office, in life, my life, my ego, my fate.

Slap me.

Brucey!

All Mighty! Oh Ye, Bebe!

Just got this big hulking daddy yesternight, and I'm now one happy pappy. After years of dreaming big for big cameras and donning fantasies of being a portraitist, I finally succumbed to my master materialism and took this one home, on weeks of 'checking-forums-if-it's-still-there/already-taken' milieu. I took a few test shots of buildings outside ze offiz and can't wait to have it processed.

Mamiya RB67, with a 90mm 3.8 Sekor C

borrowed a camera phone from my next table neighbor and couldn't resist taking narcissistic fotos of Brucey

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Now, what do I do with this?