ZEN Bitchin'

I already did this in my Facebook page. Joined my fellow Filipinos in praying for the recovery (if not the peaceful passing on) of former president Cory Aquino in her struggle with the big C. They’ve been doing this around the Philippines. Also in Twitter and in the blogging world. This post, in fact, was inspired by Luis’s blog.

Would a yellow rose suffice in lieu of a yellow ribbon? I hope so, Luis.

I’m also copying his invitation to other bloggers out there who care for Tita Cory.

1. Create an entry entitled: “Touch a blogger: Tie a yellow ribbon for Cory Aquino!“. A link to this original entry will be appreciated, but is not required.

2. Post a yellow ribbon in your blog for President Cory Aquino. Whatever form of yellow ribbon that your creative imagination can come up with.

3. Invite other bloggers to tie a yellow ribbon for Cory.

In past dinners at the house, V and I had been including pesto in the menu. Sometimes we serve it with pasta, sometimes we spread it on sliced baguette as a base for bruschetta, or sometimes as dressing in salads. Said pesto has always been received warmly by my friends. Some even ask for some to-go pesto after the dinner. I’m happy to comply with these requests. One friend pointed out that people would be willing to pay for this pesto.

Really, I wondered, and put the thought in the back of my mind. One day a couple of weeks ago, feeling bogged down by my ennui, I called V and told him let’s make some pesto and try to sell it.

V, W, and I went to the market and bought local basil, garlic, and glass jars. We then went to the grocery to get olive oil, parmesan cheese, pine nuts and another type of basil (more purplish in color than the local) that we use in combination with the local basil. I also inspected the bottle sizes and prices of the bottled pesto in the supermarket. The bulk of the work was picking the leaves from the stems; I had stained on my fingers and nails afterwards. The next steps were fairly simple.

The first production yielded 8 bottles of pesto, with some to spare. I portioned the excess into small packets and distributed these among people we know for tasting. We sold the lot in 4 days. Motivated by the ’success’ of the first venture, we made a second batch last week. V and I bought a food weighing scale to standardize the recipe (for consistency). The second batch yielded 8 300 gram-bottles of pesto. We sell these for $6.50 a bottle. This is cheaper than the bottled Barilla Pesto in the supermarket, which is being sold at $4.60 per 180 gram-bottle.

pesto-ng-ina-mo!

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When I take a break from work, I find myself staring at the screen of my computer still. Farming in Facebook has occupied a lot of my idle time lately. The fulfillment of a thriving farm, albeit virtual, seems an effective anesthetic to whatever strife that seems to permeate my demanding and angry little heart. The company of friends does not exert its usual effect on my ennui. While grocery shopping last Friday, V and I chanced upon a notice of a garage sale close to where I live.

The next day, V and I went to the designated address to investigate and possibly make some cheap purchases. The place turned out to be a ’boutique guest house’ that was closing, hence the garage sale. Unfortunately, however, most of the interesting pieces of furniture seems to have been pre-sold already. What remained was either too plain or too expensive.

Still, one lamp caught my eye. It was metallic: with 10+ branches ending in tulip-shaped bulb shades. It looked like a retro piece from the 50s. It has seen its heyday, though: 2 of the bulb shades were broken and 2 of the bulbs did not work. But V and I still thought it was a steal at $5, so I bought it. In one of the bathrooms I saw a small wooden Khmer boat, with nice carvings. It was perfect at $1.50 so I got it again.

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Barado

Pinilit kong magsulat

Ngunit ako’y nagulat

Nang walang nailabas

Kahit na pahimakas.

Inspirasyo’y hinanap

Magdamag na nangarap–

Nagpigil sa paghikab,

Ngunit Musa’y mailap.

Utak yata’y barado

Diwa’y nakabilanggo;

Pati puso’y sarado:

May kadena’t kandado.

Phnom Penh, 2009; Copyright Michael P. De Guzman

Jay looks at me, biting his lips. That look tells me to be quiet. That I let him handle the situation. I broke Ma’s favorite vase and she told Pa. Jay admits to Pa that he was the one who broke it. Pa doesn’t say anything. He leads Jay to our room and shuts the door behind them. Then I hear Jay’s screams. He’s still wiping his tears when they step out of the room. For three days after that Jay can’t sit straight. His pinky finger is bent unnaturally. Pa is suddenly attentive to him and me. Ma doesn’t say anything.

There were times when my mouth would hurt, too. He’d slap or punch me if I refused to take him in my mouth. It was filthy. It smelled of urine and sweat. I didn’t like it. But I didn’t like his slaps or punches more so I took him in my mouth.

He holds the sides of my head, pushing it down till there are tears in my eyes. He doesn’t stop, though. If he sees my tears he’d only ram my head further, making me want to throw up. I don’t want to throw up. When I did the last time he punched me so hard my nose puffed up and bled so much I thought I’d die. Maybe it’s better if I died. He pulls and pushes my head unto his lap and groans so I know this will be over soon. He pushes my head so close my face is buried in his stinking hair. My mouth is flooded with his goo but he doesn’t let go. I swallow some of it. He pulls himself out after a few minutes. I spit on the floor. My spit is white and thick. I try not to think that I swallowed some of it so I won’t throw up.

I throw up when I think of it. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and turn away from its sight. I look back at the house. Silent. Dark like the sky. My hands clutch the grass tightly. Tears flow down my face. I’m sorry.

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Since Jay died, Pa always came home drunk. He and Ma would fight. I could hear them in their room, shouting. Throwing things. Later they also fought outside their room. In the living room, while eating, while getting ready for bed. Soon Ma stopped sleeping in their room altogether. She’s lay out the mat by the big wooden cupboard beside the kitchen table and sleep there. Pa would coax her back but she wouldn’t budge, totally ignoring him. Once I saw Pa stagger out of their room and he tried to lay beside her. Quickly she got up and ran to their room. I heard the lock clicking. Pa tried to chase her but his drunkenness slowed him down. He pounded on the door until he passed out, crumpling unto the floor.

It’s morning already but it’s still dark. I wake up after another dream of Jay. I hear the screen door opening and closing slowly, gently. I look out the window. I see Ma. She’s carrying something heavy. I get out of bed. I stumble on the way to the door. “Ma?” I get out of the house. “Ma?” I run to her. She turns back. Tells me to go back to the house. Her face is a mask of sadness. “Where are you going?” She tells me to go back in the house again. Her voice has become sharp, her expression stern. She walks toward the road. “Ma!” A car is waiting for her. She boards it. I run. “Ma!” The car speeds off into the silent morning.

I never saw her again.

The wind blows strongly against my broken face. It’s cold. Like Pa’s responses when I asked him where Ma went. Many times he’d just look at me, as if he didn’t know me, saying nothing. When I’d wake up in the middle of the night, I’d see him standing by the door of my room, his figure outlined by the light in the hall.

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