August 25, 2005

Me, Coffee And My Idio(t)syncracies

Kaeiy is listening to: Sway - Bic Runga

Coffee and three inches of readings mix like vodka and... er... a sad person in need of a drink. Coffee makes it easier to plod through all the hullaballoo that so and so author said regarding this and that theorist. It helps my tired brain make sense of the layers of meaning (and useless jargon) these authors spout.

Coffee and people-watching mix too. Coffee makes people-watching more pleasurable. Plus, it helps ease the guffaws that well up in the throat when a not-so-pleasing sight manifests itself. Take it from the resident pintasera herself. Coffee makes people-watching more fun.

I know I am doing more people-watching (and blog-writing) than actual studying. That's ok. May second and third exams pa naman eh.

-o-o-o-o-o-

She takes the plush armchair across from where I lounged on a wooden chair. Her sleek Nokia 6630 does the talking for her, eyebrows knitted and thumb furiously screaming her soundless protests. "You're taking too long! My stomach is growling! My head is pounding; I need my caffeine fix!" Her world is a gloomy, gray place with hunger pangs stabbing her stomach and caffeine deprivation clouding her brain. Her beauty whithers as her discomfort grows, consuming her lovely face in a sooty vapor.

Then she walks in, her ray of sunshine. Her hair dances in the unfelt wind, her smile rendering the incandescent bulbs obsolete, her scent headier than the coffee brewing behind the spotless counter.

Miss Gloomy becomes Miss Sunny as she takes a couple of steps closer to the armchair. Miss Gloomy (now Miss Sunny) takes her hand and rises to kiss her lips. They walk out hand in hand, both taking a stroll under their own sunshine at 7 in the evening.

In my heart, I envy them. I take a sip of my scalding brew, look down on my notes and attempt to reconcile Skinner with Gesell.

Damn nigh impossible.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Stirring a short paper cup of just-below-boiling coffee with a freshly unwrapped green straw, she gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "dumb blonde" and I'm not even sure if she's indeed a SHE... in the anatomical sense, that is.

She doesn't even look real. Her cheekbones look altered. Her chin appears to have been fat-injected. Her lips are two lumps of molded collagen under a paper-thin layer of unmelaninated epithelium under a scalpel-acquainted nose. Her eyebrows are charcoal lines permanently stamped in her tightly stretched face. Perhaps the only things that are real about her are the lungs she is turning into asphalt with her ninth cigarette and the complaining stomach she's drowning in her third tall hot cappucino.

I wash down my doubts with a gulp of caffeine and comprehend Bandura. She could be someone's wife, after all.

-o-o-o-o-o-

A hefty lady sashays past my table. She is clad in black silk pants, a black tube top and strappy black stilletos. What catches my eye is not her flesh bunching up in the wrong places or her clothes that are almost bursting at the seams. It is a tag on her back. Upside down, like a turtle turned over on its carapace. Like a banner screaming till hoarse, yet unheeded and ridiculed still. It reads: Morgan de Toites. Oh my... isjapex!

At least I know she's a real woman.

It's in the hips, I tell myself as I drain my coffee cup before frowning down on Pavlov.

-o-o-o-o-o-

She comes into the shop as I place my readings into my document case. She looks familiar; she looks different. But I know who she is.

I don't need coffee to tell me that.

Do you?

-o-o-o-o-o-

"Sway my way, yeah
I need to know all about you
... It's all because of you"

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August 08, 2005

Murakami Dreams and Nursery Rhymes

Kaeiy is listening to: Jeepney - Sponge Cola

I tore off the cling-wrap and laid the precious packet on the table. The plastic cover found its way around the parcel, embracing the delicate sheets. Four sticky strips held the hug down.

I flipped the cover open, inhaled the sweet smell unique to newly-opened books, and began.

"I'm in the kitchen cooking spaghetti when the woman calls."

And then I am lost.

Call me back in an hour. When Murakami stops messing with my mind.

-o-o-o-o-o-

Some nursery rhymes have subliminal messages. No, make that "MOST nursery rhymes have subliminal messages" instead. Take this, for instance:

Whine, whine sugar baby
Whine whine sugar baby
Push, pull
Pound, pound, pound

This, my dear friends, is a song about a whiney baby (or baby damulag) who got beat up. By a caretaker, perhaps? Pwede, no? How about this one:

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
She didn't know what to do
She gave them some broth
Without any bread
She whipped them all soundly
And put them to bed

Negligence. Child battery. Failure to use effective contraceptive means. Goodness me, what is the world coming to?

But the best if 'em all is this:

Monday's child is fair of face
Tuesday's child is full of grace
Wednesday's child is full of woe
Thursday's child has far to go
Friday's child is loving and giving
Saturday's child works hard for a living
But a child that's born on Sabbath day
Is bonny and wise
And good
And GAY!

I was born on a Sunday. Go figure! *rotfl*

What about you? What day were you born in?

-o-o-o-o-o-

"Naaalala ko ang mga gabing
Nakahiga sa ilalim ng kalawakan
Naalala ko ang mga gabing
Magkatabi sa ulan"

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