Because Green Is the Next Rainbow

I don't know when it started exactly, but the change can be felt. The city mayor's office of Makati has implemented a ban on the use of plastics in all commercial establishments. Big groceries and major convenient stores had already started doing this (and I think this led to a boost in the sales of those reusable tote bags). 

So begins the story early this morning when my guest requested for cold water. (Fast facts for background: I live in the sixth floor of a walk-up apartment, I'm overweight, and I have no fridge.) I gladly obliged. I needed the exercise.

Lo and behold, the store no longer has plastic for the ice tubes. If you want to buy ice, you have to bring your own container. (TMI alert: The thought of bringing the ice up using my shirt did occur to me. My IQ is flexible like that.) I begged, "Please, ma'am, I live up-upstairs, just this last time, sell me ice please."

"I'm sorry, but they already roamed around and confiscated all the plastics from all the stores."

"Really?"

"Yes, sorry."

Wow. I tried my luck at the mini–convenient store across the street. They didn't have any plastic as well. I begged again. The lady was adamant with her refusal, I think a little annoyed because of the inconvenience this has caused their business as well. Then I saw a bunch of plastics behind the counter. I think she figured I wasn't going anywhere, so she gave me one to get rid of me. "This one is a different plastic. I don't know if they will allow this." She didn't even ask me to pay for it. Of course, I gave my sincere thanks.

Back at the bakery that sold ice, the woman there I was talking to earlier decided to continue with our small talk. "At least they didn't make us pay, you know."

"Yeah, and at least it's effective, they just get the plastic." She nodded.

And so here I am hanging this valuable biodegradable bag to dry. I will need this soon. For when I need ice to chill some wine, before giving a toast to Mother Earth. "To life."   

the smiley is an overkill

not a spontaneous juxtaposition

Time-warp

"Every generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it." (George Orwell)

Well, it is true. The Flynn effect is the increase of IQ test scores of people through the generations. He was looking at her thirty years ago—the same faraway look, quickly changing into an impish grin. He was still remembering her when someone whispered to him who the girl in front of him was. 

She was new to the city, filled with ambition and luckily a little talent. The same way he supposed Mercy was, when he first saw her those many years ago. 

He was hanging out with some friends, and one of them happened to bring Mercy along. Her hair was in a cute disarray, an arranged chaos. When they were introduced, he was sure their stares lingered on each other. It took him some determination and a little cheating on the shots to make sure the friend who brought her ended up drunk before him. The next day, when he brings her along, it would be too late for his friend. There won't be a need for an explanation. But nobody brought anyone home that night, or to anywhere else for that matter.

"I see what you're doing. You should know I am the one that's after your friend."

He could only laugh. He brought his glass up and near her, and she clinked it with hers.

He had to ask her, to be sure. And it was true.

"How is she?"

"Happy as one in her condition could ever be." She knew their story, what happened to this man and her mother. It was long before her parents met. But the time that this man was with Mercy resulted in so many projects that old compilations and tickets served as clues to her to unveil old tales. "Do you feel anything for me?"

He was taken aback by her question. Surely she did not mean if he—

"In that way. Of course this is hypothetical. Does seeing me invoke some stirrings in you, like what you felt for her?"

"Of course not!" He was appalled. The temerity of this child—

"I'm only asking. See, you're not a monster after all."               

Katy Perry's "The One That Got Away" (Short Story, Fiction)

They had not seen each other for a year. It wasn't enough to forget, just about around the time for longing. Last time they've been together, they were friends, the type that held hands. The last time, he gently refused her subtle advance with a soft laugh of amusement. He was clever like that. She didn't feel rejected. He somehow made her think it was only the alcohol. She gave him a coy smile and told him she was done for the night and needed to hit the hay. He hailed her a taxi, kissed her on the cheek, and sent her off. She slept that night forgetting she was ever inappropriate. And then it was only after a year that she saw him again.

He was grinning from ear to ear. It was a kind of shy grin that just couldn't be held back. On the other hand, she was barely smiling, just a slight contortion on her expression, that way of hers like she's almost biting her lips to keep from showing any hint of emotion. But he knew she was also happy to see him. He offered her coffee. She declined with a short laugh. "I still don't drink coffee."

"What do you want then?"

"Beer, silly." And they found themselves hanging out in a small bar, one of those they used to frequent.

It was still late afternoon, and so a few tables were still empty. Taped rock music was playing from the bar, but since they got a table outside, the volume was lowered enough for a conversation.

"I missed you. You should have just told me."

He only smiled at her and took a swig of his beer, his eyes beginning to wander around the bar. She understood he wasn't ready to have that conversation yet—maybe he'll never be. There was still some pain having him there, so close again after all this time. He had grown a short beard, maybe only a few days old. He was even manlier now than before. She reached out to feel his face. He let her, even leaning his head toward her hand, brushing his cheek against it, letting her know he missed her as well. It was all he could do after disappearing so abruptly, leaving her with only stories carelessly thrown around by clueless people. And because both of them knew that he was back now, yes, but he still wouldn't be hers.

Sad for Soured Mousse

I will not post the anti-IG-ish picture here. What happened was we had this mousse-cake thing, which was by the way delicious, enough for about eight to sixteen people (or more, since we are a sharing bunch). There were five of us; only three ate. I think I ate for four persons already—yeah, mostly for the reason that that sweet, yummy thing would soon go to waste if not consumed soon. We don't have a fridge in the house. The reasons are many, and I might/might not just write about the mundanity that is that.

Thoughts of sharing to the world did occur, of course, the humanitarians that we are. But how. It's mousse. And yes, we even point fingers on who will go down to throw the trash, who then among us would think of voluntarily scouring the city streets looking for someone who'd gladly accept leftover dessert. We can't divide the damn (and now it's almost as if it's unwanted, after the many mouthfuls of goodness) thing and distribute them; it's too fragile. The reason of it being still fluffy only that it had arrived in the house at night, amid the rain, creating a cool-enough environment for it to hold itself for a while.

Here's a few missing details to fill in the gaps of this story. We live on the sixth floor of an apartment building without an elevator. You would think after more than a year of this I would have conquered the climb, so to speak. Oh no. It isn't easier now. There is a technique, though, but that might be told another day. Another image to add to the mousse would be sandwiches, cinnamon buns, fruits, empanadas, and meat—which could have easily fed ten to fullness. The mousse alone would have been surmountable, but with the rest with it, food wins this time.

And so we come to the part I've been dreading. The morning when those that didn't survive the microorganisms and time have to be thrown out. Maybe we are a lazy bunch indeed. I could only give a childish wish for something to be invented that would bring one person's excess food to another who needs it badly. Apparently my legs are not working at this time.

I looked at the mousse. It had flattened somewhat. The air making it foamy had escaped overnight. I took a spoon and braved a bite. It wasn't spoiled yet, but I could tell that just a few minutes more would completely ruin it already. The thought of quickly stuffing as much mousse as I can into my mouth did occur to me, but the memory of its taste the night before was still fresh in my mind. I couldn't let go of that. And it was all the help I needed to let go of the once-delectable fluff that now resembled a failed (or successful, depending on your weltanschauung) science experiment.

Into the trash you go, and hooray for our resident ants (although I'm not really sure they'd still be attracted to its sourness).      

   

A Calorie for Every Word

I sit here and am still surprised at the blob that is my stomach. No living creature there, at least none that I know of. I continue to deny the simple thought that maybe I have grown fatter because of my age. Surely I am not eating more now than when I was leaner—well, except these past few days.

A month ago, I had been doings jumps for maybe more than two weeks, then my routine got disturbed, and here I am trying hard to get the urge back. The weather, visitors, travel, changes, many factors. And I would have been okay had I been able to resist the urge to look at recent pictures of myself at a friend's camera. Have I always looked so . . . big?

I have my angles, I console myself, but I am running out of those. I mean, a sphere is a sphere regardless of from which side you're looking on.

I then tell myself, perhaps, really, there's just more food around the circumstances I'm thrown into. I did say I like living in the city because of pizza delivery. Maybe I chose this. Did I know my choice would have led into me looking round-the-clock full?

Am I procrastinating again? I have new ten-day old running shoes. It, the right shoe, is not calling out to me. I will not give you images as bright as those. Immaculate, white mostly and blue, while the rain goes on outside with its almost-inconspicuous, steady pitter-patter (it actually sounds different, but it is widely known how arduous the task of accurately "wording" sounds is).

I might continue my jumps later, with the new shoes. I am looking forward to a promise of a feast come dinnertime, after all. (A) No food, no exercise. (B) With food, with exercise. I am an eater. I will have to be a B. Let me know when this comes up: (C) With food, no exercise. I'm almost catching my breath with just the thought—or maybe this is my body telling me I really need to get my ass moving again.