Pounce!

It’s just so fascinating how tarantulas can unknowingly teach us patience. I’ve been observing them whenever they eat… and boy, each genus has its own dining ritual. Take for example, Hewey, my Chilobrachy huahini.

I take a cricket from the holed cannister, shake it in the air and throw it inside Hewey’s tank. The cricket’s a bit stunned from my brisk shaking, as well as from the huahini’s gossamer-filled home. Cricket roams around, irked at the sight of this heavily webbed place he’s now in. Unsure of this new terrain, he wanders around and looks for food, not knowing that he himself spells out dinner. Hewey now begins his stalk. The manner in which he eats is quite remarkable: he knows I’ve placed food, but he doesn’t run to it despite the hunger. His appetite is as big as mine, or a lil over it, but he remains discrete about his hunger pangs. Instead, he patiently waits till his sumptuous meal gets trapped at a specific point within the cobweb area he painstakingly weaved.

Mr. Cricket now seemed to stay at one place, unaware of the trap, perhaps thinking of where else to find food. Then, in quick cadence, he moves and gets near the trap, but suddenly shifts direction as if sensing Hewey’s stealth. Hewey, on the other hand, seemed hopeful of his trap’s success, and so, he gets near the cricket.

Mr. Crix gets past him. The two of them suddenly brushed each other’s leg. The cricket is now confronted with the jolting truth… he is food. Hop and run!

Hewey now stands still, disregarding the thought of pouncing on the prey. I sighed. He could’ve feasted by now, I thought impatiently. Growing tired of Hewey’s ritual, I took a pair of forceps and guided the cricket near Hewey. Again, he allowed it past him. Uggghhh…fine! If I were that hungry, I could’ve stuck a toothpick in between my teeth by now.

A couple of minutes later, the cricket seemed to have fallen into the trap! Mr. Cricket tried to break free from the sticky substance he smudged into, but is unable to budge out. I keenly watched as Hewey nears him, lifts two of his front legs to hold the crix in place, and finally eases his fangs into the crix’s soft flesh as it releases its venom.

He was built for this kind of kill, I thought to myself.. He knew that there was a right place and time for his meal.

It’s a known fact that these spiders are voracious eaters. It is just remarkable how they seem to be more human whenever they display such discipline at mealtime.
These spiders constantly remind me of patience in the midst of failure. They tell me how hardwork, through their meticulously woven home, can help me achieve my goals. I get to be reminded that somehow, despite disheartening circumstances, my dreams can still be achieved at the right place and at the right time.

As for now, I must weave… and stalk!

Sky-High Disappointment

I almost sustained a high-spinal cord injury from arching my neck backwards at 2am. Your royal highness has been trying to press her luck to catch a glimpse of the Lyrids, a meteor shower from the Comet Thatcher, in the wee hours of Sunday morn.

I remember last seeing a succession of these celestial wonders way back third year high school at a summer camp in Laguna. I was walking out of our “barracks” when suddenly, streaks of light flashed from the sky to somehow provide useful lighting to the dark path I was treading. Looking up, I saw brilliant shooting stars dancing their way through the vastness of the sky. I shouted in glee, waking the others, and we all had our fair share of this popcorn-less treat. It was all too bad that I never knew it coming, nor did I bring a techy cam to camp to preserve a token of that amazing event.

Not wanting to be as unprepared as I was before, I planned for and awaited this event like all other astro-freaks, as reports have shown that the Lyrids this year will be visible to the naked eye. I planned my meal to be grilled, so I can cook outside on Saturday night in any case the meteor shower would push through a lil bit early. I even told friends about it so they can marvel at these non-daily wonders.

0000. Grilled pork looks yummmeee, but I’d have to save it for the Lyrids’ show. I fidgeted around the backyard like a looney, even planning to hike up the wall and sit there. I chose to rest both feet on the ground, and sat on the garden chair.

0100. Grilled pork still looks yummy, but is too cold already. Jeepers. I should’ve grilled it a little later. Went to have it microwaved so I can start gobbling it all up. Anyway, in an hour, everything will be all too perfect.

0230. My empty plate featured a trail of tiny black ants moving briskly. I was a little bit annoyed, but was still expecting. I frantically reached for my all-set cam because I knew that in any moment, the Lyrids would start shooting like crazy and I had to make sure I have a hardcopy.

0300. My entire spine and nape felt numb now. I ditched the dirty plate inside the house, and ran outside, almost tripping, just to make sure I won’t miss anything. But nothing new seemed to happen. It’s just that I seem to see more stars than I did earlier.

I have to get in touch with reality. All I’d see is the metro’s soot disguised as the urban air. I’ll never see those streaks of light I expected, that meteor shower from Comet whatever, those Lyrids… those once-in-a-lifetime stars. And then I started to hate those rotten jeepneys charring the streets, those vehicles who passed the PSEUDO-EMISSION TESTS, those fat-bearded politicians who keep ignoring the Clean-Air Act.

And I started hating myself for grilling dinner.

All Glammed Up

I tried to fake a streak of confidence as i quivered at the thought of my wardrobe's mediocracy. In the middle of Le Souffle's finest function room, I trembled at the thought of being seen wearing something so ordinary to an event where almost everyone nonchalantly displayed the finest coutured dresses and gowns.

Slowly, I tried to have that thought put off, as it has been bothering me for the longest time, even back at the Archbishop's Palace where the wedding rites took place. I tried to muse at the Boucard paintings that hung on the wall and concocted a simple game that would relate to it just to release the suffocating tension I felt. What the hell was I thinking that I even forgot it was one of the posh weddings that I'd be going to???

Ate France is such a dear friend and "ate" to me and my sibs. Her family's a close family friend, too. She did decide to tie the knot at 30, and who knows how old she might've gotten had everyone failed to push her into settling down. She's overly career driven, forgetting that we, ladies, do have an expiration when it comes to bearing quality kids (champion breed, as mutts would put it). Everyone just feels so happy that she and Vince, both chief editors of their respective esteemed magazines, finally took time out of their erratic work schedules to get their vows declared in the eyes of God and of men.

In the absence of a chauffeur, I voluntarily tasked myself to do the honors for my mom and her bestfriend. My dad can't fulfill that duty as it fell on a weekday. Thinking that choosing a glam outfit would be much of a detriment to my driving assignment (a long drive, my friends), I chose to wear something I was totally comfortable in, while still staying elegant. My dress will have its limitations, while my shoes won't since my bare feet would just kiss the gas-break-clutch pedals. It is in this light that my shoes were so fab, while my dress was just... so-so. Driving, I felt good about the way I looked, and I loved the comfort it brought me. 3:00 pm's sunlight-aircon battle irritated my passengers, who were grandiosely clothed, while I sat humming to the radio's tune ignoring the glaring heat outside.

I guess I should've stayed in the car. I felt like a total gatecrasher.

The reception programme went on as I dug into my Chilean Sea Bass number. Yummy. I'll just concentrate on my food and on how this French meal has been perfected. I really don't want the night spoiled in the middle of this fantastic meal, the fantastic orchestra playing, and this fantastic union of hearts.

I suddenly noticed heads jolting to one specific direction... MY DIRECTION. I sat stunned looking at their faces as my mom, who was beside me, whispered, it's Tessa Prieto behind us. I then remembered that we sat near the room's entrance, and that anybody who might've come in late will surely receive a grand welcome. Well, perhaps, not as grand as Tessa Prieto's.

She wore a colorful haltered number, with its neck and backline cut extremely low, as to deliberately show her heavily sequined black brassiere. The headdress, of course, is quintessential to her, which seemed to have invoked a handful of peacocks and some of its feathered relatives.

Wow, i thought. Wow to the cognizance she might've received at every occassion she was in. The perks of having the guts and that sort of fashion sense. She came in a bit late, but garnered the highest number of attention, while I sat stupefied of how I was enrobed, claiming only the admiration of the floor who stunningly marvelled at my shoes.

It was a mixture of what kind of attention she got--- positive and negative. Of course, for those who knew her, they admired her; as for those who didn't, they thought of her as too scandalous and inappropriate.

I never knew her, but I casted my vote as an admiration ballot. I admired her for her boldness and for her sense of freedom. I admired her for breaking free from conformity and for ditching what was traditional. She was like that because that was who she really was. One may raise the question of appropriateness, but all I can do is just marvel at someone who can defy what was supposed to be and take responsibility for it.

As I thought about her, perhaps, I shouldn't be so timid about how I was dressed. I ought to show some genuine confidence, because I really am proud of how I looked, and it's just the trite that "gowns-and- that-kind-of-stuff-are-worn-in-weddings" thing that rubs off the confidence in me. I look elegant and comfortable, and that's what's important! Oh, and I have uber nice shoes hidden 'neath the tablecloth, too, I almost forgot.

At some point, I was able to free myself. Thanks to the Sea Princess.

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Epilogue:
The entire entourage was so, so, ... splendid! The girls were all in their Kate Torralba number with pink andbrown (more like, copper) as their motif. I'm so in love with their gowns! Well, gowns would really be an understatement, and so I label it, Kate's. :) I love their Kate's!

I wish Kate Torralba accidentally reads this, and adds me to the roster of her "admirers". Their Kate's were the types you can "re-wear" to other events without having this awful which-wedding-have-you-gone-to-recently look. It's totally a standout with those Kate bags to match! So totally perfect! I loved how Tita Au looked non-conforming in her Kate's,, defying the typical mother-of-the-bride-matronic-look. Lol. I hope I can get Kate to design for me one of these days. She sings, she writes, she's an influentially fashionable person... what else can't you do???

Literary Imprisonment

I trashed my bed with several creased sheets of paper while stashing my dandy signpen back in its case. I hardly noticed that it took me over half a day to come up with an impressive essay about the meaning of freedom, and still, I ended up with a bunch of pen-stricken paragraphs and a few sentences that do not even adhere to the the entire thought of what I wanted to express! Much to my dismay, there were several ideas outrageously popping inside my head, but I couldn't even get my tongue (err, my pen) to complete a paragraph containing the thought. All I wanted was something impressively written to complement the splendid ideas I had in mind, but all I had was a pfffttt of broken phrases trying ever so hard to achieve coherence. Nothing rhetoric, really... all I wanted was a piece that could've stirred others to think about the costs of being able to do what they want to do contemporarily.

I have never felt so imprisoned in my entire "literary" life! The synaptic inconsistencies of my dear neurons caused my brain to think so right, opposed to the erratic manner that my hand was jotting down screwed ideas. Now I'm thinking, is it really me? or was it just an isolated case of a peculiar "hand-brain" relationship. I've never felt so betrayed in my whole life... what can be worse than being betrayed by your own self? I wanted to free the wonderful thoughts I had in mind, but I just plainly couldn't.

I now wonder...

...if William the Conqueror ever had that torn feeling between freeing Scotland's people in an honorable manner and getting the Scots asses (and his own!) publicly displayed in the middle of the battle. Well, surprisingly, in the end, he was able to do both... strut a multitude of Scottish flesh and honorably opening the path to freedom for his country.

...if the acclaimed Dr. Jose Rizal suppressed the littlest tinge of willingness to take up arms against the colonizers (imagine having to put up with your family's tragedies courtesy of these gatecrashers), and instead, fight with the might of his pen and his renowned eloquence. In the end, his inspiring works became his fellow Filipino's strength and will to fight for freedom despite the lack of arms.

...if Benjamin Martin felt as imprisoned as he was between choosing to be a protective father to his children against enlisting in the Continental army. He did lose two of his seven children (whom he called "better men")as he became the militia's leader, for the cost of achieving South Carolina's freedom from Cromwallis.

These men had to go through contradicting circumstances as they strived for freedom. They were able to reconcile opposing situations, and managed to serve as an avenue for their much coveted dream. Perhaps, like them, I can come up with something to reconcile my erroneous "hand-brain" relationship, and get those profound thoughts finally scribbled. Wouldn't that be such a freeing experience?