And, finally, we came up with a more compound one, attempting to study, if not defy, the limits of style, structure, and media, thus, departing from the margins while keeping space, as we know it, undefined, so to speak. With the book’s dynamic approach to an age when we are all subject to compartmentalized outlooks and fed with a prepackaged sense of identity, it’s a challenge to insist on finding meaning and value in ubiquity.
Continue reading here.
Piso pa rin ba?
O mas malamig pa sa piseta?
Ang agahan, pananghalian
at hapunan na pinagkasya
isang maliit kakarampot na supot
para ipagpalit sa pangarap
na papsikel, tutunawin lang
nang panandalian, isisikmurang
sa paparating na pantawid sa tag-init.
Pabili po ng ice candy…
Piso pa rin ba?
-Armineonila M., 2017
Watch Rage Against the Machine guitarist, Tom Morello, machine-slap Justin Bieber and Selena Gomez at 100% full political rage.
Read the story at Rolling Stone.
Disclaimer: this is not a recipe post. As plant-based living eases up a bit, thanks to the vegan police, and loyal adversaries, for spreading the V word, vegan labelled products sprout like mushroom in groceries. The vegetable section is still available, of course. We’re not anymore galaxies away from today’s norm. I’ve managed to discharge the superpowers of bicarbonate of soda and lemon on my utensils, toilet bowl, and cavities. And I’ve discovered a new way to make cooked veggies look decent. I guess life is fairer now.
Then the asparagus.
Who would have thought sautéed asparagus could crank out organized cheers? You can sense its set back yet provocative presence on top of the kitchen counter while watching world politics and other expletives. The asparagus sits comfortably on its high chair. It’s as though it’s preparing to launch into space, searching for new lands. Most glossy cookbooks continue to romanticize it at the expense of its roots. Most earthlings proceed to switch channels. I made an effort to keep the recipe in its simplest form, if I should call it a recipe.
But, again, this is not a recipe post. So here’s a picture of sautéed asparagus with other edibles.
I’m finally back on board. It seems my daily paper and ink (um, this is a failed attempt at replacing “bread and butter”, gah) didn’t help me in any way in cooking new rants for my blog. Embarrassing, really. No, not writer’s block. Something more meta, like renovating and keeping up with my mini animal shelter, in my opinion. But the cats have weaved me something far more terrible. A chock-full of advice for wanna-be faux writer’s block victims. Get off social media and play mini-games. Find more time for naps, set the alarm clock for treats. Download more apps on your mobile and watch the insanity unfold. Something faster, easier, like food apps. Regularly check your gallery’s app only after you’ve instagrammed your newly braided hair. There’s a whole bunch of nasty worlds out there on the interwebs. Finally, find new ways in organizing your downloads. Hah! The cats even sent me the image below. They wished they created it themselves. They said they’ll use it for digital world domination. We never know what we’re missing, really.
Speak wide. Mouth of a tunnel.
Brush shoulders like we’re comrades.
Beat the beats of cult fiction.
Believe friendship is a staple.
It’s a dirt we share.
Ever barefooted the huddles of the city?
Our eyes both swallowed the disease.
“Life is a currency, yes?” Experts say.
“Agony is business.” Ibid.
Let’s talk culture and drink beer.
VIPs don’t buy words. Not from copper pages.
A brown woman is a brown woman.
A black woman is a black woman.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
It’s a rhetoric they teach.
And yet, we brush shoulders. Anisometric.
Like when we’re tots. You are winter. I am summer.
Eyes fixed on one TV screen – Big Bird groupies.
Fastforward to adulthood – export materials.
A stock market ice cream cart.
Give me a tree to trust. A forest.
Who knows who’s on top of the food chain.
Words are taxed with blood. Or enjambment.
Our silence is their weapon, anyway.
Or maybe just encode another poem.
On bed bugs.
Armineonila M. 2015
Inside the edifice lurks
a felony in hiding,
but reach deep down
the politics of its pocket,
a wasteland crouches
loathing an earshot away
the brass casket,
a starving sense of justice, asses
and potatoes saddled
over the servants’ wages.