Oh, why can't I goof?

The older one gets, the harder it gets to goof.

I had a couple of work-less days this week (what with my new project scheduled to begin on Friday), but I insisted on spending them on my so-called “home projects.” Indeed, I have gotten ruthless with my 32-year-old self. I cannot let myself get away with mindless activities or with good, old-fashioned lazing around anymore. I always have to have something worthwhile to do now, which only means one thing—I have crossed over and allowed myself to become an adult (yech). I’m now officially one of the pod people.

***

Because I have a new toy, I have decided to finish editing my home movies. This is not an easy task as I have allowed my collection to mushroom to a good five years' worth of raw footage. Thankfully, my new toy has this nifty program that has prerecorded kick-ass music and SFX, as well as text and transition menus. It’s going to be as effortless as dragging and dropping for me, when before I had to orchestrate everything, which included trawling the net for free transition and SFX files, deciding on the music, etc.

But, still, I have to go over every raw footage, decide which to keep and which to clip out (tedious), and piece everything together into some semblance of sense and order. I have finished an entire project or what I titled as “Tagaytay ’05: P does a Howie S.” and I have four or five projects laid out next for editing, excluding the four or five projects still waiting to be downloaded from the vid. cam. Needless to say, I have my work cut out for me.

But, today, just today, I wish to plow into my books, watch a couple of movies on DVD, and vegetate (and yes, watch American Idol--go Ramiele!) 

Trees.

Every tree is in full bloom in our backyard this time of year.

As early as January, I have noticed that the Malay Apple tree (locally known as makopa/macopa) had started blooming with bunches of white tendril-like flowers that tend to fall to the ground as soon as the fruits are formed and which our house helps routinely complain about as being makalat.

The dainty langka tree also started forming its offering of one jack fruit per year. But because the tree is somewhat slender, and its branches very delicate, it cannot support its heavy fruit and so we always have to harvest its one baby earlier than necessary, letting the fruit ripen in one of the clean, dark corners of our bodega.

The kaimito tree is also heavy with fruits that people from near and far covet. This has been its most prolific year, it seems. Every other day we get requests from friends and strangers for permission to pick the tree’s fruits. We say yes to neighbors, but no, to strangers for obvious reasons. We just tell them to pick those that are accessible from outside the fence.

The kaimito has disgorged bushel after bushel of perfectly round and delicious fruits this year and still it continues to bear more. How wonderful and perfect God’s fruit-bearing trees are. Our unassuming, but dependable backyard tree has brought joy and nourishment to a good number of people this season. Why, just the other day I heard a young boy begging to be allowed to climb our tree, saying, “Sige na, Ate, gusto ko lang pong matikman . . .”

Today, I took two ripe kaimito fruits from the refrigerator and ate them. It had been awhile since I last tasted their sweetness. I dug into the halved fruits with my spoon and put the tender, milky flesh into my mouth. They’re still as good as when I first tasted them as a young girl many, many years ago.

Remembering to remember.

Sometimes memory falls through the cracks . . . and I, who used to pride myself with having an elephant’s memory, have been reduced to this woman who forgets things, misplaces objects, and asks silly questions . . . so much so that one day P demanded to know: “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

In one of his Panorama articles, Cirilo Bautista said that memory can sometimes be a writer’s worst enemy. So in an effort to arrest this seeming decline, I bought this book (see below) for enlightenment.

Big and red.

Strawberries are in season . . .

Isn't he romantic?

Aww, my husband is still sweet and romantic after all these years.

Damn, I'm hot! Hahaha! Loko lang. ;)

:D

From God Is No Laughing Matter by Julia Cameron:

"God knew we'd like slow dancing. And dirty dancing. And African dancing and spinning like the Sufis do, so your underpants show."

:D