Fields of Poetry

I don't know how to love him
What to do, how to move him
I've been changed. Yes, really changed
In these past few days when I've seen myself
I seem like someone else . . .

Friday, March 18, 2011


My dad really loves to eat. He eats more than he's required to eat despite my mom's, my sister's and my own constant reminder for him to control his daily consumption. Sometimes he would search for morsels for the sake of masticating; stop by an unfamiliar restaurant to try their menu; challenge himself with a new taste at home, etc. There's really nothing with that, in fact it's because of his love for food that I learned to appreciate different dishes from various cultures and social class.

All four of us were invited to this exclusive restaurant by my parent's wealthy acquaintance. My sister was so delighted that she begged to bring her best friend with us. Her name is Irene. Irene is of a Singaporean background: tall and lanky Chino-Vietnamese with an accent that frustrates my ears. You would think that I'd have gotten used to her voice since she has been my sister's best friend from kindergarten, but no. Each word she utter commands thrice the effort for my brain to process and the dumbstruck expression I reflect becomes an objective ground for belligerence. No. When Irene is present, I zip my lips. 

The restaurant was underground an old and run-down building located at the city port, just above the docks now empty and dark. It was a cold winter night with stealthy sea breeze that sends chilling breathes down your spine. 

Stupid perverted wind! I muttered as we descended down a dark and narrow stairway lit by dim lights. I'm wearing a damn turtle neck. Get the idea!!! I clenched my teeth. 

I tried to block out the fear lurking at the back of my head as I watched the shadows dance on the walls of the long corridor that led to the restaurant. The extreme visuals fabricated by my imaginations can be horridly graphic that there had been times when I almost lost my senses. The wind moaned louder underground and the chills stung my exposed cheeks. 

You are warm and protected in a cocoon of white light! I inhaled and exhaled trying to warm my cold body, my arms crossed and my gloved hands gripping tightly onto them. Two grim men in black suits guarded the entrance. My dad gave one of them a red envelop sealed with a maroon wax. 

They let us in.

Inside the restaurant was like the interior of a Chinese palace only, it was packed with customers in beautiful Western attire. I could barely remember the details so spare me this description. Let's skip right down to the dishes.

The soup of the evening was the first and last I ever spooned from that exclusive restaurant. It was a large bulge of grind meat right smack in a center of a large bowl decorated with carrots, cabbage, pepper, and onion. The meat was attached to a large fat at the bottom and since I hate fat, I tried to flip the meat around to remove it. At that moment Irene warned, "Don't flip it!"

"Why not?"
"The other side of this meat will not look appetizing to you and you won't want to eat it, ever. Just eat that side and leave the fat at the bottom." She suggested. 

My dad, mom and sister kept eating. I tried to follow Irene's advice and ate what looked like white balls of meat but the taste and texture was so peculiar and her words so mysterious that curiosity got the better of me and I flipped the meat to see the fat end of it.

I was horrified to see eye sockets, a cartilage where a nose must have been; lips, cheeks and a chin. The fat end of the meat was a face. The large mass of red meat was a brain. When I thought of the white balls of meat that I ate earlier as pair of eyes, I grew nauseated and ran away from the table, past other customers and out the restaurant. 

My hands pressing against the dim walls of the hallway I gagged and repelled the ingested meat, forcing them to the floor like a sludge of mud down a violent waterfall. My dad came outside to ask me if I was alright before expressing his embarrassment concerning my behavior. He repeatedly scolded me after mom joined us, who equally expressed her disappointment as I tried to clean my stomach of the human essence. I couldn't believe my ears. What am I hearing? I looked up and glared at my dad. Then I realized that everything around me including his face were too dark to be real. I was dreaming. 

Wake up! Wake up! This is horrible! WAKE UP! I screamed. I did wake up, but having realized it was  all a dream I went back to sleep. This time it was completely dark and peaceful.

Now that I've thought about it, it really didn't make sense that the brain is attached to the face. Where are the bones? I don't have a clue. All I knew then was that I was eating a human head or parts of it. That was enough detail for me. I hope this dream doesn't mean anything. It was just too graphic.

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