It might give us--what?--some flowers soon

from New York Times Public Library Digital Collections

Issey Miyake's L'eau D'Issey Pour Homme is freshly squeezed citrus: if anyone wondered about how clothes would smell like if soaked in a tub full of lemonade. A word of caution: the first spritz smells bitter, similar to the taste of citrus seeds chewed by accident, but after an hour it would mellow down into a nice summer scent. It reminds me of weddings in summer where people wear crisp white shirts, khaki pants and inoffensive dresses in pastel hues. Clinks of tube ice in tall glasses. Grass and pots of herbs and flowers. Beads of sweat slowly going down your spine. Sometimes I couldn't help but feel that the smell gets too powerful that it makes me feel uncomfortable, not far from what a dad would feel towards a little kid in formal receptions: you wanted the kid to hush and stay still, but a soft voice in your head keeps telling you exercise restraint. Or maybe it's just my aversion towards perfumes that occupy an entire room.

Lighting up

There's something marvelous when you dip crusty bread (or even stale ones) in tomato-based soups like chili con carne or minestrone. Like magic, the flavors just blend together. I'm no fan of soup, nor was I a fan of bread, but putting them together is just... bliss, all the taste buds lighting up to flood your brain in sensory overload.


I dreamt that a cat bit my right index finger, and felt the dread that I needed to get vaccinated for rabies. My wife is experiencing a new kind of pain in her seams - that's how I would put it; she likened it to the manufacturing of a Barbie doll that leaves behind a mark on her shoulders and waist, a really thin mark that's probably due to the molds not fitting snugly, in the same way waffles from waffle makers have these crusty scraps and edges. Parenthood means sulking every summer by swimming pools, wearing clothes splashed with pool water. I find comfort when my child hums while taking his time in doing something. Written from the back of a receipt from my usual bus rides to Ortigas, in red ink, I quote: I pine for a dead poet on my birthday. He died last year. His name is John Ashbery. He was a voice I'd love to have in my head. Instead I have the whirr of rowing machines, the wind blowing my face. At the buss I asked myself what birthdays are all about - it's a day to celebrate life.

Hard thinks

photo from The British Library's Flickr account
Unless you stick to an iOS version from 2016, you won't be able to download the Blogger app for iOS. It's outdated, and Google has given up on it. Probably their team of developers had to be reshuffled and sent to new departments. Maybe it's just a waste of time updating an app for bloggers - maybe because - according to their analytics - mobile phones aren't the best medium for blogging. (So. I feel old. I'm 27.) This has given me a hard 'think' (as my boss puts it) about migrating to a new blogging platform, although I don't think it would make a difference? I'm sure the gods at Google would shut this down - but again, I'll need an entire week to figure out a Plan B.

That's all. I will end this blog post with a nihilist quote - this says a lot about the fact that our very democracy have given us a lot of freedom - including the freedom to eliminate life on earth.
...The world’s population must globally move to zero emissions across agriculture, air travel, shipping, heating homes – every aspect of our economy – and reduce our human population too. Can it be done without a collapse of civilisation? “I don’t think so,” says Hillman. “Can you see everyone in a democracy volunteering to give up flying? Can you see the majority of the population becoming vegan? Can you see the majority agreeing to restrict the size of their families?” 
The entire article, an interview with social scientist Mayer Hillman, also speaks about the futility of individual and national action on combating climate change. We've gone past the point of no return, it said, and I think it's true. I can only wish for my son's future.

The terrors

Beware the terror of not producing. Beware the urge to justify your decision. Watch out for the kitchen sink and the plumbing and the painting that always needed being done. But remember the body needs to create too. Beware feeling you're not good enough to deserve it. Beware feeling you're too good to need it. Beware all the hatred you've stored up inside you, and the locks on your tender places.
- Andre Lorde to Pat Parker, from Sister Love - The Letters of Andre Lorde and Pat Parker (1974-1989), by way of 192 Books' Instagram account.