Mornings with someone snuggling your waist
and the voice of the morning, all a medley

of mellifluous m's prolonged,
or intoned, when the lips

are primmed up,
when she smelled her coffee
(the sing-song delight of the m's)

when the skin meets

when the affirmation comes with the labial
vibration, connubial

when she grunts
in compliance to the alarm

or simply Lorem Ipsum
Dolor Sit Amet, blank as a goodbye
which never met a reply


I couldn't describe the feeling of having a common cold, but it feels way better (but for some reason it can still be comparable) than that of a diving bell (or the locked-in syndrome; click the link--it's a good film). It's probably the head, really, which feels like it drowned a few days ago. The nose is invariably functioning and malfunctioning. Plus the increased activity of the tear ducts, most especially during a sneeze.

(Microscopically, a common cold looks just like a cross-section of a tomato. Not good with itlog na pula, but still worth staring at.)

Weird, really, that I felt euphoric in the bathroom just this morning (around 6:20AM), since the feeling (of having a common cold) felt very much like High School. If in College I usually have a common cold during windy days (what, with the amount of pollen here in Los Banos), in High School I used to have an asthma every October, the pollen from the mango tree by the window, and my room being air-conditioned (which sucks, since I do have an allergy to air-conditioned rooms).

Also, I still am tentative whether to declare myself having a photic sneeze reflex.

So I liken this morning to that morning, some six years ago, when I would wake up with a cold and rush to eat my bland (this is debatable especially with the usual common cold) breakfast--always the -silog meals--and take a bath and get dressed and attend the class sneezing every now and then.

I wouldn't wonder if I die of a really lame respiratory disease. I had stopped smoking a few weeks ago, and I knew it would take its toll sometime in the future. (Hopefully fifty more years? or had I smoked it all away?)

Tomorrow is a finished novel

This is by far the most excruciating back pain I have ever experienced.

Imagine tomorrow.

Right now I'm having a sore throat, a build-up of phlegm (you'll just know), and back pain. Self-massaging is futile. Whoever said nothing beats a good read, I've yet to tell you, a back pain wouldn't put your mind to rest. Even if you're in the middle of Salinger's Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters, you can never tell.

No creative lemonades today. No such thing as eureka for a man with excruciating back pains. "Oh it's a dirty old shame when all you get from love is a love song." What I get from this excruciating back pain is reiterating the pain, typing it away. I couldn't think of anything else but the back pain. Tonight's motif: an excruciating back pain!

I played Diablo II: LOD and I didn't feel any giddy about hearing Kashya or Charsi's voice, or the mere fact that the Amazon had the largest boobies ever (that if it were a pool I'd gladly dive... in? into? the most excruciating part of writing is the prepositions, add to that an excruciating back pain). I could only feel the throbbing part of my back. It feels like a baker's rolling pin.

The kneading. Ugh.

I have lots of things to do but for the life of me, I could only think about my excruciating back pain.

Sense and Sensation

  1. What the Internet does is to fulfill your desire in a minute. Then it takes it back.
  2. I was searching for my dream Leica camera, and I notice how frenzied I am in searching the pictures it captured.
  3. I was also chatting with a former professor.
  4. To think that it's a Sunday night and thirty minutes later, I'll be seeing two friends to have beer and hamburger.
  5. Depth is elusive nowadays, considering what we're seeing lately. The depth we've been used to is the distance our eyes travel whenever we surf the internet, or watch the television.
  6. Our generation is born to stare at things, or to look at a fixed point to see different things.
  7. It will always be about sensationalizing the senses, feeding it various stimuli. It excited us back then, but now we've reached the threshold.
  8. The point is that the Internet is grooming us to be something inhumane.

All those reblog whores

Every 6:30PM these flies just appear and fly and hop on your goddamn screen, they're winged ants who are very honest about what they do. They don't bite. They just really enjoy the time. 6:30PM, every day. They hop like gnats. If you're not interested in insects, they're all gnats and flies and ants.


Ah, when you think of other people who's been encircling grammatical errors in The New York Times; or who's been studying computer codes for ten years to master hacking--whatever your definition of hacking is; or who's been gathering too much junk from yesterday, or from the other day, that excessive effort to just write down each and every day; or who's been saving each and every peso for something really expensive, a trip to somewhere temperate; or who's been fastidious in taking care of orchids, or flowers in general, every morning, drinking a cup of tea: it would really be a shame to admit I think they are fools, but fools, the good ones, the ones who have been clasping their fists too long, the ones who would tell you to just don't think about it, do your French homework instead, or something as wild as can you actually fry an egg on a sidewalk (and who would even describe to you how sidewalks are in Manila, how they don't really hiss, but they boil the passersby).


Hi. I can't write. My blogging regimen I had had the sternness to quit, but guilt, a while ago, would have the right voice to whisper something sensible. I should have blogged, I should have just ditched my subjects. I am a wreck, and I can't write. I'm a wreck. I don't have any clue as to what I'm writing. The thesis should burn. I should just burn and tell the entire world how corporate I can be, how hypocrite and how corporate an aspiring writer can be in days.