Antidote


I remember this quote about everybody starting out without money. At times I wanted to write a novel, or add pages to my thesis. In the train, I close my eyes and commit things to memory, and when I get past the turnstiles, the thought goes away, drowned by the sound of rain in October. I am resentful of the weather: October means something else. I have been to twenty-one Octobers, most of which had accustomed me with rain, damp mornings, class suspensions, phone calls from loved ones. On a bus ride I eyed this girl for thirty minutes because she looked like my wife. I am losing my touch with cooking, with a couple of friends. Lately I tell myself I have lived a good life, and if I die, it's okay, I have lived my life the way I wanted to--at least most of it. I choose gianduja over bacon, or Maldives over bacon, maybe I could list down a lot of things I would choose over bacon, maybe even Beijing, or that shakshuka I ate at Hummus Place in New York that summer, or the summers I've spent in Hawaii, or my mother--just my mother in her early forties. There is so much going on in me, and so little at the same time. Book reviews are keen to use "at once" on descriptions: at once sprightly and tame; at once heartwarming and  wicked; sometimes is "at times", as in "at times funny, evocative, and sarcastic." I dream of working in a cattle farm, waking up early to herd cows, to use walkalators, and to hose them with water. Just this afternoon I googled the difference between try and try out. I have read lengthy articles today. I like Dave Egger's story, The Circle. I assumed it was an excerpt while reading it on the NYT Magazine. There is also another article about fathers and writing, I read it some two days ago and I was six "pages" short to finish it. I can't help but anticipate the earthquake Manila will experience in this decade: where will I be during that time? Surface than depth, I tell myself to make this my mantra.