1. My former professor lent me, through a common friend, a book by Frederick Barthelme: Two Against One. Throughout my wife's pregnancy I've read Barthelme's collection, The Law of Averages, and find it bristling with subtle tensions and truths--a mature take on life. It made most of the books I've read look immature, from Salinger to Hemingway. I'm very excited to read this book, since I have always thought that brevity makes his short stories work--and that each story in The Law of Averages would seem less condensed, less packed with the right cadence of silences, of poignant moments.
  2. My playlist is reverting back to what I used to listen to, from The xx to Explosions in the Sky. It's embarrassing.
  3. I've said this already to a number of my friends, how reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude is unusually gripping, unlike Love in the Time of Cholera. I think I was on speed last week, very gripped by the book, that I'm about to reach the 200-page mark just by reading it during commutes. (I hate reading during commutes, but this book is such a staggering exception.) Now I'm on a slump--I couldn't finish even a chapter of it. 
  4. I have to admit I oftentimes forget my age. I think I'm 22, and very grateful to have reached this age. When I was younger, I was wishing to skip a few blocks and land right at this age, as in the board of Snakes and Ladders. These days I was trying hard to remember what I was before this age. Playing Need for Speed, or Civilization III, or Crash Bandicoot: Warped? Hotdog omelettes at 2AM? (Fuck this, I miss making that omelette.) Recently I've been seeing people which remind me of my younger years, like this woman at the Secretary's Office of my former degree, whose face had drastically aged, and whose younger face calmly advised me not to shift to Communication Arts. Some other faces I've seen: some from High School; some from my former degree--former classmates in Crop Science; or a blocmate standing nearby this computer shop at Grove, to which I told my wife an anecdote about her, that she used to be really pretty (the truth: she still is); or this guy whom I've seen in a party some two weeks ago, sharing with me his bottle of brandy as if we have been friends for years, and whose girlfriend I had helped to install her Internet connection some five years ago, when I used to live by myself in this expensive college apartment; or this lady who looked just like someone from the past, sitting at the bus at 9AM, only to go down at Chino Roces, her black blouse with prints of tiny handwritten hearts; or thoughts of another blocmate who died in a car crash some six years ago--of how surreal it is until now.