Bedshaped reminds me of Diablo II

I'm not a big fan of the holidays, of the rituals I barely remembered doing when I was younger. When my wife asked me about my year (gosh, it went by just like that!) I was tempted to say I live by the moment, whatever that meant nowadays, the term already derogatory thanks to the heyday of Instagram and the #YOLO movement. But a remark like that would risk myself to sound angsty, reminiscent of my college self, which my wife and I often dismiss as a notch lower than who I am today. I'm scared of doing lists, of ticking off those I did and skipping those I didn't, most probably because I used to blog everyday, to take a step back and count the days and the things I did, only to have the blog deleted, the password forgotten. Fatherhood has taught me to hug my son every now and then, to pinch his plump cheeks, to thank my wife for the dinner, for the days well spent, and to send text messages to my Dad, turning sixty-four, at the brink of retirement, leaving behind the job he had for almost forty years--clearly a drastic change he need to prepare for. I sincerely hope he keeps himself (his frame, his fragile, agile self) collected. Fatherhood has also taught me to skip the books I couldn't bring myself to finish, as it's a waste of time (when I was 16 I tried and tried reading Laura Hillenbrand's Seabiscuit three times and ruled out that I'm not really interested in horseracing) and energy. This year's achievement is finishing A Hundred Years of Solitude in late February, after reading most of it in bumpy bus rides (god knows how I endured the headaches) only to read the headline months later that Gabo is dead, and it felt like waving goodbye to those friends you had for just one day, the ones you thought "hey, this is promising." But there were no friend requests, only a nickname, and a similarity (you were of the same History 2 class; you were both going to MRT from United Nations station). Then there was the much-awaited job promotion, then months before that, in April and June, the trips to Cagbalete, a homage to a short story I liked because it was magical. Just this month we left our old apartment due to rats scampering in our ceiling. The new apartment had a gated front lawn, a roomy kitchen with an exhaust fan, and a laundry area. Last week all I did in the apartment was to sleep, clean, cook and enjoy the apartment, a thing my wife couldn't understand. (Are you really okay?) After all the commutes and the weekday hustle, all I wanted to do is to feel a bit domestic.

Regarding the title: I was listening to Keane's Bedshaped and it weirdly reminds me of Diablo II: LOD. Maybe it deserved a second chance and become the soundtrack of Lut Gholein? Can't help but imagine an Amazon strafing her way through Lost City, killing skeletons while tuning in to some really dark, depressing, late-night shit like Bedshaped.


From a book review on Jim Malusa: "Travel without surprises was merely an agenda."


And what was that about?
Which one?
"The Third Child"?
Oh, that one. That one! I read that in high school. Can still remember the whole plot of it, about this family with two daughters and a son in the middle. And something happened that wrecked the family, and the youngest, a girl in her teens I think, succumbed to drugs and stuff.
I used to read that and tell myself that nah, this won't happen to me.
Until it did?

Triptych: Family

Robert Bereny - Black Cat

Robert Bereny - Reading Woman

Robert Bereny - Leo Weiner, 1911