Brutal rant before he

Each day this coming September, I will be posting something--anything--to keep this blog alive. It's embarrassing to admit I don't have much time to write sketches, fragments, ideas. I assumed that self-imposed deadlines can create creative blocks; now that I've reached an all-time low in creativity, maybe it's the other way around. I have my excuses: I became too preoccupied with work. I also had this month-long interview for a position in an esteemed local magazine, and the entire process was exhausting. (Four fucking interviews! It was nerve-wracking. That they were able to choose someone else came not as a surprise, but a relief that at long last, it's over.) The only book I'm reading is Michael J. Arlen's Passage to Ararat--this in between New York Times articles, misc links I find on Facebook (recent read: an ad executives brutal rant about the entire agency business before he died), and the remaining discipline left is for reading through each New Yorker issue my sister's subscription can afford. (I'm about to finish March 2014.) Another excuse: self-censorship. Posts become mere drafts because it's just not that good for me. Maybe this coming September is a good time to be more unconscious about myself, to step back and discuss, mostly to myself and my three readers, why we're here, reading, writing, philosophizing, navel-gazing, meaning-making. Cribbing from one of my drafts is an attempt to describe this month: "If August were a dish, it would be an unbelievably salty dish, as if a chef accidentally poured lethal doses of salt to it--a dish of shame, thanks to the lid of a salt can turned loose." I had a taste of it twice--once, at a Cheesecake Factory in New Jersey, I ordered goulash (or was it goulash); another, when a friend ordered a Thai omelette at this hole-in-the-wall in Makati, at Crying Tiger in Burgos. At both situations I knew I had to call the waitress to whisper my sorry-to-do-this, please-replace-this spiel. Even if push comes to shove, I wouldn't want to use that spiel again. Not in this blog.

A Source of Irony

“At first you break windows. Then you become a window yourself.” - Heimito von Doderer