July 21, 2012

I tried reading Brautigan, and then Moore. I wish I could tell you what the overarching intention is, how it was not written in Filipino, how I wanted to feel the pain in the different way. It's very much like watching a death sentence on TV when I was in third grade, that despite the situation, the metal bed, the eerie footage, I even managed to ask what's wrong. Sometimes I catch myself thinking too much while telling you not to think too much, and it's just like trying to tell somebody I was trying to tell you to somebody. That Brautigan bit with the film, but mine is slouched on the sofa, in front of a footage of, say Echegaray. Then the rain comes, and it's time most of us look out of our windows and rest our moist eyes. Most of what I've written, you said, is not about you, or your resemblance. But I've read you everywhere, have made you become some sort of a compass, so that every book I've read becomes a dressing room to try things out. (In Moore, you were Silsby Anne Chausee.) "That's not the way her arms would puff out of that sleeve," I would say. The problem is not that you don't know how to smile, it's probably just the timing. Yes, we can both blame it, we can wash our hands from it. We have punched our time cards the wrong way. Maybe some tea is perfect, some crackers, an ashtray! The one in mauve.