It might give us--what?--some flowers soon

from New York Times Public Library Digital Collections

Issey Miyake's L'eau D'Issey Pour Homme is freshly squeezed citrus: if anyone wondered about how clothes would smell like if soaked in a tub full of lemonade. A word of caution: the first spritz smells bitter, similar to the taste of citrus seeds chewed by accident, but after an hour it would mellow down into a nice summer scent. It reminds me of weddings in summer where people wear crisp white shirts, khaki pants and inoffensive dresses in pastel hues. Clinks of tube ice in tall glasses. Grass and pots of herbs and flowers. Beads of sweat slowly going down your spine. Sometimes I couldn't help but feel that the smell gets too powerful that it makes me feel uncomfortable, not far from what a dad would feel towards a little kid in formal receptions: you wanted the kid to hush and stay still, but a soft voice in your head keeps telling you exercise restraint. Or maybe it's just my aversion towards perfumes that occupy an entire room.

Lighting up

There's something marvelous when you dip crusty bread (or even stale ones) in tomato-based soups like chili con carne or minestrone. Like magic, the flavors just blend together. I'm no fan of soup, nor was I a fan of bread, but putting them together is just... bliss, all the taste buds lighting up to flood your brain in sensory overload.


I dreamt that a cat bit my right index finger, and felt the dread that I needed to get vaccinated for rabies. My wife is experiencing a new kind of pain in her seams - that's how I would put it; she likened it to the manufacturing of a Barbie doll that leaves behind a mark on her shoulders and waist, a really thin mark that's probably due to the molds not fitting snugly, in the same way waffles from waffle makers have these crusty scraps and edges. Parenthood means sulking every summer by swimming pools, wearing clothes splashed with pool water. I find comfort when my child hums while taking his time in doing something. Written from the back of a receipt from my usual bus rides to Ortigas, in red ink, I quote: I pine for a dead poet on my birthday. He died last year. His name is John Ashbery. He was a voice I'd love to have in my head. Instead I have the whirr of rowing machines, the wind blowing my face. At the buss I asked myself what birthdays are all about - it's a day to celebrate life.