Shots From The Week
The clock on my computer screen reads 4:03PM, but I’m guessing it’s no later than 7-something in the morning. I don’t know why I’m up this early. The sun’s out in full force again. I guess I figured that I might as well get an early start on a day where there’s not much to do. Mass maybe. A lot of reading for sure.
I don’t remember what time we called it a night, but it couldn’t have been more than a few hours ago. Still, the drinks worked miracles for my sleep. Poor man’s mojitos we called it. We ran out of lemons so we couldn’t go overboard. Just enough for a buzz—better than any sleeping pill. Pope and Dad were talking about corporate crap. That might’ve helped in getting us all sleepy as well.
Wednesday night. Dad’s birthday. After the guests had gone home (and after g’nyt to Korinne), and while we were capping off an evening of Gato Negro with a couple of Lights, Dad and I were all worked up debating at full shouting volume the value of the NPA and the communist party. This was 2AM. I slept well after, but woke up with a slightly sore throat.
Monday night. KATIPUNAN turnover. After a couple of Pilsens at Mag:net, had a couple of Horses at the turnover dinner itself. Was dizzy for a moment there, but was OK once it came time to go. Went home with Charz—not in the gay kind of way—which was smart cuz I’ve been known to foolishly fall asleep in cabs when traveling alone in the wee hours.
Friday night was calmer than all the others. Cerebral drinking I call it. While watching Gregory Peck in To Kill A Mockingbird at that. I had a massage earlier that day. Well, it was really the one barbers give after your haircut. But a massage is a massage, and complimentary ones are always more relaxing. Besides, I’m not a spa guy anyway—behaviorally or financially.
Nothing much on Tuesday night. Sasha was in the village. Texted her so we could hang out for a little bit, talk for a little bit. So we hung out for a little bit, talked for a little bit. Walked her home and that was that. Nothing much. Nothing at all.
I can’t recall how Thursday night went. All I remember is that afternoon, with this medical technician coming in after a lunch break, chewing gum, eye bags heavy, nonchalant in her motions, chatting with a colleague about what they were going to do after their shift. I looked away once she strapped on the tourniquet. Someone told me long ago that it helps not to look. I believed him.
But I was convinced that this time was going to hurt, with the girl holding the syringe being my age and seemingly a bit too relaxed to care. But then she removed the tourniquet, said she was done. I saw her throw away the syringe. On the table were two vials of blood. My blood. I didn’t feel a thing. The girl started laughing at some joke by another colleague.
I guess when you’re good, you’re good, and all that shit to put a person’s mind at ease goes out the window. Cuz he won’t feel a thing. He didn’t feel a thing. Nope. I didn’t. I don’t. There’s something symbolic there.
............
Currently reading:
Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere (from April) – making an effort to get into it, but it’s really a matter of taste, as in not really mine. Chris Martinez’s Laugh Trip – I’m finding Last Order Sa Penguin funnier and more profound.
Currently rereading:
Butch Dalisay’s Killing Time In A Warm Place – much more my taste, though I’m not feeling as revolutionary as usual.
Getting my attention from time to time:
Caracoa 2006 – “When my baby walks, she shows her crack. / When she fucks, she likes to talk about cocks / and Jeff Buckley...” (Lacuesta). Conchitina Cruz’s Dark Hours – “We walk home in the flood and cannot see our feet.”
Newly bought (secondhand):
Granta 34 – no better magazine writing; creative nonfiction at its finest. James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces – read a few pages and you won’t stop; creative prose style regardless of whether nonfiction or fiction; so what if not all of it is true? (OK, I know it’s unethical.)
I don’t remember what time we called it a night, but it couldn’t have been more than a few hours ago. Still, the drinks worked miracles for my sleep. Poor man’s mojitos we called it. We ran out of lemons so we couldn’t go overboard. Just enough for a buzz—better than any sleeping pill. Pope and Dad were talking about corporate crap. That might’ve helped in getting us all sleepy as well.
Wednesday night. Dad’s birthday. After the guests had gone home (and after g’nyt to Korinne), and while we were capping off an evening of Gato Negro with a couple of Lights, Dad and I were all worked up debating at full shouting volume the value of the NPA and the communist party. This was 2AM. I slept well after, but woke up with a slightly sore throat.
Monday night. KATIPUNAN turnover. After a couple of Pilsens at Mag:net, had a couple of Horses at the turnover dinner itself. Was dizzy for a moment there, but was OK once it came time to go. Went home with Charz—not in the gay kind of way—which was smart cuz I’ve been known to foolishly fall asleep in cabs when traveling alone in the wee hours.
Friday night was calmer than all the others. Cerebral drinking I call it. While watching Gregory Peck in To Kill A Mockingbird at that. I had a massage earlier that day. Well, it was really the one barbers give after your haircut. But a massage is a massage, and complimentary ones are always more relaxing. Besides, I’m not a spa guy anyway—behaviorally or financially.
Nothing much on Tuesday night. Sasha was in the village. Texted her so we could hang out for a little bit, talk for a little bit. So we hung out for a little bit, talked for a little bit. Walked her home and that was that. Nothing much. Nothing at all.
I can’t recall how Thursday night went. All I remember is that afternoon, with this medical technician coming in after a lunch break, chewing gum, eye bags heavy, nonchalant in her motions, chatting with a colleague about what they were going to do after their shift. I looked away once she strapped on the tourniquet. Someone told me long ago that it helps not to look. I believed him.
But I was convinced that this time was going to hurt, with the girl holding the syringe being my age and seemingly a bit too relaxed to care. But then she removed the tourniquet, said she was done. I saw her throw away the syringe. On the table were two vials of blood. My blood. I didn’t feel a thing. The girl started laughing at some joke by another colleague.
I guess when you’re good, you’re good, and all that shit to put a person’s mind at ease goes out the window. Cuz he won’t feel a thing. He didn’t feel a thing. Nope. I didn’t. I don’t. There’s something symbolic there.
............
Currently reading:
Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere (from April) – making an effort to get into it, but it’s really a matter of taste, as in not really mine. Chris Martinez’s Laugh Trip – I’m finding Last Order Sa Penguin funnier and more profound.
Currently rereading:
Butch Dalisay’s Killing Time In A Warm Place – much more my taste, though I’m not feeling as revolutionary as usual.
Getting my attention from time to time:
Caracoa 2006 – “When my baby walks, she shows her crack. / When she fucks, she likes to talk about cocks / and Jeff Buckley...” (Lacuesta). Conchitina Cruz’s Dark Hours – “We walk home in the flood and cannot see our feet.”
Newly bought (secondhand):
Granta 34 – no better magazine writing; creative nonfiction at its finest. James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces – read a few pages and you won’t stop; creative prose style regardless of whether nonfiction or fiction; so what if not all of it is true? (OK, I know it’s unethical.)
posted by M.V. at 7:47 AM
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