Sunday, December 30, 2007

New year in 2 days


April & I had merienda at a donut joint yesterday in Cubao. She ordered a donut & a torte; I, a tuna turnover.

The torte tasted like the donut with cream on the outside. The donut tasted like the torte with cream on the inside. The turnover: cat food.


Christmas Eve was a bust—not even the roast prime rib was good. The usual: Dad & I out on the patio, beer our company, cursing to the cacophony of socio-political talk. At bit angsty, I challenged him: You think you know everything, always in control, faultless. Went to bed on that note.

Christmas Day wasn’t much of anything either. Tradition can be cliché. The usual suspects came for dinner. Fresh take was to come w/ Ate Jho & family from the States; they brought little but a cute boy (pamangkin ko) who managed to tickle all for a few minutes at a time. We already have dogs for that.


I’m drinking a cup of coffee. There are 3 maids in this house: 1 makes it just right—that’s a given; the other makes it either too sweet or too bitter; the last defies logic: makes it too sour, like the cup I’m drinking right now. I love the timpla of the first maid; it’s just right: not too bitter, not too sweet, not too creamy, not sour at all. Balanced. Tamang-tama.

Doesn’t stand for anything, up to anything. The jolt minus the guts.



Months ago, it was presumed that Hershey, our shitzu, was pregnant. We imprisoned her in a cage, fearful of miscarriage. Weeks later we discovered it was a false alarm. Disappointed (but not guilty), we now let her run around like she used to. We gave her a haircut; she’s so skinny—so unpregnant.

Gold, our female pug, is pregnant: assumption. She’s due this week: another assumption. We incarcerate her in a huge wooden play pen (fearful of miscarriage): minimum security prison. We let her out to the patio every night to take a shit. A few nights ago, I was sitting alone under the stars with a bottle: cliché. Tita left Gold with me. She staggered about like a pig for a few minutes before pausing to stare at me. I stared back. She lowered her ass to the ground. I worry; I’m not a vet. She staggered away. The baby: a brown log.


I got a haircut this week.

I can be trusted again.


From Friday’s New York Times: RANALPINDI, Pakistan – Benazir Bhutto, the Pakistani opposition leader and twice-serving prime minister, was assassinated Thursday evening as she left a political rally here, a scene of fiery carnage that plunged Pakistan deeper into political turmoil and ignited widespread violence by her enraged supporters.

Our neighbors had a videoke party that day; reading became a challenge, though the newly cleaned room would’ve served as the ideal setting.

A between-Christmas-&-New-Year in the past once saw my parents & I spending a good 13 hours in line at the COMELEC offices to register to vote. Two elections this year; didn’t vote in either of them:

epitome of my 2007:

no more hiding behind concern for country. It was a selfish year. Circumstances dictated such. Bhutto died for a concept so distorted that it seems to encourage such self-indulgence: democracy; my 2007 was (dis)honoring her.

TIME’s Person of the Year in '06 was a mirror. I was a year behind.

Too late to the party as usual.

* * *

A few announcements:

Neighbor and "pillar of poetry" Sir Marne finally launched his initial posts for his new pet project. Check it out here.

Heights now accepting contributions for the next folio. Contribute na, mga ‘tenista!

Sarge Lacuesta emailed me a couple of weeks ago. A creative nonfiction piece of mine is being published in the Free Press “this week.” I checked out National yesterday; wala pa yung issue with my piece. Abangan na lang, mga kaibigan.

* * *

Happy New Year to all!


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