esoteric one.

I had been gone for so long.

There was no going back to Ixtlan. It may have all changed when I finally realized that, a sad and wistful transformation more than a decade ago. Now, my reserves are getting depleted and I have to gather myself after having been scattered so much like dandelion seeds all over the place, and I have to do this unknowing and without any purpose and without the unnecessary encumbrance of emotions.

Something distinct again. and a murmur of thank yous to some songs for making me see and remember. There is another reason why I miss myself now.

the new painful words...part deux.

Five days ago I just needed pixie dust to fly when I thought about the four days I will be home. To be embraced and to close my eyes and surrender again.

Tuesday evening and everything went like clockwork; no traffic, there was a bus waiting and slept most of the 9 hour ride home and got off the bus right in front of the house where the two ladies that made my world spin were probably still sleeping. It was 5 am, and as Naga embraced me warmly my glasses misted over.

"Dating ka na." and Rain smiled at me, half asleep. With her, between me and Love, I surrendered.

Time stopped running and instead walked and enjoyed himself. For four days and it was good to think again and say hello to my mind, it was good to love and be loved again, it was good to embrace and be embraced again. Life is kinder during these times and it was good to remember and appreciate the simple reasons for living and to continue living.

And so for four days, I simply lived.

On the evening of the fourth day, I couldn't fly anymore.

Coming down from the bedroom, Rain saw me carrying my knapsack. "Alis ka, Papa?"

I answered yes, and went to hug her, right after telling me. "Kain pa muna, e."

We ate longganiza and buttered corn for dinner, like it was breakfast. Just after I put on my knapsack and kissed her mom, Rain looked me and asked.

"Iwan mo, Rain, Papa?"

Twice.

I said no and it came out as a promise.

They waved me goodbye at the gate right after. Something inside me hurt like hell.

cold chicken for breakfast, 4.30 am.

The fog of sleep rose and started to dissipate like cigaret smoke. It was still dark but it was a losing battle to the eventual morning, so went down and tried to shake off the last traces of sleep. I went out and looked at the sky, nightglow and all. The heavens spoke of rain, and the desire for slumber. Shivering, I knew that it was just this kind of cold that can raise memories of the kind of warmth under the covers. So, I ate cold rice and even colder chicken and knew that the chill of the bath was strange comfort instead of pining away in bed. On my way to the office the storm just came closer.

The rains are bringing my spirits up, this is the time of the year again when it is a comfort waking up to rain falling. I have always felt summers were forlorn, only brightened in some spots by the sudden reunions of familiar faces. Perhaps it is just the way that the rains are a better lubricant for my thoughts, and even emotions. They slide more easily. And it is easier to have conversations with myself.

The week has been spiked by brushes with memories, a brush in the way that the fingers of someone loved can brush the back of your head down to your shoulder. In the course of writing memories and imagined future memories intermingled that it is easier to look forward a few months at a time. Even now, I am looking forward to rain falling outside our room.

I guess it's time to write stories again.

All about the In'ernet.

Here's the continuing saga of my spam.

My junk e-mail is starting to develop a personality. It is now trying to insult me:

what a stupid face you have here davidemmanuel.alano
davidemmanuel.alano is a moron
You need to improve your little friend

And a hint of blackmail:

We caught you on tape davidemmanuel.alano

Then it has started to wisecrack:

Close encounters of the nude kind
Honeymoon on moon

and this:

The Loin King

(of course, that cracked me right up, even here in the office)

...

Going through the sites where I usually spend a lot of time I stumbled upon this news:

goddamn. Diablo 3 is on development. what in the world am I gonna do when I can't even buy my own PC. ohmanohman.

to the lady in new york.

Been browsing through the book, and through my memories eventually. There's this seeming question: do you pick up where you left off, or start all over again, like there never was a memory of it. It has lain beside me now since I picked it up from the post office, and I still I am not sure whether to start on the first page or somewhere else, or whether to read it all. It's old really, it even smells different. But, yes, thank you, it's not really that you owe me, at that time, I was sort of glad you were reading it, or was about to read it.

"...to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. But, in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you to that always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may..."

Those lines stopped me from reading any further more than five years ago. Reading them again, I was waiting for that sort of familiar twinge of pain somewhere in my chest area. I can only muster a halfhearted perhaps; that that feeling had all been sussed out some years past, you see, she still hits like a jackhammer sometimes.

Perhaps I should leave off reading the book altogether. And read more science fiction instead. Then again, I suppose I might leave it all up to you, like inspire me and I'll finish the book once you get past these lines. "...I saw no shadow of another parting from her."

But thank you still, for letting me hear something from the years past, and the now.

gamol on a saturday night.

A sunday and I'm staring again, the infinity of gray in the office only broken by some afterthought of colors in a few places. I've been home and back again. A blur and Manila is in harsh analog focus again; back to the grime of vehicles and drying spit in the streets, and the myriad personal bubbles going their own ways. I walked around yesterday and ended up being smothered by people, a Sargasso without the mystery, and the seaweed of commerce. And always found myself drawn into bookstores for refuge and that semblance of silence.

Going back to the apartment, I ventured a question to myself whether I am finally welcoming the embrace of Manila or if I should finally go home. Yes, home.

The question went unanswered as I lay down finally to sleep and it's still there hanging in the aether, looking at me.

...

I never knew that walking around Megamall could stress me out. Or perhaps it was because of some reflections of myself I saw as I walked past the windows of the mall, alone, and carrying a white plastic bag with four thin used books inside.

I slept for eight hours.