It was a Saturday morning. I was walking with my friend, Teta, in the campus. We just came from lunch and we're heading to our Saturday class. We passed by the school's basketball court and in it, some guys were playing.
If it was a question between did they make the jersey look good, or the other way around, it would be the other way around.
I watched them strut their stuff and saw no face. I just saw two teams moving.
The jersey is its own aesthetic and glory. It is its own self. It is its own sex.
I told Teta, Ang ganda nila tingnan, ang ganda nung jersey, bagay sa kahit sinong lalaki. From that moment up to now, I have fallen in love with the jersey: the uniform one earns and others contend with.
And so there goes my fantasy. How I'd love to be with a man who is a part of, and serves for, an institute and a cause. It is the turn-on, really. Someone who would let himself dissolve in order to blend with others to be able to operate in unison. Someone with a killer instinct.
And so there goes my fantasy, do I want to do it with 5, better yet 10 players (talk about being a ball coveted by 2 troupes)? Do I want to do it in the middle of the big dome? In the field while it’s raining, or early before dawn? How about in a stadium filled with spectators (add to that a commentor?) In the instance where I’d be with that one valuable player--once he gets undressed, do I want to fuck him, or the jersey?
There goes my fantasy.
20 October 2003
Top Shelf
-
None of the Lights I answered with reluctance when you invited me to a bonfire by the beach with young girls and a local who, despite her ...
-
Tooth Which child's heart didn't throb, eyes didn't widen at the taste of tooth rocking back and forth the soft slide of gum, ...
-
The Idea Write down your ideas. I did last night, got out of bed and grabbed a pen and paper and, like a child chasing fireflies, caught ...
-
The Vocalist The rest could only imitate what he alone and all alone could do: sustain, vibrate, reach unnamed colors of the soundscape. ...
-
So I have gotten into the habit of recording my piano practices because reasons (that have got to do with skills development and, admittedl...
-
Cracked open Volume 1 of Béla Bartók's Mikrokosmos (which I ordered at a music shop sometime in February ) and I am loving it so far. W...
-
Pulse (A love poem) In the beginning was a pulse that came right before any breath to birth a song or a word. It throbs even as the music...
-
The piano makes me happy, which means it makes me sad if I can't engage with it daily in some way — playing, practising, messing aroun...
-
Pictures to Show The article calls for being present. That instead of taking photos of the bee Sucking on sunflower, Lock your eyes ...
-
Learn slow to learn fast. Everyone will say this in one form or another, in passing or in depth. I'm quoting above the exact phrase sa...