08 March 2004
Transition
I never thought I'd speak of daybreak as how it had been spoken of for so many times. I woke up at 3:00 in the morning and had a three-hour reading. A quarter before six a.m., the Maya birds started to make sounds. They were not singing, or at least what they were making were short of a melody. I didn't know what those sounds meant, what they were all about, all I knew was I always hear those during dawn, in the afternoon and before twilight; and that I was thankful there was a tree adjacent my bedroom. I turned off the lights as I could see the sun's rising from my window. My room's situated at the corner of the house's second floor and I've built a habit of locking my door. I was much amazed and amused at how the scent of food finds its way up to my room from the kitchen. I knew it. Fried rice. And then, that smell of salt distinctly from my favorite victual--fish. Danggit, in particular. Before the aroma faded, I was quick to fantasize taking a bite of that crispy paper-thin Danggit, dipped in vinegar with chilies--and the rice, fried with garlic, egg, with shaves of tocino, chorizo and ham. I didn't go down to eat. I wasn't hungry. My radio was turned on, the music was Toxic. I was thinking of lingering in the moment some more until I finally dove again into sleep. By eight a.m., I dozed off. Until I heard the door opened, un-gently by my mother, waking me with a sharp pound of a declarative sentence, about an urgent phone call. I rose and went downstairs to finish some business over the phone. After a few minutes, I went back to my room, locked my door and had my sleep.
Top Shelf
-
The Vocalist The rest could only imitate what he alone and all alone could do: sustain, vibrate, reach unnamed colors of the soundscape. ...
-
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...
-
Pictures to Show The article calls for being present. That instead of taking photos of the bee Sucking on sunflower, Lock your eyes ...
-
So I have gotten into the habit of recording my piano practices because reasons (that have got to do with skills development and, admittedl...
-
Everyday view from the kitchen window You read your horoscope and think it can apply to literally anyone in the world. Then you go deeper ...
-
Prelude Let's make work of beginnings. Think prelude, how the masters leave little worlds on their own till one is found by acc...
-
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 ...
-
Superboy! You have a liking for high places Dissecting plain skies Looking down on people Dissolving into borders Because you wish to fly...
-
Appropriate, to the level of cliché, that the first blog of the year features a prelude. In TV-series tradition, a brief recap of 202...
-
Modiano, Patrick. The Black Notebook. Mariner, 2016. My favorite bookstagrammer (is that how you call them?) told me that "[Patrick...