Salvage from the bin

I found these entries gathering dust in the drafts section… Entry 1 was meant to precede the post about faith’s hospitalization and Entry 2 was meant to fill the void right before the post I called ARRRGHHH.

Entry 1
hmmm… just a thought: how come when i already have time in my hands to do some writing — profound or inane — nothing can be squeezed out from my brain???

here i am, holed up in a dumaguete internet cafe for more than an hour now and nothing comes out, no spark, no spit, no goo… just me and my shrivelled and rain-washed grey matter.

to preserve a bit of history in my life, tate and i went to see the latest pirates of the caribbean installment yesterday. am glad we managed to catch the movie on its last day ‘coz i had already watched it while in manila and since i came back i had been bleeding tate’s ears with my raves of how good i thought those buckaneers were…

had a great time. my only minor annoyance was how dumaguete theaters slash the credits from the movie (isn’t that illegal?)

Entry 2

Me toes are cold.

Me face is warm.

Me fingers are stiff.

Me mind is fried.

Me weight is whacked.

Me self is whacked.

Me location is whacked.

……….

I’m back in the Mission House after almost three weeks in Valencia/Dumaguete. But I can’t call it entirely back since my mom and I have decided to rotate our time between the Mission House and the House my Grandparents built in Cubao.

So, I have decided to muddle things up for my personal life by adding the merry-go-round of my sleeping arrangements now with my feelings of homesickness and of missing the mountains and my mountain man and the freedom of driving my motorcycle and being with uncomplicated people…

So, to make sense of the somewhat confusing arrangement, this means I have to pack up my toothbrush and and spare underwear in an overnight back then drag my lazy carcass out of the Mission House’s gates every Tuesday, Friday and Sunday evenings. It’s a fifteen-minute jeepney ride to Cubao where I have a cot bed waiting for me in Apartment A’s front room. No cooking stove to boil water for coffee, no drinking water, either. At least I have somewhere safe to sleep some nights of the weeks.

I don’t want to exert any more effort for brain activity focused on worrying and analyzing the pros and cons of the entire arrangement.

Bear with me. I’ll recover from this stupor some time soon (hopefully).

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