Gaps, patches and in-betweens

Missing Series Alcohol drowns my loneliness, Calling for sleep. Natalie keeps me company as I wallow in could bes. Welcome fatigue to push the body, Then embrace it. All because I miss the feeling of melted butter as I once Described holding my daughters’ hands. We would wait for sleep to shut our eyes, Comforted by the small space between us. There is a promise of being together, and A bigger space when the time comes. Meanwhile, I stare at the calendar. Long is indefinite and immeasurable. I realize words are not enough. Now is the best time to slam dance. September 25, 2006

Yes, Leyte Park, the hotel. The last time I was there was when the world and I were much younger, 11 years ago to be exact. The circumstances were also different. Yesterday I was there for a meeting, work, with mostly representatives of government offices. Eleven years ago, was a meeting also, but of the creative sort. We were clutching on the verges of literary genius or so we thought, amongst literary UP Creative Writing Center-wise icons. Yesterday I scoured the beach, the shore shorter now than how I remembered it, maybe because of more newly-built cottages. Back then I was intoxicated with Bahalina. Today I was cold, stone sober with only caffeine running through my veins for the past few days. The world was mine to conquer back then. Now I’m scared shitless with uncertainties and age clouding a future view of the world and how I want it to be with and for my kids. I sat at the lounge drifting between thoughts of then and now, drawing on my cigarette in my left hand as I did eleve...

Thanks for the text welcome Poly. Very you, sarcasm in the midst of sincerity. Factor in the time and it really is you. Thanks also tita mag for the beers. And the chicken. And friends, say grace, brigs, pauline and mimi. Yes, I'm back in Manila. dot dot dot For good? For a while? For now? With the kids? dot dot dot let's drink a lot to that before I answer.

Spongebob’s dream is Superman’s identity. Batman used money to be able to. Erica Jong's Isadora Wing feared it. We can if we will it enough And re-define it. artwork at site: http://www.artmatenwa.org/artworks.html

The pen leaves a trail of thoughts capturing precise moments and make-believes. Energy flows from the mind to the hand, giving birth to masterpieces made from bits and pieces of what-ifs and has-beens. You can’t burn, delete or tear up my mind’s imprint of my shadow across the keyboard or the palette or the paper. The final work is saved and archived In my memory stick.