Morning Page

Begin. Quarter to six. Pondering on whether to run as I woke up seeing that it was half an hour past five in the morning and the dreams I had still clear in my head; I was with Yani, cousin and brother during my early philosophising about life which we talked over bottles of Tanduay -- when it was the only liquor we could afford then -- and the blare of rock and roll sounds of Juan Dela Cruz, with our only pulutan Litson Manok, courtesy of another cousin, Vic, who owned a variety store. In the dream, backtracking a decade and finding myself in his modest school and crossing path with him along the corridors, it was said that he is also reading the same books that I read and plan to read; Nietze (sorry forgot the spelling), Pynchon was it? Some Hemingway? But the crux of the story of the dream is that even though I got to infiltrate a good university, and this cousin even was going in a so-so small college, we have the same access to those good books I considered I had the monopoly and fortunate to read. The dreams relays that it is not really where you study but on how you grab the opportunity on gaining knowledge and the patience to be profound that matters. Damn, still dreaming about school and student days when it doesn't matter now. Everything about books, and another chance to have a go on earning a decent grade and passing those examination which when I was a student I did not give a damn, just going to school to hang out with my friends, talk and yak about books which we read in the Humanity section of our library, which later on the university would housed in a huge building where reading got to be more interesting, where Carlos Fuentes, Hemingway, Jorge Borges, Gabo, had been perpetual companions, devouring as fast as possible before I leave the university as many books that I could read, dreaming of the gargantuan task of reading every dusty more-than-a-decade books cramped in those steel bookshelves, trying to get my head drawling English like a white man, though know at the back of my head, as I plodded on, that I would get there sooner or later, a decade probably... Been trying to collect myself to write something about the days that have past, during when there was a lull in posting something for this blog. Short of getting myself tied to a post just to prevent myself from yakking anything or writing for that matter anything that has nothing to do with the work that I was doing right now. Telling myself to get rid the unnecessary and focus on the priority task before succumbing to the pleasure of doing something that is easy and being done for so long knowing it would get me nowhere near the destination I had set for myself... Stop for several minutes yakking and speed-typing since people in the house said whatever I was doing was not really in a hurry or I could do later it and would I just give my time to their domestic plaints. Me, blood rushing to the head, pissed and grumbling and grumpy, checked what was the problem; the washing machine was again, as it rinsed the laundry, moving on its feet. Had to insert cardboard to keep it still. When it was done, got to smoke outside, and getting pissed off once again when the last remaining stick I got was lacerated just near the filter that I could not puff the right dose of nicotine to keep me breathing again and start something in my head running...screeeeech! a grinding halt. Stop.