The blur of fast-forward

I should really be working. One, because I'm getting evicted on the 30th and I am yet to buy goddamned packaging tape. Two, because a certain deadline is looming, along with all the other deadlines that enjoy making a sport of me. Three, because I need to get my flaneur mojo on because I've got yet another paper on T.S. Eliot and his madafakeen "The Wasteland." Four, because I dreamt of the girl next door and man, was that a doozy, and then a couple of REMs down the night, a dream about a poet/kainuman, and that was simply horrific. Five, because I am running out of money, hence blissful state of inebriation is currently out of reach, which means I can't not think of not working. Yeahba.

So what have I been doing? Paper-taping for one, because that's what good sleepless friends of good sleepless artists do. And then I'm knee-deep in vampire / giants with tails / blue aliens and buttsecksing and all that jazz, not because I've grown mad with boredom, but because I have to -- yes ladies and gents, I have to read about anatomically impossible men and women bursting like ripe melons within each other, and I have to write a semblance of a sane review for them. And so, if anyone is up for a discussion for the hidden tribes of New Norway and Trek M'Qian, give me a call. Bring booze, as we shall need it. The girl next door, optional. What else? Oh yeah, new detachable showerhead. Which reminds me of a conversation I had with someone a few months ago:

"So, what made you happiest sa Dumaguete?"

"Fuck it, hands down -- yung detachable showerhead sa Bethel's!"

Get yer minds out of the gutter, there was hot water. (Ooh, that rhymes.)

Let's go to the beach, kids, and burn our noses off. Will entertain you with the sight of the expanse of my sternum underneath the stringiest piece of neon green bikinis. Oh, the horror, the horror.

And boo, I missed the dolphins to Subic (because doing so required me to get up at 4 AM).

*

And now, some quotes. About Luuurve. From the books Captain Corelli's Mandolin by Louis de Bernieres, which has been gathering dust underneath a gigantic bed at our house at Calatagan, because after reading the part about the doctor and his goat, I found I couldn't read anymore. Maybe because I'd been at the apex of my Cute Guy at the Billiard Hall phase, which, thankfully, has long since passed.

"Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because that is what love is."

"Love is not breathless; it is not excitement; it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being ‘in love ‘which any of us can convince ourselves we are."

"Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossoms had fallen from our branches were found that we were one tree and not two."

What up, people?