To-Be-List

1. Slept through most of my dreams again. I miss my lucidity.
2. Today's all about editing my current story, checking the twenty sentences times sixty students of Hum160, and reading the pieces for tomorrow's workshop. Must also adjust the lesson plan. I can do some of these things out of the house.
3. Father and his brother out at the bad place.
4. Somebody's sick. I want her out of the bad place.
5. I heard of a monastery in Bukidnon where the monk is an excellent chef and Sunday means hearty - or should I say soulful? - breakfast.
6. Wherever I decide to work today, I won't be there.

Room of Once Home

Students in my cubicle. Many, so I had to Indian sit on my desk. The more perceptive ones asked Why did you leave the previous school? The more audacious ones asked If you loved teaching so much, why did you even leave? Was it your scratch paper school? Were they guinea pig students? Your colleagues, were they books walking, motherboards talking, Bunsen burners out to blue lunch? Almost a chorus, they asked You wanted them shelved? I could not say no. Although technically, those were not my exact reasons. But before I could say what I felt the most convincing among my motivations, they had already allowed the questions to run rampant. Did you just discard it like that? Your scratch paper school in some university wastebasket? Before I could say my indefinite No or my equally irresolute Yes, they had already asked Did your co-teachers dislike you? Did you dislike them? Would you rather they were in in glass jars of formalin? Your students, did they mutate? Your guinea pig students, did they mutate right out of your computations like numbers exceeding the Excel sheet, leaking out of the plastic monitor frame, invading the room, your guinea pig students? Did they mutate? Did they die? After they said that, there was a hush, and maybe that meant it was my turn to speak No! Surely, they have not died. That was the last thing they'd do. You see, I left the school because of a delinquent classroom. It just would not cooperate, would play with the lights, never allowed the installation of fans. Room blackened its walls at noon and relaxed its ceiling when the rains came. Played with the acoustics so I had to shout sometimes and whisper sometimes. Room changed board from green to white at will. I had to use a knife to get anything written down. Then the classroom disappeared, a no-show at the final exams. Got everyone expelled, me included. Not an honorable exit for any of us. The door left before I could say goodbye. I said, expecting to end the telling. The more perceptive ones were respectful, let me finish, gave the polite smile. Then they looked at the audacious ones who were squirming with their silence. The glance seemed like a cue. They all began wondering out loud Did they multiply with a drop of your water? Did they develop extra elbows, spiral belly buttons? Your guinea pig students, did they shrink or did they evolve out of reach?

Thursday

Verge of a new week. Still in Manila but Laguna in a couple of hours. It's December, yes, but there's a taste of watermelons in the air. I sniff some. Turn my head three sixty. My hopes for the week has been standing there, watching what I'm typing about this door to the week. "I'm here," he says. I see you are, I type. "Are you afraid?" he asks. Why should I be afraid of you, you're my hopes? I type and before I realize I just answered a question with a question which sometimes seems intelligent. But how to be intelligent when your hopes is looking over your shoulders, watching what you're doing? It pains me that I just typed another question. I'm this student thinking out loud, one mistake after another. My hopes for the week's beard grazes my shoulder. "What disappoints you more? That your hopes turned out to be old? Or that he's not a lady?" I was disappointed. But since he cushions my morning with questions, I think I can live with him. He'll just be in for a week. I may lose my hopes in the thick of things anyway, maybe by Thursday. Don't mind me, I type. You're a good one, you can watch TV, stay in Makati or Los Banos, I type. Wherever, I type. I can give you fare if you want to go to Rizal. I can... But I cannot. The taste of watermelons is not around anymore. Such a tasteless air. Maybe I should fry danggit all morning. Make lots of coffee.

Nine point exploration of sticky keys

1. I grow increasingly fond of Taralets (tara tara tara lets!)
2. Lian, Batangas is a breath away.
3. There is a blow to be struck and I’m not supposed to deal it.
4. About a girl.
5. Cancel them sticky keys.
6. A cat came in the house last night smelling the tuna that did not exist until I cooked it into the pasta this morning (with Lian just a breath away). Naturally, I shooed her last night.
7. My packs are bagged, Batangas or not.
8. I got my pillbox, my billfold, the soundless pen-pad combo, the charger without bothering with the phone, and pages of the next book which I hope to drown before it drowns me.
9. The striped tail either belongs to the cat or to the girl.

Cuz

I do not relish the fact that I can burn his house because I have nothing against the people who are with him. I am not happy that I cannot make the first move, that I can only take the skills and flying stars to his face once he has done the damage. I mean, the guy's got more age, more anger, more creativity. Only some areas where I have the edge and I sure as hell won't write them down here.

We both stand to lose some.

God, I hope no one goes online looking for a supposed mistake.

That damage he can make, God, it gets me to thinking. How many centimeters deep can he go before I cross the line I refuse to cross? I mean, not again.

ym

Never messengered much. Lose more friends that way, I guess. But Butasnachucks ymed. Seems she took her shoes all the way to the Netherlands. Picaresque adventures. I wonder if she'll mind influencing any of my characters. I wonder who of my friends will mind. It's not that they can help it if they did. I mean, not even I can help it.

Thought

To write some. Even without substance. Politicians and actors can do it, why can't I? I guess it's the confidence then. That's what I lack. Me ought to express somewhere else. Here's better than the girl. The girl must have been bored with what I say and what I am. And I'm not about to inflict my anxieties on students. Thank goodness for family then. But they all have jobs and what I have is a damn shame of a career plan. I mean, writing? Be gracious! Somewhere a woman died because I failed. I pretty much have to say this: she died in vain. To write some, ha! Thanks for letting me live, woman. Thanks for nothing.