AT THE STOA

Only Murakami gives me this feeling of having turned my days into a narrative resembling a hiccuping, smooth staccato.  Apparently, he also makes me write like a complete twat. I feel like my days are constructed in simple sentences that somehow, in a design ineffable, make the storyline plod along.  You see. A complete twat. What happened was this. I stumbled quite inadvertently onto an e-book reader application complete with a severely long list of authors whose works were themselves available for free download.  So I got a dubious one of Wilde's entitled  Sh*t My Dad (Never) Says,  several of Murakami's works, and the entire lot of Pratchett's.   (I have a strange, inarticulatable feeling about this.  On the one hand, having completed the Discworld, his earlier, and  later novels in the form of a full-blooded, ink-and-paper library is severely satisfying.  Having a virtual copy of the same didn't add anything resembling good to the ...

Adding to the ten billion other posts on summer ever recorded, described, painted, and posted anywhere - summer is, at least in the corner of the universe I call my own - travelling home to Baguio and going on a hike, assured that you will be legitimately going on a nature-embracing frolic and coming back out of it a dirtier, albeit a better, man - - and finding beautiful tugs of war between biology, architecture and gravity. While in Baguio, summer is also going back to the coffee shops tucked here and there, happily charging midway between exorbitant and acceptable prices for food and drink (which no amount of editing in Picasa will render any more scrumptuous) - - blueberry pancakes that are really blue, and chrysanthemum tea served in paraphernalia so pretty-looking it made me forget to wonder why I ordered tea made of drowned flowers. Summer is also the time of birthdays - - my mother's 72nd, wi...