First things first. You ought to visit this blog which is my nonfiction class' community blog where we post all sorts of found things from the depths of the internet accompanied by well-written (hopefully) recommendations. I've found some pretty interesting posts so far, the most intriguing of which was a reaction to  reaction to the Philippine lit-in-English scene and their supposed puffed-upness, bias, etc. You should see for yourself!

Second, the life update. I know it's been months. It's July, and we're hurtling into our second/third month of the semester. It's been short but violent outbursts of rain, an increase in the mosquito population and the mad dash to acquire thesis sources before everyone else does. My thesis topic is going to be tackling (Philippine, of course) magic realist short stories, spirit of place and the journey of the young adult. Yes, that is a LOT of concepts thrown in together, which makes it quite specific, and also a pain to do research on since it's three different topics, haha. Anyway, I'm having fun working on this, and really, will willingly devote hours in the library just reading.  Despite Nick Joaquin writing magic realism before the Latin Americans did, there hasn't been a lot written about the Filipino vein of it. My thesis prof says it's a rather long tradition over here, which is understandable given how tightly bound we are to our folklore-- it seeps into modern life. Dwendes by the pool, ghosts in the campuses, snake-men in the malls and fortune-tellers right outside Quiapo church.

I'm not too sure if Candido's Apocalypse can be considered young adult + magic realist, but it does tackle the same themes as, say, Catcher in the Rye (Holden's "phony" and Bobby's "over-acting"). Thing is, Bobby's spell/dream/delusion is just that: his imagination going overboard. It isn't actually real. Great story, though. Growing up has never seemed this horrifying (and I mean that as a compliment).

As for story ideas, I've around two or three sitting around, still unwritten (I need time, a table in a room with air and sunlight, and a laptop with a working battery) but there's the whole of next sem for that, if I get my stuff done properly. There are ten of us in CW199 and my batchmates are noisy crazy funny and generally make for good company. It's a comforting thought that you suffer by group, but I'm sure these guys will make it through.

Thesis-ing aside, I've got a whole bunch of other things on my plate: a fledgeling involvement with our church/my org's ministry to international students, a stint as my org's secretary (horribly bogged down by Bukluran's nasty downtime, but hey, that is life) and a quest to hunt down certain freshman and engage them in Bible study for the rest of the year. (Tall order, but I pray these things shall be done with the utmost joy, out of a little daughter's wanting to make the Heavenly Father crinkle his moustache up into a smile.)

Books: I still haven't finished The Elephant Vanishes. I bought The Ground Beneath Her Feet by Salman Rushdie and it's been a rollicking good ride so far, what with the melding of Indian and Greek mythology and the language of Mordor. (I still remember that Ramayana play we did back in third year high and the dubious existence of my character. Did Sita really have a younger sister? Ah well.)

I'm going through this phase of wanting to do digital art again. I know I keep saying there's no time, but there actually is, if you make some. One of the first things that popped into my head was to make illustrations of Catdance (a comic I wrote about Pisay, still just in script form) and of Candido's Apocalypse (because seriously! dancing bejeweled creepy aunt skeleton!).

That's all for now, I suppose.

Before she went into her room to take a nap, mother told me to watch out for the Eggman (the Egg delivery man) who would probably come by the house in a few minutes. My bedroom window has a garage/garden view, so I'd be the first one to notice. I was streaming episode 6 of Bakuman when I fell asleep. I woke up two hours later, at 5:30. I'd dreamt of humanoid aliens in tracksuits with a thick melting-pot american accent beaming to Metro Manila and making odd comments like 'it looks just like Japan!' and flipping through a couple volumes of manga.

Someone yelled "Tao po!" by the gate a bit later, so I immediately got up, grabbed the egg-money off the top of the piano and went outside to the garage. But it was not the eggman, just a letter deliveryman. I signed the receiving slip that came with the letter and handed it back to the guy.

The air during 5:30 is nice and cool since the sun's going down. A lot of kids and their yayas like staying outside at this time, so there were screaming children running down the street. The yellow-orangey sunlight was pretty strong in the west, bathing that end of the road and the houses lining it in goldness.

I was in the garage, opening the screen door to the house when a person's gold-bathed face flashed into sight for maybe two seconds. It caught my eye because the sunset made the face completely yellow-orange. It was a young woman, probably one of the yayas. The face appeared at the start of the alley next to our house and then disappeared. I waited for a few seconds, expecting to see her walk into the alley, but no one was there.

It was dark when her eyes flew open. The room was dark, humid, cool. The sheets were tangled. She reached for the alarm clock, pressing the button that made the numbers glow. 5:30 am. She reached for the space in her chest, fingers brushing the place where the warm pulsing could be felt. A dream, she thought.

It was hard to breathe. Like her lungs were bound by rope.

Eyes adjusting to the room’s dimness, she fixed her gaze on the white beams that ran down the length of the ceiling. She listened to herself breathe. This is real life, she thought, with skin and sweat and hair and all the things that dust can cling to. A breeze stirred, rattling the blinds gently. She shut her eyes and tried to fall asleep again.

The dream came, and a face.

Panicking, she sat up, eyes darting to the lumpy stuffed toy that lay at the foot of her bed. She grabbed it, and as she stared down at its round black eyes and gaping mouth, realized one thing she had not realized: that, perhaps, she cared more about the person she'd dreamt of than she had known.

Have this, she thought, pressing a pillow to the side of her face, cradling the stuffed toy in her arms, wondering if her God could hear her in this half-asleep state, dizzy with pictures and sadness and the haziest possibilities. She felt blind, as if a hundred unseen roads stretched out before her and she could not pick, because she could not see.

Stay, she thought, and it was more of a plea than anything, because maybe, maybe this was it. She didn’t know, but she said it, anyway. Please stay.