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They say I spend too much time loafing around, taking my time in almost every opportunity, sleeping and dreaming my life away. I guess, I’m just fond of spending my day typing around a thought, from an inspiring photograph or from a line that I came across from a film, or from a split second memory that lasted longer than it should, always trying to make a rendition that would fit into the frames of these realizations, taking my time finishing the first draft, just before anyone could ever have the chance to say anything about it, owning those short lived moments.

I got out of bed, sleepy still, but feeling too tired to rest. Hopeful to find warmth outside, so I tried to walk off the boredom that stemmed out of nowhere. Perhaps I am a lyric or just an octave short, something inside tells me that I am almost there, as I wander around, asking myself, what would happen if inertia loses its momentum and soon, I would eventually be out of my pacing, especially when procrastination makes it really easy to stop. Ever since way back, I came to live a life having no grand plans, no blueprints, I am never really picky about what goes on in both my short and long term activities. I was never good in any of those. It was never because I chose it to be so, nor going against the current keeps me afloat, no, nothing like that at all. The thing was, I did not know what I wanted to do, until every time I got to where each was. That is why when the world spins twice as fast, I would always sit in one spot and just take a time out. Probably not a very good option to pattern your life with, but this is where I came to see the things that worked for me.

I remember, just before the dawn in the passenger seat while watching the world fly by, as the crescent moon was just about to say goodbye, my head is slumped against the half open window as I stare at everything between the light and the dark. I’m not sure if I was really awake or if I was dreaming, I could not tell the difference. The headlights and those red tails in front of us contribute to the abundance of a feeling as they would drape the road photo ready. While the wind is messing with my sixty buck haircut, I simply enjoy each feeble breath, spending the time being lost in those thoughts in tranquility, frozen in time before the world wakes up rushing, while in that blissful cradle of motion.

To help relieve my bad leg, sometimes I would let and tie my shoe laces loose.  I like that light feeling and I complain much less.  It is as if I am being taken back, looking right at her face in a glance of a memory in those few seconds, every time the passing headlights from the other side shine right at her.

Those days are like a pop song in my head.

It was like doing a flip-flop. Somewhere within the mid-flip, we realized that the real paycheck was what we had there in our laps. She was right, nothing is good enough if you are still alone though. And how we knew it mattered did not pose any significance, we never got that far anyway. Not being ready did not mean I was never up for it. I guess I was just slow, like a dripping honey on a jar. Waiting for something is already hard enough, much harder if you had forgotten what it is for.

After it rains, when the wind calls out and send its invitation, we would always stay up late, after hours of cassettes and cigarettes, hanging by the open living room door, staring at the seemingly fallen stars on the gutter as they glitter around while the ground is still soaked. As we take in this strange, addicting smell from the pavement outside, singing our kumbayas, It was like the world is clean again each time.

I remember the night when she tore a page from her pocket journal that she always hid and carried in her pack, writing a two liner lyrical dream that she could have sworn to have caught everything what I wanted to say in my lifetime, then she threw the note in the bathroom sink, turning the water blue with a haze of black. “Colors at last” she said.  Well, I didn’t know about that, but the words just keep on flowing now those days are gone. But we never really cared if it really did, or why the coffee stain on the sheet was there in the first place, she said, it was for good luck and so I kept the memory tucked in my chest.

Not the sentimental type but in that silent moment, I thought to myself that for as long as we keep our headlights on, we would always smile and drive our way into those tunnels in an exit song just before the credits start to roll. As the stories and the metaphors go on, I would sip my way through this aimless journey, attempting and taking my time not owing anyone an explanation, maybe it is just me, but I think, a slow fade is the way to go.

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You would probably say and argue that your Mom is the best one in the whole wide world, now if you’d do that, you can bet your armpits I would disagree and brag all the nicest things my mother had done for me, and probably you would do the same and we would be at it the whole day and nobody would ever win. Imagine that.  Not to mention the rest of the world that would want to join us, in this endless contest of whose Mom is the best.  So let us not go there Okay?

Today is Mother’s day, and we would all want to stop and remember that person who carried us in her belly like a kangaroo for 9 months. And I know that you too, do not say as much.  This is an attempt to do just that, an attempt to be able to send the message across, I hope it works.

My Dad passed on when I was 11.

It was right after the summer when he left me and my siblings in the capable hands of my Mom.  She is tough as nails, I remember the day after my Dad left, she spent the entire day crying, but in the next morning, she stopped worrying and started finding ways on how to earn money just like that.

She was never been employed all her life before that dreaded day came. My Dad wanted my Mom to be the traditional house wife, keeping an eye on the kids, making sure that all 5 of us were being watched and taken care off.

We never saw that day coming.

If I were to choose between my Dad and Mom, I would, without hesitation would pick Mom. Please do not get me wrong, I loved my Dad and miss him as much. But I have this personal belief that all children should never be left alone without their mothers and that is non negotiable.  A mother would always know what to say when her son came back from school crying from a fight, she would even call up the boy’s teacher and raise that concern during the PTA meeting.

A mother would never leave her child, under whatever circumstances through the cold dark night when he is sick, she would, without thinking twice take a leave of absence from work since she would be ridiculously worried all day if she won’t be able to.   I love that about them.

During our ordeal, without any experience or the background, just to make ends meet, my Mom ventured into the “Party Needs” business. She started really small. And what was funny about it was, she never had a business partner or the people to help her.  If there was an event, she would always call me and twin brother out, most of the times when we were busy trying to be romantic teenagers, and would ask us to carry 50 to 60 monoblock chairs and 8 to 10 party tables, four to sometimes six blocks away from ours.  To share the humiliation we would always drag our reluctant friends over to help us. I lost count on how many times, but it was quite an experience nonetheless and we would always laugh about it.

What I really liked about it though is the part when my Mom would single handedly makes the balloons herself. She would be up the whole night just doing that. I remember when the first time it happened, when I woke up with all of those colors in the room – it felt like I was in Balloon wonderland or something. She would always make hundreds or sometimes do over a thousand when she got big projects.  Just imagine the kitchen, the stairs and even our rooms were filled with them, with Mickey Mouse prints on each, some of them helium balloons, some requested on sticks.

Those times were really tough, and good money was very hard to earn, but I must say, waking up in those days, for me it was like living in a playhouse.

My Mom believes in culture, more so in Music. That’s our family mark. In 1996, my Mom bought us our heritage guitar which we shared since we smashed the first two when we were still little. It was a junior sized acoustic from Lilang’s. It was made in Cebu. She knows a good one when she sees it. After that, came the legendary 1984 artist series Ibanez, and the Yamaha electronic keyboard.  She plays both the guitars and the keys, and encouraged us to learn. She thought, to keep our sanity together, we needed spirit.

I really admire on how she sees life in her perspective. When I rant, or complain about something, she always has this way of making me see the good in everything. She’s like a descendant of Mother Teresa,  and she never gets tired. She works 6 days a week and every Sunday, as her routine, she would always do the laundry and cook lunch for us. And she only sleeps 5 to 6 hours a day. And it sort of freaks me out at times when I see her do that.

I could only hope to be as wise as she is. I wish I could be as good of a parent as she is to us.  Everyday is like a step forward, an attempt. And I have a hundred miles to take. She is as untainted as one could ever aspire to be, the most wonderful person I know. My personal hero.

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Another year has passed by, and it’s my birthday once again!, boy how time flies, and now, I’m really getting there, getting older.  Looking at some fifteen, twenty years back, I would have been really excited I mean, celebrating your day as a child was just priceless. for those who do not know me, I was born in April, on this date, at exactly 7:48 am. Maybe that’s the reason why I am so fond of mornings. I remember, during our early years,  me and my twin brother had always been celebrating our birthdays outside of our home, in our compound, always basking in the summer sun. We would always start the day by waking up really early, racing and hustling down the stairs in our PJs, always expecting for those color-assorted-balloons, party hats, and the noises our childhood friends make, while they play and wait for the party outside.  As the Pabitin (filipino pinata) is being set up, we would always find ourselves on the sidelines, already eyeing for the prizes that was being tied and hung on a grid made of kawayan or bamboo, 2 to 3 hours before the party.  the stuff being tied there were nothing expensive actually, they were just cheap toys, like a couple of 20 buck water guns, a pair of plastic tennis rackets, some plastic toy soldier figures, and repacked sweets like Serg’s bars and Goya gold coins, some several bags of the famous candies back then like the haw-haw, tarzan, bigboy, and the legendary mik mik the powdered milk in a sachet that kids really loved.

The Pabitin had always been the highlight of the party. And as each year went by, and when the budget for our kiddie parties had to be cut short, we always made sure that the bamboo wonder stayed, until the day that we were all forced to grow up.

I miss those 30 second bliss. In those moments, when the grid is finally being lowered, we stretch our arms up, and reaching, bending our knees for that big attempt, jumping as high as we could. Our hearts stopped every time.

Snaps, and back to the now, no longer a child anymore, I soon realized that this is the first time that I am spending my day slouching in front of my computer, staring on a blank page, counting the number of blinks the cursor is making, waiting for my fingertips to finally decide and spell their first words.

This day really sucks.

While working on this literary project, something nice and familiar suddenly caught my attention. By the way, I am at home inside my room, making the most out of this early morning, while this, very stimulating cooking aroma, from the kitchen downstairs, is inviting me and sort of taking me back to those nostalgic days that I was telling you about. Honestly, I was kind of excited.  I can only imagine what’s in store for me, I do not have any idea what my mom is making, but the smell of the sauteed onions and garlic somehow gives me an idea.

So I hustled downstairs, as i used to do when I was still a kid, now, no longer in my PJs, but in my boxers instead. Of course, not expecting balloons and party hats anymore, my attention now draws from a mindset of a 28 year old, with an empty and very discerning stomach. My mind shoots in food suggestions basing it on the smell that woke my senses up and shook the boring mood out of me. I was thinking, Roasted chicken, or maybe pasta, My mom’s world famous Nilagang baka (beef) or  her chicken and pork adobo perhaps. The suspense made me more and more excited, I’m young again I said to myself.

But like in the movies, a sudden twist in the story.  To my surprise, when i finally took out the food cover, instead of delight, I saw 3 pieces of hotdogs and some heated sotanghon from last night. the surprise quickly turned into a very funny epic fail situation. haha.

While enjoying  the last remaining bites of these tasty treats from my new age Pabitin, and puffing the life out of my cigarette serving as my birthday candle, as every year nourishes me in this solemn seconds of prayer, I am counting the blessings realizing that everyday should be a celebration.

And with all the unnecessary ramblings made, from the child in me, I guess all I’m saying is, “Thanks for shoe-stringing with me”.

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What makes up a good record? Should it have a good melody? probably a very good body and lyrical content, should it be timeless? How about the riffs and the arrangement, have we considered the packaging? How should it be marketed? Should it follow the favorable branding colors, maybe strategically pleasing and easy on the eyes? Or during your gigs, should you see the crowd wave matching glow sticks while doing a synchronized rehearsed movements they call dancing?.  I guess all of these things are very essential; of course the artists behind these pieces should be able to capture their desired audience. Who does not want that?

Well, if you’d ask me, I prefer a more subtle answer, but before we get to that, let us look at the last decade, hmm, not much to offer, in my taste, probably most of you would disagree, but there were only few who offered quite a good lasting kicks if you may, and on the top of my list are –  Beck for sea change 2001, Bright Eyes with his I’m awake, it’s morning in 2005, of course Radiohead having 2 entries, Kid A 2000 and In Rainbows 2007.  And most of the songs in these compilations have that very rich blatant honesty right through the bones. There I said it. I guess the real answer is, having that one most important key ingredient, – that it should be effortlessly true.  in the old days, before you could say that you have actually written a good one, you have to actually experience what you are singing about, if not, you must at least be genuinely inspired. Only a few have successfully able to do this nowadays, and you can actually tell by simply listening.  And to know that you have, there is this thing that you call epiphany or that eureka moment that most artists call that can support and help you on realizing. But now, oh boy, it’s all about what pays the bills.  Don’t get me wrong, I get that, really. Everyone has to eat right? But to do it for the sole reason of vanity? my premise stems from the fact that, these artists kuno have chosen a career path, a career path? Really? It is blasphemous to even mistakenly consider it as one. Please indulge me as I wear the hat of a critic.

So what’s the ranting all about? Well, if you really must know, I am writing this piece as my way of saying sorry to my twin brother who is in a band named Talahib.  The band has been around for 10 years. And in those years, I have been always searching for new very good materials to listen to, and without me realizing it then, that one of the members of the future, probably one of the most well formed Filipino bands is living under the same roof as I am and has the same frigging face.

Me and my twin brother, we have our differences, as kids he always liked Red one, and I’d be Green two from Bioman, get the idea?. Even back then, he always sported that long hair of his that he still wears now, only way longer. Back then we called it Keempee. I tried to relish the idea of it but i did not get why he wanted it, until now.  It came to me that when a person really loves doing something, it will come out of him no matter what. My brother is a Natural I guess.

We have our differences, but we never had that in music.   Sure there are some minor preferences here and there, e.g. Content arrangement and his super extended guitar adlibs, but nothing massive.

Now his band, Talahib  came out with their debut album – “Mga Awit ng Pag-Ibig at Digmaan”  on December 09 2011. And It took them 10 long years to release it. You may think that their time has already passed them by, and was too late for this thing to actually happen, but in my book, judging it from their patience alone, will give you this notion on how scary careful and detailed these people are.  From every lyrical verse, to the right notes and the insertion of each riff, to that inviting groovy, spicy, powerful yet collaborative symphony of beats coming from the drums, and other indigenous percussions, the very compelling voices behind each song. they are, without a doubt, a musical force to be reckoned with.

Talahib – or a tall, wild grass that can withstand and adapt to almost any conditions, anywhere for as long as, all grass stand together. Their roots are entwined, making all of them, in a sense, one.  So as their music,  as their listeners embraced it, they define it as a breath of fresh air in the Philippine music industry. As they represent not only the generation’s artists, musicians and poets, but so as the past and current social cry of the public. They take upon themselves to act, through the most effective medium, through the songs of love and war, aiming straight through our hearts.

But I think, all of these will not be achieved without the listeners, if we decide to just relish and sit around, the equation would be incomplete.  Apathy is not it. Reading the leaflets and singing along I guess is not enough. Not to take arms nor to go rally the streets, but to simply believe.  Hope if acquired is a very powerful thing.  More so if it is amplified through the numbers of its believers.  We are amidst changing times, and this revolutionary band is obviously, directly singing this to us. I maybe over thinking it, but I think they are throwing the right question back at us, – what should we do then?

The band is composed of 10 members. The Album has 11 tracks. Nearly 20 musical Instruments and it took them 10 years to release it.

All we have to do is 1 thing.  Believe.

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As I was entering through the revolving door of my wandering mind, while watching one of the best shows in the sky with rum-shake, of a grand spectacle free of admission, capturing whatever inspiration I may find, attempting to have these sachets of collected interpretations stemming from my very poor and receding memory, be translated through a meaning, aiming to say that it is not always about the symmetry in plain view all the time.

Borrowing some rest, away from my lucid habitat made of stacked concrete and plastic decors.  One invites hope for a few offshoot-random encounters which I think are sources of this sudden and periodic influx of Hand Pocket Sunshine.

To get a hold of some, I thought to myself, a little wait wouldn’t hurt. so I decided to sit there, on the edge of a wooden plank, by the peace of the wind, pondering on my newly found packets of wonders and making friends with time.

Never underestimate the power of eccentricity.

With the right amount of insertion of this odd and unusual behavior, you may find that it is not that bad after all.  It may not always be peaches and lemonades, but to see things from a different view, of the life as you know it, well one could say that it is one way to live.  A friend once told me that it is a skill of some sort that does not depend on the conditions of being normal. What is normal anyway?

Every little experience is perspective based.

In the pursuit of clarity amidst the rubble, I remember that it is about finding the good. it is about when to pause and the positioning. It may be difficult to commit to the entire concept of it, it is foolish to rush either, that is why it needs a little reason and isolation on the side.  Recognize that it takes time, the farthest distance one could ever travel i suppose. Respect and let the ingredients simmer and understand that the responses vary.

Mornings will always be there to renew.

Like the lines we borrow from the parchment pages and poetry, with humility singing for hope, so as sunsets giving way to the next morning. A constant reminder, that there is this undying belief that there is always warmth after the long cold night, and that everyone should share the same.

I would like to define this argument as – relishing the inevitable, that there will always be this unconditional fondness. That even most of the times it is unspoken, it is what it is, everyday when we connect linking the dots, in this unfolded space, whenever we find that perfect color to brush, it is there somewhere between the fine lines and the strokes, never fading, always being whispered in its vague and powerful, shapeless form.

As I find shelter from phrases and rhymes.

Sleeping for days, the words swirled over, running in circles. Catching my breath, then I was caught in that moment and stored the thoughts away, stolen from a very pleasant forgotten dream. One of the very few things i can say that i can paint a picture of, each time i think of that one early morning, in front of my reflection, of a person that once spent his days bending sunlight.

I will miss listening to my nightly anecdotes.

As we attempt to weather blue skies and golden beams, I will always be out, strolling with the cool northern breeze, enjoying those crystal like ether from the morning rays on my tanned skin. My chest sways, taking in this easy feeling from a long throw as I  go back to that once nightly habit, listening on to the rhymes and storytelling.

I guess we all have our sunsets. Of what could be seemingly an end, may also turn out to be just the dark before the dawn. Do not worry, everything we do, it’s all half chance.  And as it sets, you will see that the shadows and the silhouettes will always be there to cast its play, of scenes from real life, portraying how it supposed to be lived.  As we rest our heads in faith, we find surrender in our dreams under the sheets. as we learn to let go, sleeping our lives away, singing that our pockets are not that empty anymore.

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Somebody had told me that life is an accumulation of experiences. That no matter how short or how long each interaction may last,  may it be with a stranger or with someone you know, no matter how random the encounter is, the sum of it all plus the value of connectivity, these are the fragments that make up the definition.

As this was laid down to me, I realized that it all makes sense come to think of it.  I then conceptualized and applied the very basic method of asking questions and noted down questions like the whys and the hows that make up the experience, etc. Then the study began.

At first, your body may start coughing enzymes of happiness from within. These are complex proteins that produce specific chemical changes in your body. Also, you may not notice it, but your molecules may also start to shake before each encounter. You would then telescope your view and measure the optics. Your vision perceives the stimulus and send light like signals to your brain, processing it before you can actually see. Please note, However that what you see and what you perceive stand apart. There is always a distinction. Sight is an acknowledgement of the raw materials that your eyes capture, while perception is about not only how an object looks like or how your mind physically sees it, but how it seems to you, overruling the literal meaning . This is where the different sensations come into the picture.

Towards approaching connectivity, there is also the factor of speech that you must consider.

There are a lot of very intellectual people that do not know how to express themselves even though they have a lot of things to share.  And most of the times during their encounters, there are wasted, lost opportunities for both sides, for the speaker and the listener. The potential of very fruitful exchanges was hindered by unable to say what you really want to express. There should be an abundance intake of oxygen in the body for brain activity and blood flow and it is also imperative to do the necessary preparation and planning. Profiling is another accepted technique that one can consider. The characteristics, the demographics, and the statistics, can provide a forecast that one can use during an attempt to land rapport. With the smart combination of what you have seen and perceived; injecting it in your exchanges finding a common ground and the right formula to your conversations may help produce a more favorable response from your subject.

Also consider gravity. Acknowledge its presence. As it sets a reminder, that your toes must stay where they are supposed to be, as where they are meant to be, on the ground, and as it pulls you down, let your sense of sight soar with the solar beams and sunrays while turning air into poetry and delight.

Then you improvise. Do not be too impulsive though. This maybe the very key ingredient of it all, with love songs from shoe gazing and a little dash of britpop, singing sequels and good reviews, from nothingness you would then create a film scene of moving pictures of vivid colors and amusement. Then perhaps you could say that everything is alright. With no grand plans just a hope for a saving grace and surrender.

With support thoughts of daily dose of afternoon cartoons and letters, you would then cling on to these exchanges for dear life. As our days have always been there to bless us with coffee, sugar and Saturday mornings, we try to earn each fragile moment to take home.

And as we find each morning as an opportunity to turn each cycle and repetitive encounters into a definition, in time, as we get used to the experience, as we wake each morning, we would realize that we never have to mind the cigarette burns and the ash stains, that all the theories and the blah blahs are just there to give frame but not really a component to our interactions. That the real and tangible property is about what lies beneath our skins, the desire that cannot be calculated nor weighed, the acceptance that we are the sum of the life we are all in.

And in the end, we would realize that we never had to complain, but instead, to move forward, all we ever needed was just humor and to display our chubby smiles. Filling ourselves with wisdom not from TV but from real human interactions, taking on the journey as we stride and ocular the skies, relishing the search for that morning slumber. No matter how random, as each interaction translates into happiness connecting the dots, finding out that it is not rocket science after all.

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“Believe.  That you are about to steal this moment with her, running away with the little things, just the little things, with the belief that there are still cheap movies to watch at least, never getting tired, the excitement ridiculously there all the time, and I bet that even without these words spoken,  you’d do it anyways. “

I found myself sitting on an old wooden bench, waiting, a commuter, alone in a shed which stands on a fork in the road, on my way home, one sunny afternoon.

Seeking shelter from a dire shed with its chipped off paint, and tilt posture, its once reluctant concrete pillars now wrinkled by the cracks. As its wounded soldier stance tells a story, of its scarred but proud appearance that was brought about the changing weathers, I spared time and listened by leaning against one of her seemingly tired pillars. This old beauty still remains to be the center-piece of this place though.  She is surrounded by the an overwhelming knee high mantis fields, with each green grass bows down to their Queen, each time the wind passes by.

On my right sits a dust covered back pack, resting next to my feet, my only companion in this worn down shelter.  I almost forgot of this feeling, the abundance of the season’s grace, of the little things around me had taken my eyes away from me, of all of the nicest things and more, that almost simultaneously, I hasten to rest my biases onto these wonders that soon to be morphed into just a mere memory that I alone had witnessed.  As I close my eyes taking deep breaths, of swollen-inflamed entwined feelings of guilt and desire, digesting the stimulus, feasting on the most colorful view, taking mental pictures to make sure that the feeling stays on, at least for just a little while.  Something has to give you away I guess, the addiction translates into something profound, from worse to better, just like that, for your very own sake, just to keep you alive, you know that you need to go back to this place eventually soon.

And soon, youth will be replaced by memories of spilled drinks from plastic transparent cups, of the million conversations you had on those sleepless nights and the laughs and the promises during your days with her, and as you clench, as you take and entertain, the feeling inside just burns you alive. But no matter what, no matter how many lines may appear in your fragile skin, for as long as you are in that universe, as you fly that kite of the memory, you can say that you’d feel like you are still in your twenties still willing to run away even with heartburns and that irremovable stench of nicotine in your lips.

As each passing day comes by, as you look at your reflection in the window pane, you’d say that true romance can still be felt these days. Nobody could tell you on how really, but you know it is out there.

As I inhale the last remaining souls of these wonders, I try to rapture the feeling within.  Having the hammer of my memory to be cocked back, without hesitation, one tries to be awake for the next episodes.  Finally ready to take that ride back, hoping that you’d still believe, and holding hands by New Year’s Eve.

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No more airplanes just speedways, outdated maps and crumpled flown itineraries. Panoramic views, paper cup thoughts, and backpacks; it was a romance with turquoise blue and cocaine white, as we follow the sand-tracks of the giant rolling maleta, singing along to the endless strums of our summer acoustic guitars. While most of us were trying to remember the words, some were doing their best just to be in tune. Imagine us in falsettos in the morning sun. As we find sobriety, there were no more zeros and binaries during those days. Just tropical igloos, nicotine lips and sunglasses, along the shoreline, we were weekend bums on foot.

So this is how it feels like, I told myself. As I strike every key, writing a promissory note of scribbles and shorts, to always surrender to the integers of life. The idea is to take the ripples far, refilling my usual morning routine, putting the words together while tuning in to my old radio.

It is an idle Thursday morning, the weather is fair. It is an easy going day so far. You can actually see the clouds blocking the sun; news report from the radio says it is a windy 24 degrees Celsius. The monsoon is at its peak but there were days during the season when the mercury hits 33. I dream of Laing, our first meal in the island, the brilliant mix of Taro leaves and coconut cream with pork, fish, minced garlic, onion, chili peppers and ginger. It was the first taste, a preview of what was in store.

A fine lesson, to always remember to throw a smile back to what visits us, a yawn then out of nowhere, seeking for a companion, the playful breeze invites itself into the window screen. Quite an entrance for my intruding guest, as it knocks over the stacked books as it enters. Maybe it was too quiet outside for my bored friend. Whisky was out of the question, it was too early so I went for orange juice while hitting a couple of my trusty reds. My thoughts were cluttered by rhymes and illustrations from what I have just read. Skipping breakfast, I was caught trapped, trying to shape this overdue draft.  Tried to overrule the idea of writing about last summer, but the delight of the perfect blend of all the good things, the taste that lasted longer than it should, the goodness of it all were too overwhelming for my paper to ignore.

I am yet to make back up copies of the photographs taken of that summer. Memories stored for safe keeping.  As we keep up with the seasons, we cannot just bank on our neuro-capacity to remember.  Youth captured in every snapshot, stolen from time.

I remember, during the Sunset, we were our silhouettes doing artsy photograph poses. Making the most of everything on what we had there as the sun held itself proud; it had a different strength compared to the wariness it displays this cloudy morning. And when the dark fell, the universe conquered the night, our planetarium in thousand folds.

We were captives of our own freedom, with carry on lights on our foreheads, our bodies lay, resting, throwing wishes over comets and shooting stars crossing the sea of twilight and glitters. We were fan boys of happy endings and of space ships and submarines; we were time traveling through our storytelling of hopes and what ifs with our burnt skin and sandy pockets.

Always out to look for answers, learning and understanding to see.  I took an early dive, head first into the ocean. I could not find anything; the water was still murky and unsure. As if the ocean was waiting for something. It will not wake without its father, its bright skies. Its humility was based on something beyond compare, it was a wonder.

Trying to figure out, the immeasurable distance above; I am discovering what is in between the empty spaces. The gaps are the bridge we build everyday, a connection to the person next to us.  Realizing finally, that it is alright to say that we are all but small ripples in the water, taking on to make a difference, a humble attempt to change the course.

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It has been so long since the last time I stepped outside just to feel the sun on my face. This was never part of the itinerary of the day.  The plan was, just to be as lazy as usual, glue the control in my left hand and watch the world in a tube on my wall.  Thinking of it now, catching myself a realization, I used to love being out here, to be in the same neighborhood, living as a kid, without any pretensions, to just wander aimlessly without any plans and direction, to just contribute to the traffic of random movements.

Lately I have never been good in doing things continuously. And in the way things are going, I think I need to put up with that fact. Reassessing, my principle now is of a grown up’s.  Now, I would always say that, the end of something is also a start of a beginning. And over the years I have conditioned myself to believe that my life is a series of changing cycles that one has to catch up with, every time it restarts. I guess that’s how things really are, but then, at times I still ask myself otherwise.

I remember as a child, I was fond of merry go rounds, and what I would always do was lean back, sticking my tongue out of my mouth and taste the sweetness of the wind. Silly may it sound, but there was something about the air when you go fast that I really liked.

We were in 1^st grade when my Dad taught me and my twin brother how to ride a bike.

We would go biking around the neighborhood, buying pandesal every Saturday and Sunday mornings, passing by the same houses and never got tired of it. We used to race with the bees at the park. Sundays were even better with our Mom’s turbo-roasted chicken and for me; it just got sweeter and sweeter every week. Our family turbo roaster retired last year.

During afternoons, when the Duhats and the Alatiris are ripe enough, we would climb the trees to feast. And as far as we were concerned, the Duhats and the Alatiris were all we ever needed to survive. We steal Kamias from our neighbor’s for spice, and most of the times caught but it did not matter, we were just kids anyway.

Even in our early years, we had our way to out play the grown up romantics. Instead of buying a dozen of roses, what we would do was make bubbles out of Gumamela.  Pounding the slimy juices out of the leaves and petals, plus ground detergent, we pretend to be the pilots of zeppelin bubbles with rainbow striped glare that would wow every girl in our street. And when it rains, instead of staying indoors, with our air cool sandos, we would peel off blank pages from the back of our school notebooks, and instantly, we become captains of our own paper boats; our fleet sailed in the rain swollen gutters.

One morning, my son and I took a walk out of our front gate and saw the same gutter where I used to play growing up. But now everything looked different. We then paid a visit to where the Alatiris tree and the Gumamela plant used to stand, but they were both gone.  I told him of our stories and adventures with those trees, of how we caught the biggest spiders on the branches and lizard eggs laid in between the hollowed blocks of the wall behind them.  Dylan was all ears.

Luckily the Duhat tree was still there but it no longer bear fruits. Maybe someday it will again, maybe when kids start to play and climb trees again. It saddened me for a while but felt thankful right after.  I realized that they will always be a part of what was, a story of the past and of the kids who played and out grown the life.

And I guess this was what listening to all of those plastic records was all about. It was never just to read the leaflets or just to sing along. It was about something else. As I write these words before hitting lazy mode again, before resting my aging legs to rest, I would try again to relish these collisions with the kid in me, may it be solicited or not, to just crash and see what is carefree.  Hits and misses.

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I remember having the conversation of our lives, as if it was happening before me. Her pale body now colored by the dim light from the lamp across the room, the shade was just perfect from where she was. Her painted eyes gazing with grace, she had her left arm supporting her head, elbowing the cushions; I was sitting on the edge of the bed, with leaflets of old cassettes, burning cigarettes and magazines, I had everything there I needed. We were scientists, with our bubble gum theories and shooting stars perceptions, the wall clock made no sense; as if the night will never end.

I was aiming my attention looking past the side table through the open window, I was staring outside, but my mind was way off, somewhere beneath the experience of lullabies and hums. Not my intention to, but my tired back gave in, the comforts of the sheets and my trusty blanket were overpowering.  And as she brushes my hair to sleep, I was sold to the treats of slumber; I was out with the stars over our heads.

Somewhere beneath my dreams, I was being carried; with helium balloons and flying watermelons, I was afloat with the clouds, up into space I glided.  I knew that it could only last for so long, but it was cosmic nonetheless. It felt right, with nothing beneath me, only stardust, tiny heavenly specs of wonders they were. The beams of oranges and samurai blues hazed mixed streaming by the rings and the moons. Funny, that even in my sleep I could still hear her breathing; I knew that she too had fallen to sleep, subdued tenderly by the whispers of the lateness of the night.

Rewinding the episodes, it was summer when it started; the warmth of the season had just begun to settle in.  With our drunken smiles, we found ourselves playing through the honey coated fields, it was endless.  She had her ways, I had mine, we were incoherent she and I.  Learning how to forget about our tomorrows, we wandered aimlessly through our days; it was like we knew where we were heading, without road maps or directions, we braved the crossroads and the highways. We were renegades, with our bandanas and leather jackets having no expectations in our pockets.

In those days, I was looking for the answers, and what I end up finding was the soundtrack of my life.  A little dose of her in paper, kept on striking the keys before the cold, with caffeine on my side. I was on my way to my thoughts, to a place where I always go to find her. I went rushing to her doorsteps then a sigh. As I held the words within, about to slide in the piece under her door, having second thoughts, but it was Inevitable. It was bound to happen anyway I figured.

A couple of hours before dawn, I turned to my left, now facing her, “My love defined” I whispered in her sleep.  Our night light flickers, we shared one bed, travelers in different worlds. My love was both inches and miles away from me. Half asleep, somehow I see her smiling, thinking to myself, what magical dreams she was on. Moments, subconsciously we both hear the speeding cars outside, sleepless in their roars, from yellow over the white lane, recklessly they follow the tail lights before them, the architected paved routes they are on. And as I held her close only to lose her, Jealousy kicked in, as the sandman’s charm creeps in, it was more compared to mine.

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Waking up from a dream I can only wish that the clouds are clearing out outside.  I tried to get out of the bed, but as always, it took me quite sometime to even making it sitting down. Still in bed, against the wall, I am still zonked but I can tell that it is still early; I can feel the cold concrete on my back.  As I rub my eyes to open, with an aching head, had too much of everything last night, I realized that I have not had a cigarette for hours. So I lighted one in celebration.

I closed my eyes several times, wandering off in my thoughts, walking here and there, in the shapeless dimensions of my own universe, I did not realize that I have fallen back to sleep. Lately, I have the habit to narcotize myself by sleeping when things are not that amusing. After a while, finally getting up, way too early for breakfast, still in last night’s clothes, I took a look through the misty glass of the window, checking on the weather, stepping outside, sitting on the sand, too lazy to do anything, chewing gum while the others are still sleeping, I wait for the sun to bleed beams on me.

Early mornings are still the best, as I watch the waves kissing the shoreline again and again, It was then that I realized while waiting that the now and then are not that different after all. Waiting to be there, to do what is now. while you do the same with me, as you read on to these words, as we take a stroll, walking through the corridors of our deepest thoughts during so, we find black and white Polaroid’s moving in slow motion and at times in overly animated shorts, of how things were and are.

We learn to let things be. So we sit and wait for our sunshine. This virtue gives us time more to ourselves; it somehow expands time, supports precision because of longer analogy of variables, process carefully being observed. Guarantee is not its ally though, but hope is.

Drizzles start to drop, ironically I still have my sunglasses on, ever hopeful for my sunshine to come, had no choice but to move by the tree towards the shade. The fruity taste of the gum now starts to fade, thoughts of what ifs and could have been shoot in, – sometimes even if we are exactly, mathematically at the precise position, things still fall short; the anticipation gets interrupted by some weird chance. But one still believes that these days are all about second chances, so one chooses to wait still.

I found and opened up a note from my left pocket reading it to myself, I could not recognize the handwriting at first, but it was mine, I must have written it last night, I could not remember. Writing to imitate, one try to make it my own, wanting to be original, a conventional fool, the words we find beneath the hums and the pages are the ones we sing for the people we wake up with, to watch the sky unfold from monochrome blend slowly turning into butterscotch gold, blissfully sedating, with hangover, we take a dip down under, into the ocean’s arms, washing away our Blue Octobers, ceiling us the bluest, lined white by rabbit clouds and giant seahorses, watching the sunrise, never to forget to always remember that there are always good days to look back to. Binding and overwhelming us are the waters and the skies; we are in between, with sands on our feet.

The sensations of turning the tides, the now and then to be one and the same, bending space and time, I have my legs folded against my chest. As the sun finally shows its magnificence, its rays reveal the stains on my plain white, on the sand, never minding, as another day breaks; I am still here waiting, in celebration.

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I have my body stretched between the spaces and the cushions, facing up, staring blankly at the ceiling, with my thoughts pushed backwards; the room seems a little different this time, maybe I was away for too long that things are seemingly new to me. As I get reacquainted, my mind is somehow stuck somewhere elsewhere. Funny that this thing in me lingers, the microbes are getting way too closer each time. An exhale and a puff more, as the ether running through my fingers, feeling the warmth, trying to stay conscious, between asleep and awake, I realized that I have yet to unpack some of my things from the trip. A second and back to thinking, convincing oneself that things are the same, still waiting anxiously for the rain, trying to put sense out of everything, a poor attempt to squeeze in algebra back to the things that once were.

It was still dark when we left; the calmness of the night subdued everyone, an invitation to sleep. The glittering pellets shed light over our heads as they also reveal our tired bodies resting, the wind offering its share, as it whispers its lullabies from a far, cradling us, off to slumber most of us went, the silence with happiness hitting cold down to the waters, a cigarette and a match, standing to stretch my legs, being cat-quiet about it, careful not to wake the others, I placed my back leaning against the bamboo brace of the boat. I was caught up by the silence realizing that the chugging from the motor had stopped. Looking around, then accidentally, bumped into a thought as I glance upwards, I was taken held by the overwhelming vastness of the night sky.

It was around 3 in the morning, the mountain sides walled our route to the port, and apparently, the boatmen had a little trouble with their little ship, stuck in the middle of nowhere, somewhere, having the habit of taking the good out of everything, now I have my attention fixed to what I think I have fallen in love with.

And as one clutch on the moment, when everyone was in their sleep, I snuck out my feelings, a travel between my mind and my chest. Probably the farthest I have ever taken so far, dazzled by the innocence, never uttering what was meaning to, one can neither let it go nor hold it too tight, frosting glass it was. One has been caught in a trance at the moment, then a revelation. The wooden raft and the waters offer an analogy – why is it that most of the time we need to know where to stand and feel something constant under our feet? When all we need is buoyancy to stay afloat. Having my own conversations, but not losing it (see Microbes). then a counter:  We need to have something firm to stand on, to reassure ourselves, if we rely on buoyancy alone, eventually our legs will tire and drown (quantifiable factors – see The Simple Things).  Being stuck out of nowhere in the middle of the night, with no life vests and a failing motor, out with the stars brings me back to the story of the people of the desert, whom rely on the skies for answers when lost. Doing the same, reluctant at first getting any, I began stopping analyzing too much. My eyes went off way up and just appreciated what I have there at the moment. One cannot remember how long my senses were out, and then suddenly I am beginning to finally see the answer. And there it was. Staring in front of me, – What we feel needs not to be reciprocated, the romance we feel is the love we want to share with the people we care for, and when we share, it is giving. So In conclusion, one realized that, what we hope to inspire is not a reaction. We don’t want that, but instead needing another is like turning your love note into a one way- paper airplane, throwing the words and letting it all go.

Back to the apartment, I am now sitting by the window, realizing, what was seemingly a long wait has already come to a halt. And as each rain drop hits the pavement, it was like watching the rain dance.  A sip and a puff, with happiness felt, now I can probably say that I have seen the goodness once again.

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Rolling down the window, now, I have my head out to feel the sun. A passenger with my sunglasses on, filtering the noon rays, I relish the eastern breeze that bids farewell. Looking up, I see fluffy cotton candies, infinite blue skies swirling over and over, mirroring the sea, the tree-branches reaching on to each other, casting shadows, as they offer shade for those who may want to rest.

And as one tries to capture every detail in prints, memorizing each honest breath, transcribing the feeling on a canvass for words, my notes are filled by crossed-out lines and incoherent phrases. As one stumbles, not really caring of what color-paste to use, I am now overwhelmed by these scenes rolling before me.

Funny how we get from one place to the next, with ease, my once tired mind is now ready to have this skipping pen moving along, to have it scratching on my scalp before throwing a few wrong and a couple of right ones, I think I may have found a new perspective to finally begin with.

One of the best things while being away is the thought of you having something to go back to. While most of us are more than willing to drop everything, taking on that great escape, a vacation perhaps, being so darn spontaneous because we are young, or at least feeling like one, without really thinking about it, we are yet to realize that, what we are out looking for is already within our reach, inside the confines of our walls. Sometimes, all we need to have is another angle to see each day a new.

Drive down the interstate or have the curve taken, when you are tired of the usual things, try another route on your way home, or walk in the rain sharing an umbrella, seeing the city in full length in different hues.

As your body tires, you miss the scent of spilt milk on your pillow during sleep. Having those conversations in bed, heart-stoppers cheese eggs for breakfasts, and as the morning beams intrude, shining through the window pane, reading and storytelling, with too much caffeine, you lie wide awake listening to cassette tape records. – that for you, is one of the most profound things in life.

Day dreaming, I have my attention stuck on the ceiling cracks in the backseat. Halfway to the city, one can’t wait to have my first cigarette for hours, I turned my head back looking outside, ever longing to see her again, to hear her read the words out loud, promises, throwing those arms around me, now conscious, with my backpack stuffed with used clothes and a few bucks to get back, wishing to be in her sugar rush embraces soon, listening to her love stories, to be home.

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Sitting outside my door, on the steps reading the sky as it writes, its narratives across and over the day line, sharing the sunshine on everyone down here. Pretending to be up there, I have my mind set imagining that I am taken adrift by the winds over the plains and the greens. As I have my Journal with me, I am lost yet surprisingly felt found in the experience. You can probably see me closing my eyes as I do this, opening at times to have that pen moving, writing down a list of what good things I may find inside my wandering mind.

So I take the time, then pouring coffee in a stryro cup. As I carefully do so, I hear my neighbor singing; probably making breakfast, the smell of garlic takes me back to Mom’s home cook meals and Sunday childhood laughs. – Then I go thinking, on why most of us at a certain phase of our lives tend to fall far apart from our child selves. I mean, we tend to focus too much on our careers, on how lavish we can provide, focused too much at work, so in preparation, we weigh things too much in almost everything that we do, that we over calculate things. In doing so, we tend to rule out the most important variables because we think that these things are not quantifiable factors therefore, cannot be part of the equation. What I am referring to are the simple things in life. Think about it.

I am too, is guilty of this, I forget. That’s the problem, I miss watching cartoons with cigarettes, and have that pillow on your back, placing the ashtray on your chest while you enjoy the comforts of the cushions of the couch, brushing her hair, while she has her head over your lap, capturing each moment, striking the keys, writing, overflowing and hoping the words are enough, a humble attempt to paint the feelings, not stopping, reenacting the moments in magnification and detail. To have those moving Polaroid pictures taken, while still in bed, under the heavenly sheets and cloud like pillows, white over the wooden base of the four poster bed.

Remember those yesteryears of kite flying in the park, Jazz records-vinyl playing, and reading old newspapers as the music echoes across the yard, spider hunting with lolly pops, afternoon street games and puppy love. We drift back to our past, but only during the split seconds of our hectic lives, not the way we used to, not the same way anymore, not like when we were still fond of colored-gummy bears, summer golden haze with iced candies. We only remember the simple things in life on the train ride from work, or during our coffee breaks. Seconds, we spare for these variables not part of the formula to success. For what matters now are the paper works and beating of deadlines. We drown ourselves with the things we thought important. We are bound within the shackles of this reality.

So I say, that instead of thinking so much of those sepia days you once knew, why not start trying to do something about it now. We have got plenty of time to ring a friend, and hang out all day, go out to try the best ramen house in town, have that wacky picture taken, watch ballgames, sword fighting with your son, afternoon naps and travel. The simple things in life are the best ones you see. And just in case you have troubles on getting started, you can start by counting your blessings. It will work, definitely.

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May it be flying or just a bus ride, just plain walking, or climbing mountains, it is in our nature to travel.  I have friends saying that at times when they feel bored or just think that they should do something different, will jump on a train, and go around the metro in circles, doing their reading for hours (their version, instead of going to a coffee shop), some enjoy the ride with their music on and have the tunes encrypted in their chests, some will fly to Cebu just to have Brian ribs to go or have lunch in Dumaguete, just for the heck of it.

Come to think of it, we travel all the time. From home to our schools, to our offices, some of us travel for fun or for work. Every time we get that phone call, receiving an invite to go to a friend’s place for an inuman, every time we carry our lazy butts to the store to buy cigarettes and pancit canton, we travel all the time.   Even an amputee can do his share of traveling, through his thoughts and words; he can break barriers, stacked walls and opinions. When we read and explore words, when music writers make music and when we sing along.  Now this kind is more profound, for it transposes to journey already, a greater degree of travel.

For me, it is best when we travel in the simplest fashion and doing it with romance. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve seen this already in movies. On a train or a bus ride perhaps, you see a couple sitting next to each other. You can’t really tell if they are interested or in love with one another, maybe they are, or maybe the screenwriter just wants us to believe so, when actually they are not. Nobody knows. The scene puzzles you. Let us asses further.  The actor has his hands holding the steel bar of the seat in front of them. The girl, on his right, holds her hair, not wanting the wind to ruin it, slides it tucked beneath her shirt. While the boy is trying to stay conscious, she kept on holding her hands together. And with reluctance, eventually, allows the boy to hold it anyway. She has sweaty palms whenever she is happy, she explains. The boy loves her happy hands. The boy then placed his head on her left shoulder, onto her arms, like a child he clenched. He relishes her perfectly matched scent on her sleeve. The girl looking at him, inside her she feels a silent kind of happiness.

 

We continue the romance.

 

INT Bus – Night.

 

She wears her Brit inspired sneakers, white trimmed with red and blue.  He wears his wrist watch on his right. Then the girl shoots in her analogies on why he likes it that way.

The camera zooms in focused on their entwined arms.  With their bags on their laps, they hide the sweetness, camouflaging it.  They were neither going fast nor slow.  They did not care anyway. Traffic is the last thing in their minds now.

Traveling goes beyond physical, it transcends.  Out of words, I turn to my sister in law, as she utter these words – “Traveling elevates you to higher plain of existence, that you are able to see things in top view”.

Many write about the coherence of Love and Travel. Maybe because of the celestial bliss it brings. May it be for answers, for wisdom or for love, may it be for stories or laughs or out of sheer boredom, we travel because we have to move along, and above all, to share. To borrow Ol’ blue eyes’ words, – Fly me to the moon!

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Everyday you always hope for that perfect day going for you that everything goes your way whenever you are near her. I mean, we try so hard to be cool and steady in her presence that more often than not, we end up smacking our heads with our palms, behind her back because of some silly things that you’ve said that may accidentally have taken her off, or at least you thought it did, especially with friends, that cross the line, but you know you can’t be angry at them on the same way. The point being is, even if you have that much of experience you always end up taking pauses and take time just to clear your throat whenever she walks by. You are powerless. Legs not working, you can’t get them to move. Microbes had eaten your chest. You are infected.

I don’t mean to pry, but it is an outbreak and there is no cure. Most of us are in the same pair of shoes, just a matter of preference of what size and brand of shoes we’d be wearing. I don’t have the answers on how you can sweep her off of her feet, nor the ‘one liners’ and ‘come on moves’, none of those. But I know songs. And I know that songs have the same effect as that microbe we were referring about. Not to help pursue her, not to help you understand what you are going through, none of those. Again you are infected.

It’s like an incurable disease. You’d start noticing every detail bout her, what color she usually wears, is she a lefty?, those Mickey mouse ears, child like ways, her stilettos, her hormonal mood swings that you are unusually obsessed about, then there’s the teasing but for you it is normal, for now. Then you’ll feel that things are getting pretty scary, and at times you may think that you are losing it, but you’re not. Believe me you are just fine. Those are just the microbes working. Most of the times, just to hide your addiction, by this thing called pretension, you feel like an actor in a play, convincing your audience, her, that you don’t care. Won’t work, it will boomerang. It is math. Expect that it is accurate.

Now, there is nothing left to do but to just tell her how you feel, but you just can’t. As a remedy you’d then turn to heart amplifiers. Everyday you’d put on those headphones, hoping to find your saving grace, you’d correlate every line in every song with those entwined days that you’d wish to spend with her – sitting on a bench, tangerine fields, rabbit clouds and coffee stains, shared morning views, breakfast. And as you listen, as you take on that curve, and the stretch of an avenue from your office, to the bus stop, everything around you are like moving pictures, a film, and your play list is the score. And as the scenes in your head roll, you turn your head from left to right, looking at the city lights and the highway hues. And the immovable feeling will kill you at every end of each song. Darn microbes.

And before you know it, you’d be listening to way too much of Thom Yorke and his bizarre ballads, finding yourself in strawberry fields, looking at Lucy’s eyes, ever longing for those Fender imposed C minors and B flats, waltzing away, with her thoughts, trying to find the words between the lines on how you can finally ask her to have that first cigarette with you. Darn microbes.

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Spending Saturdays in bed online, finding one’s frontier, reading romantic screenplays with cigarettes and junk food has become a weekend routine that starts in the first light, and stretches on till dusk, midnight until slumber hits you and takes over. In between the activity, are the day dreaming and the short naps, it is best with ice creams with cigarettes, an odd combination, but for a romantic, I’d say the stale taste and the sweetness of the experience will surely take you back.. Now focus you.

The mixture of all the sour things that happened and the few good stuff that filled your days with her will definitely hook you up with this kind of a weekend ‘hobby’, so to speak. As if you have any choice. The sheets and the bread crumbs, the long hours of browsing online for that perfect Sunday afternoon song, reading lyrics and screenplays, certify you to be at it the entire summer. You won’t survive without TV, – your HBOs and Nat Geos, and most of the hours awake, you are watching at the same time you are surfing the net, and listening to overly saddened British pop music, writing some of your thoughts, doodles, crumpled papers everywhere. And yes these are definitely possible. You’d be surprised on how easy it is. Most of the people I know will drown themselves in the bathtub with alcohol, for some, antibiotics. But actually the art of sulking is a complex mixture of everything, except of course drugs, this option is way too extreme even for my taste. Over drinking will not do it. Alcohol will overpower the romance in you. With bathroom medications, well, you don’t want to go that far of the line my friend.

Mind you, I am with you with alcohol, drinking is one of the few things in life (along side with cigarettes) that are honest and will stick with you even if the night is over – I’m referring to hangover. It is just that, over drinking takes the sense out of you and makes you say and do things that you will definitely regret in the morning. So I say do it right. With cigarettes, the pack brutally and honestly tells you that it causes cancer and ‘dangerous to your health’ – isn’t that something?

If you have to be alone, by all means do it, I recommend before doing it, go to the grocery, get yourself a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, (please drink within your tolerance), of course cigarettes and a gallon of ice cream. – You might also want to grab yourself 2 cartons of OJ, just for the kid in you.

Read. Brain activity will surely help. Logic can provide you a clearer picture of what you are into at the moment. Music also does the same effect, only it is too emotional. But one can’t help but to listen anyway because we long for it. We need it. That is why it is imperative to balance it with logic. So read.

This kind of a weekend routine will last for about 3-4 months or so, depending on the severity of the case. But it is normal. All I am saying, if you are to do it, do it right. You’ll know that this phase is over when you find yourself somewhere elsewhere doing a different thing, and doing it regularly. We’ll save that one for next. For now, enjoy sulking!