1. Mrs Dalloway, at last
"Sunlight strikes in upon shaving-glasses; and gleaming brass cans; upon all the jolly trappings of the day; the bright, inquisitive, armoured, resplendent, summer's day, which has long since vanquished chaos; which has dried the melancholy medieval mists; drained the swamp and stood glass and stone upon it; and equipped our brains and bodies with such an armoury of weapons that merely to see the flash and thrust of limbs engaged in the conduct of daily life is better than the old pageant of armies drawn out in battle array upon the plain."

Virginia Woolf, Jacob's Room

2. Something scribbled yesterday, looks harmless right now, might be convincing tomorrow
First, you weed out people, then you weed out impertinence. Then slay inconveniences that are flies and mosquitoes barring the way.

3. E. keeps a picture of the almost-affair three years after the fact. She says it's not so much that she has feelings for the person as an acid test of how much the feverish memory remains feverish each time she clicks on the secret file. It had to remain in that secret file lest the jealous lover flies into a rampage once again.

After listening to her story, it was the first time I actually entertained the idea that love and history may be no match to individual change. That that glance, the locking of eyes sets the dominoes falling one after the other, needing no help from the forceful index finger.

Which made me think: what are we to do, then, with attraction? With 'I just know'? With 'at first sight'? With smells and quiet sighs? What are we to do then with all these that make the story a story but are of no use when the First Day of the Rest of Your Life sets in?

I suppose my simple question is, where does this intangible flash I dare not call love truly reside?

4. Wala, tuloy-tuloy na 'to
He falls within the six degrees of separation rule, yet I don't know what he's all about. What's the problem when you don't know him personally anyway?

I've heard of the group he belongs to, yet they sound so alien. Is he trying to be cool with the unlikely activities, choice of things to write on, the detachment, the irony (oh, but isn't irony so 30 years ago?), the...ohh, my head doth protest. A. is right to say that the kids at the launch are real and are nowhere near the types who declare themselves to be masters of the universe.

Are they trying to create their own universe, they who eat their own young, feast on their shit and let the cycle continue until the first generation of shit becomes no different from the flesh they emanated from?

As I always say about the holier-than-thou PhD lowlifes in LB, it must be the water.

He has managed to create a curious world. I'm sure he'd make out to be a fine artiste but I don't feel him. He doesn't throb, he's roadkill. Honey, when you get out there, it's a big, big world that has enough tentacles to whirl you around with, enough feet to trample you into a fine splat and enough body mass to pingpong you onto a wall fashioned with shards of glass. (But then that wouldn't be pingpong anymore, would it?)

From what depths of the neighborhood sewage system did you churn out your dreams from? Must be funky stuff there, boy.