The perfect is forgotten.

I never take afternoon naps, and I never sleep in the middle of a book.

Or I would have said that, before I did both at the same time, quite some time ago.

You had just left the house for work, and I picked up the book to pretend I didn't mind the alone. It was a good book, too, but far too close to home to sit well.

Or far too close to leaving, I should say. I was leaving.

So it seemed the perfect time to do what one doesn't usually do, so close to leaving. Fall in love, live in one house, go to work. Read books, take naps.

I didn't actually mean to take a nap. That was self defense. The book was on to something I would've appreciated not knowing at that time.

***
We had a schedule, you remember? You'd wake up at around 9, work on your thesis. I'd sleep til an hour later. Then we'd have coffee, and a bit of breakfast if you felt hungry enough to cook. Then you'd go back to work, and I would pretend to start packing my things. Then it was off to lunch, mostly at the school cafeteria, after which you'd be off to work. And so would I.

But I didn't have work that day, did I? Or perhaps I told you I didn't, hoping you wouldn't too. The weeks had trickled down to days--hours really--and I didn't feel like following the same schedule with so little time left. We had taken it for granted, all those weeks, and I wanted to tell you, Fuck the schedule.

But then you'd come home around 6, like you always did. And we'd have dinner and drinks with friends at that bar--what was it called again? No matter. We'd come home, make love, sleep. We couldn't fuck the schedule, we were too busy perfecting it.

How could we forget?

***
When I said I was pretending to pack my things, I really was packing my things. I would work at the kitchen table, near the window where I could smoke. Near the window that we never closed, despite the weather slowly turning to winter. I was typing up all the stuff I'd written in scattered notebooks across the two years, putting them in little files in my laptop.

Paper packs really tight, and heavy.

Computer files, on the other hand, weighed nothing. This is scientific fact. A laptop with as much free space as a clean slate weighed exactly the same as the same laptop packed to overflowing.

The same couldn't be said for my suitcase.

***
I couldn't carry everything home with me, as it was.

Most especially the book, since it was yours. So I was determined to finish it before I had to leave. I was lying in bed, that same afternoon I didn't mean to take a nap, just right after you gave me a kiss goodbye. I had opened it up to the last chapter, I think. I finished that book, I'm sure now, because I remember that last sentence. Then I fell asleep.

***
Or I forced myself to sleep. In any case, I remember waking up, thinking you'd come home. I thought I saw you at the bedroom door.

I got up and went down the stairs, but you weren't there. I was dreaming, godammit. I was dreaming and now I was awake, 2 long hours more to wait. I went to the kitchen and shove the 2 burners open, it was cold. It was 4PM, and only October, and it was friggin' cold. Colder I think for it being only summer a few weeks ago.

I sat down at the kitchen table for a cigarette, and that's when I notice it: The window was closed.

***
All this was quite some time ago. But sometimes, that window bothers me. Did you close it, or did I?

I had forgotten all this, to tell the truth. But I still have all those files in my laptop, and its memory, by God, far, far better than mine.

The cockroach in my bathroom

The cockroach in my bathroom

And I play a game. He is afoot
when I'm barefoot, racing
along walls, climbing
onto the sink. He slinks
out of sight when I might
have my slippers, or my
shoes on. Once I
tried to kill him with the mop,
but that was a flop, it was too
soft. Tried to flush him down
the drain, tried to drown him,
but I found out he could swim.

So I bide the day we meet
and I have shoes on my feet.
Meanwhile, my bathroom is his
when I'm not there
I don't think of him either.


***
Bow.

A dog's life.

My dad, having a penchant for ugly, literal names, called him Pudyot. Which in Hiligaynon, means to pick up, or sometimes, too, a small quantity. Somewhat like how pinch is in English. We've had a dog named Gansal, for example, for being too noisy; and a Gringo--that one, I remember, had an unusual reddish coat, and was with us right after the real Gringo was in hiding after the '89 coup.

We--my siblings and I--would bemoan these names. They were uncool, uncouth; never mind that these dogs were askals one and all. If we were lucky enough to get first dibs to name a new dog, we would christen them with English names, a little revenge against our father. We had Happy for a long time, due to a silly smile we thought we saw on her face the moment we held her, and a Sabrina, a beautiful dog with a shiny black coat. These names were all failures, by the way: Happy was one mean bitch, literally; and Sabrina--named after the teenage witch--didn't have any magic powers, and was the sweetest of dogs, not the hag Happy was.

But Pudyot was different. Someone had thrown a litter of puppies on an empty lot near our house, and just left them to die. All the neighbors took one puppy and brought it home. It was my mom--the same woman who hated pets, or at least keeping and feeding animals who won't feed you in turn--who surprised us all by telling my dad to get us one of the pups (provided it was male) as well. It was like the whole neighborhood, shocked by such cruelty, decided to band together and pick up these dogs. But after a few days, all but our Pudyot had died.

Pudyot was one weird dog. The first few days we had him, he was so starved he would eat banana peels, and garbage. The only time we ever let him out, he came back reeking to the high heavens of decaying matter. My mom blew her top, and everyone waited with bated breath what she would do. We watched her and waited with the puppy in the front yard for her verdict. We were ready to throw ourselves in front of the dog (our noses covered, of course), and save him a second time as she marched out the front door, muttering about filthy animals. She stomped past where we were huddled, and locked the gate: Pudyot was not to be allowed out of the house where he could go through the dump again. We were so grateful, we volunteered to give him a bath ourselves.

Pudyot grew up to be a small ugly dog, with no talent whatsoever. He looked like a Corgi with a short coat, and his ears grew outward instead of up, like Yoda's. Whenever we'd come home, he'd run to the gate quivering like a horse before a race, and wait for our cautioned "No!" before he'd jump all over us. He couldn't distinguish dogs from goats--he fought with the first and humped the second. We could never teach him to play fetch: whatever you threw at him he would chase, and bring back, but he would clamp it in his mouth and make snarling noises if you attempted to get it back for another round.

But we loved him anyway. He saved my mom's chickens from snakes and rats. He offered himself as a footstool whenever we'd be sitting outside, or he'd put his paws on the seat next to you, and just lay his head on your lap. He offered us tiny gifts of fallen leaves in his mouth whenever we'd come home. But just like the game of fetch, he won't actually give it. It was as if he loved picking up things, but couldn't let go. For the first time, we all felt our dad had hit pay dirt. Pudjie, as my sisters and I call him, our little puppy boy, lived his name.

Today, around 8:00 PM, Pudyot got out through the gate while we were taking out the garbage. He crossed the highway near our house and got hit by a car. He would've been five years old in April. My dad picked him up, and brought him home, for the last time.

Octo-pussy.

Why is it that when I'm rushing head-on towards a deadline, I find it so conducive to blog? I remember sneaking out of Japanese class to write, and now this. Someone had mentioned maybe it's a stand-up thing, you know, that that's the attraction of writing for me--the getting away from what I really have to do.

Not that this is a masterpiece. But. There are many reasons for this post:

1. The weather held long enough for the championship bonfire--But having rained before the whole thing left Bel field muddy. Some conversations:

Over the phone with A: Drey, you remember 2002? Your flip flops got sucked into the mud and you lost one of them?

I don't remember exactly, but apparently everybody does.

At the Bel field, meeting up with friends: Hey, you remember in 2002 when I lost my...
Unanimous response: We all know the story, Drey! We were laughing about it on the way here.

6-year improvement: My feet might've been caked in mud now, but I left with two pairs of slippers. Woo-hoo.

2. It's birthday month, and I'm turning 28.

Random birthday conversation #1
Him: Hey did you know a lot of people kill themselves when their age is divisible by 7?
Me: Knowledge is power, so it says. Not necessarily helpful, but powerful. Thanks. Really, thanks.

Random birthday conversation #2
Him: Ma'am, what's your birthdate?
Me: October --, 1980
Him: Ay, ako 1982.

New saying: Unnecessary knowledge is annoying.

3. I am redefining the six-degrees-of-separation theory by the number of returned results in Google. Example, you search for Nonoy Baclao, and this blog shows up at#3! Close kami, or what?

4. I just wanted to remind you my birthday's coming up soon. If you don't know when it is, then hindi tayo close.

5. This is not getting my work done. But it's a lot more fun.

6. May iban gid ya nga sugilanon, kung sa tuod-tuod lang. Pero indi diri. Hagara ko bala, inom ta. Kay i-istroya ko guid sa imo.