Earlier this afternoon one of my elementary school friends called me up to make sure that I'd be there tomorrow for our long-awaited get-together. It was some sort of an exciting event, except that I happened to remember that I made another commitment right on the same date with friends whom I equally miss. None of the two groups would yield to move our get-together to the next schedule, and I am left without a choice but to attend both on the same day, in places miles apart, come what may.
Tomorrow's going to be a great day after all.
In other news, I have been many months off my manuscript (a novel), and I have had so scarce a time to write creatively (my writing is now confined in the journalistic field only, having been the newly-appointed Editor-not-Chief of the Wesleyan Updates). I am able to produce a verse or two out of my Saved Messages folder from hour to hour, only to delete them all at the end of the day for reasons which convinced some people of my "grim perfectionism." What a kampf, I said, everytime I set down to write it's as if I'm sitting on a military latrine, and there are times that my mind is so constipated with words and ideas, and also there are times when I got a loose movement of 'em slipping down freely into the blankness. Shit onto the sheet. Coincidentally ideas which I consider brilliant often popped into my imagination whenever I'm on the toilet seat, just like Martin Luther, who thought of some of his famous theses while struggling on the toilet bowl. I wonder if so much ideas also took possession of Pope Leo X's mind, who one hour after a severe bout with stomachache did not get out of the toilet alive.
And (what a world!) I once excluded the great T. S. Eliot's middle initial and suddenly saw his name's reflection on the mirror, which reads thus: toilE.T.