Bottled ※ Brain

Left Marbel before daybreak. Drove to Gensan airport. Saw fishmongers' trucks on their way to the fish port, men and women in pajamas walking their dogs by the road, bikers and joggers in Spandex: my kind of people, they who think and work best in the morning. Manong with me in the car. As soon as I'd drop myself to the airport, he'd drive the car back to Marbel, alone. Driving makes him anxious. He refuses to drive and makes all sorts of reasons not to. He had no excuse today. Mount Matutum, geological landmark of South Cotabato Land, air, sea travel today, taking me through the country's major island groups. Connecting flight to Manila at 7:30 am, then Cebu at 11:30 am. Ferry ride from Pier 1 to Tagbilaran port for 2 hours. Expected to be in Bohol at 5:30 pm, just before sunset.  Cebu-Cordova bridge, seen from Pier 1 Brought a printed New Yorker magazine issue, which I'd almost read from cover to cover. The short story is &quo

The package has arrived! First imperssion: it's smaller than I imagined. But so, so beautiful! Font size is smaller than the Smith-Corona, but I love it. Great restoration work by Mr. Gerald dela Cruz of Comandante Street.

Saw this on Kottke.org .

He is not in the habit of explaining himself. He is not in the habit of discussing his successes. But whenever good fortune has called on him, he has been there, planted on the threshold, ready to fling open the door to her timid scratch on the wood. That's a portion of the last paragraph of the sixth page of Hilary Mantel's Bring Up The Bodies . It's the second book of her Cromwell trilogy. I read the first book first, then the third. This book, the second, is when Anne Boleyn dies. There is hardly any surprise in the factual events of the story; much has been written about it. But it is Mantel's brilliant writing that draws me to her work. She crafts perfect sentences, if there are such things.  I was at National Bookstore (SM Gensan) this morning. I visited the neglected spot on the right corner of the store, where books on sale were displayed. I saw a young man, probably in college, read the first chapter of Grit. He kept looking at the price tag, wondering, perhaps

Last week, I put in an order for the restoration of a 1948 Underwood Universal typewriter. Couldn't resist it. Been looking for an Underwood. Reminds me of Frank Underwood in the House of Cards. I should stop with this typewriter: I already have four, and I have nowhere else to store the new ones. All typewriters are old. They don't make new ones anymore. In this sense, I'm immensely grateful to Mr. Gerald dela Cruz, the great Filipino typewriter repairer and restorer. Here's the Underwood currently:

Quiet, relaxing resort in Boracay.

A puppy does sunbathing as tourists enter the tourism office in General Luna, Siargao Island.

Nanay is on a two-week tour of Western Visayas with her friends. Her phone is connected to my Flickr account. All her photos get uploaded to a private storage, a concept she has not fully grasped yet, because she always reacts with surprise when I know where she had gone. Nanay is not the most talented photographer, as you can see in this photo of her best friend and soul-sister, Auntie Cecil posing in front of Kabankalan City Hall.  These are the better ones. I don't know where these were taken exactly, but Flickr has a geolocation feature, so I can make an intelligence guess.  Somewhere in Kabakalan, where they enjoyed sea food.  Somewhere in Matabang, Talisay—maybe a corner in the Ruins? Here's a typewriter.  This is somewhere in Boracay, perhaps?  They're enjoying the trip. Praise God!

 Quick updates:  1. Read Timothy Keller's Prayer. I imagine that I would go back to this yearly to remind my soul of the privilege of coming to God as one would to his own loving father.  2. Reading The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton. Gold digging, a murder mystery, and New Zealand! Excellent writing, too. Catton is the youngest winner of the Booker Prize. She won when she was 28.  3. Still on prayer books. Reading The Collects of Thomas Cranmer. The more I read the writers from the past—Augustine, Calvin, Luther, Owen, Edwards, and the Puritans—the more I realize their breadth of wisdom. It seems to me like no idea or philosophy can truly be called original. They can be challenging to read, but the effort of putting in the work is well worth it. Consider this prayer of Cranmer, which distills doctrines from Romans and the Gospel:  Almighty God, give us grace, that we may cast away the works of darkness and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life, (in whic

I'm honored to edit the special edition of The Filipino Internist of the Philippine College of Physicians . The issue is called " Pandemic Stories ," the second half of the Going Out narratives. In the collection's prose and poetry pieces, internists write about their experiences with the end of the COVID-19 restrictions. In the introduction, I wrote:  In this second of two parts of the Going Out issue, we share 11 pieces of poetry and prose written by Filipino internists from all over the country during the slow, painful, and joyous transition to a changed world. These submissions offer catharsis and evoke familiar, relatable memories. They take us to an era so immediate yet so remote, a time when life was more uncertain and the world, with all its strivings and ambitions, was forced to keep still. That was only three years ago. Download the entire issue here .  

 Rewatched The Lives of Others . Wrote about it in 2010. I loved it then, and I love it so much more now. 

David Sax's newsletter , Notes from a Typewriter, has a similar methodology to my typecasts. Write with a typewriter and post the printed page in the blog. His entry, My Laptop Has No Smell , resonates deeply with me. The thing that strikes me each Monday, when I pull this typewriter out of her case to bang out this thing I’m doing is the smell. It is a distinct aroma of machine oil, slightly sour and sweet, with a top note of carbon from the ribbon. There’s also something metallic there, though I doubt I can smell the keys.

My annual Bible reading plan takes me to 1 Timothy. The apostle Paul exhorts and encourages young Timothy in the epistle. Paul remembers Timothy's grandmother, Lois, in the opening verses (1 Tim. 1:5). Here's a lovely portrait of Timothy and his grandmother by Rembrandt. I remember by grandmothers, Lola Glo and Ugol, with whom I shared fond memories.

Like I said, I'm finding myself falling, intentionally, into a rabbit hole. The Erike Weinrich typewriter, a gorgeous machine from Germany, arrived, greeting me as soon as I had arrived from Manila. (I had a quick meeting in Mandaluyong last Friday night.) The key arrangement is different. Instead of the usual QWERTY, what this machine has is QWERTZ, likely because it's German-made. Sadly, the Adler Junior, which also arrived yesterday, had some defects and the carriage wouldn't move. The damage must have happened during transport. I spoke with Sir Gerald, the wonderful Quiapo-based craftsman, who offered to repair it. I tried it out right away, and here's the first page. 

The Smith-Corona Sterling has arrived!

Mourning the death of Cormac McCarthy, one of my favorite novelists. He was 89. Revisited my blog and found that I wrote a few things about him, including my thoughts about Blood Meridian and All the Pretty Horses .  Really enjoyed the interview with Cormac's long-time friend, Dennis Francis, in the WBIR Channel 10 Youtube channel. What struck me was how Cormac nourished, sustained, and protected his private life. I suppose that's something our generation does not understand, but living a quiet life, away from the spotlight, is one of life's underrated pleasures. Cormac's friends before his success remained his friends to the end. His friend described him as "loyal." By all accounts, he was great to hang out with and told the best stories. What is it particularly about the death of writers that leaves me in a state of quiet contemplation? 

Might be falling into another rabbit hole. Just ordered a vintage typewriter. Nanay, who has complained of the deluge of books my brother and I brought back from Manila,  says, "Diin ta ina ibutang diri?" * Typewriter blogs I just discovered. There are so many of them. Who said blogs are dead? These enthusiasts are keeping blogging alive. Fascinating! The Typewriter Revolution . Source of relevant and curious information about typewriters, written by Richard Polt who also maintains The Classic Typewriter Page . Beginners like me can use the site to learn about typewriters. Machines of Loving Grace . The blog name got me. Poems While You Wait . Short typewritten poems. One Typed Page . Literally, a blog with scanned typewritten pages.  Seldom Speedy . The beautiful, archaic header—what's not to love? Joe Van Cleeve's Blog . Stories of typewriter repair and discovery.  La Vie Graphite . Fountain pens, typewriters, pencils, books, journals, and just excellent contemplati

Spending this Saturday afternoon with Auntie Mary Oliver. Her essay, Building the House , is a joy to read. She writes:  Once, in fact, I built a house. It was a miniscule house, a one-room, one-floored affair set in the ivies and vincas of the backyard, and made almost entirely of salvaged materials. Still, it had a door. And four windows. And, miraculously, a peaked roof, so I could stand easily inside, and walk around.  She compares and contrasts the building of the house to writing poems.  The labor of writing poems, of working with thought and emotion in the encasement (or is it the wings?) of language, is strange to nature, for we are first of all creatures of motion. Only secondly—only oddly, and not naturally, at moments of contemplation, joy, grief, prayer, or terror—are we found, while awake, in the posture of deliberate or hapless inaction. But such is the posture of the poet, poor laborer. The dancer dances, the painter dips and lifts and lays on the oils, the composer reac

God knows us intimately. He understands precisely what we go through when we suffer. In Psalm 102, David calls out to God from the pits of sorrow and despair. The New King James Version annotates this Psalm as "A Prayer of the afflicted, when he is overwhelmed and pours out his complaint before the Lord." For my days are consumed like smoke, And my bones are burned like a hearth. My heart is stricken and withered like grass, So that I forget to eat my bread. Because of the sound of my groaning My bones cling to my skin. I am like a pelican of the wilderness; I am like an owl of the desert. I lie awake, And am like a sparrow alone on the housetop. These are precisely the words I need to hear today. Praise be to God for His Word!

  A colorful mural lines the perimeter wall of the St. Elizabeth Cancer Center. I was walking leisurely when I noticed a hand that seemed to be holding a cigarette that, on close inspection, was actually a paintbrush!

  Went off track after morning rounds and found myself driving up to the foot of Mount Matutum. 

A bird struggled to get out, bumping onto the glass window and flying back and forth in its search for escape. I looked at it with pity and frustration as I read on the couch: Mary Oliver ( Upstream ) of all authors, who was also writing about owls. Pity because that's how one feels towards trapped creatures; frustration because I could not grab the bird to lead it out of the house. I tried most things. I turned off the lights in the living room, so the bird could focus on the light outdoors. I tried opening the windows further, so it would have more room to escape. I tried doing nothing at all. But the bird (I cannot tell you exactly what kind it is, except that it is bigger than a maya and smaller than a church dove) kept on flying and grasping. I marveled at its athleticism. At one point, the bird landed on the chandelier above the dining table. After 15 minutes, the bird flew nearer the ground, past the open sliding window, and joined its tribe in ecstatic freedom, basking in t

I started wearing glasses since I was 14 years old. I collected my spectacles and never discarded them. One day I opened my box where I crammed those pieces and realized I had a collection . I would change my prescription lenses as I grew older but my grado stabilized five years ago. There's been a slight worsening of astigmatism, but nothing too dramatic. Most of my glasses are cheap but durable. For instance, the brown frame (right) cost me 4 euros (Php 250). I call it the Librarian— something old librarians wore in the past. I got it from the flea market in Montmartre, beside the Sacré-Coeur, from a nice Frenchman who gave me a discount. The trick is to ask for a discount, then, if the seller refuses, one must feign disinterest and proceed to walk away. A compromise will be reached, and one goes home happy.  In Marbel, a colleague complimented me for wearing the Librarian. She asked where I got it, and I may have given the wrong impression when said, "In Paris." I sho

It's easy to score a good cup of coffee in Milan.  I read Elena Ferrante while waiting for a restaurant to open. The gnocchi was worth it!

The Dean asked if I could sit as judge in a clinicopathologic conference (CPC) at MSU Medicine. I said yes. As one of the youngest faculty members, how could I say no to my boss? And also, perhaps, I was excited by the prospect of being on the other side. I remember attending a CPC as a student in med school. I was in my first year, struggling to find my bearings, and was thoroughly impressed by what I heard and saw on that Tuesday conference at BSLR in 2009. Second- and third-year students spoke with a furious eloquence, as if they had known pathologic mechanisms and differential diagnoses from the day they were born. After the presentations, our professors summarized the case with a deeper understanding, putting into context the details both salient and seemingly trivial, and offering intriguing but logical approaches to diagnosis and management. I was intimidated, impressed, and inspired, and hoped to achieve that level of proficiency. They made it look so easy. Yesterday I watched