Bottled ※ Brain

Fireflies along the river (Maribojoc, Bohol). Photos taken by the internist-medical oncologist-hematologist-writer-photographer-renaissance-man Noel Pingoy.

Successfully squeezed myself into the travel plans of Drs. Elvie, JP, and Rey. Was welcomed with open arms to join their day tour of the island. Woke up at 4 am and waited for the beginning of daybreak before heading out to sea. Young and old men in small boats hauled fresh fish to the shore. Overheard friendly banter and the chorus of dogs, as if in conversation. I imagined that, after the ritual of fishing and sailing, the men would all be home with their wives and children, on dry land, waiting for the next sunrise. The waters were calm. Had to walk many meters from the shore to approach deeper waters conducive to swimming. Carefully stepped on sea grass, which felt ticklish on bare feet. Was far out into sea, yet the water was below my knees. Decided to head back and swim in the pool. Alone, I realized everyone was sleeping, or transitioning to wakefulness. It was 6 am. Breakfast was ready. Had danggit and coffee. From my vantage point, it seemed like a good day to meander: not

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