Instead of flowers, mushrooms. That’s all I can remember in this very vague dream last night in which long, disconnected loved ones finally reached out, or us to them — I don’t recall. But my uncle attended the service, although he didn’t want his picture. He looked like how I saw him last; prim, proper, with dark hair and a buttoned shirt. My Inang was alive. My mother went out to market. I don’t know where my subconscious gets its inspirations but dang. Instead of flowers, mushrooms. Yes, I repeated the first line.

This week has been snappy. Work here, work there, manuscript to edit, manuscript to send. Snap, snap, snap. The only fun I had was watching The Avengers: Infinity Wars interviews (because Seb is gorgeous) and trying to keep away from spoilers, because there’s a lot of them. Today, our parents called and asked if we could watch on May 1st rather than this Sunday.

Years ago, I had this sense of irritability whenever my parents would call in the mornings, and then in the evenings, and not leave us alone like adults. Just last week, my brother headed to a certain gig with his officemates and he went home late, and my dad was ringing the phone at two-hour intervals past midnight. I didn’t get any sleep until the morning. I’m sure he didn’t too. It’s rational for one to boil on the inside and hiss, “We’re adults now, pops.” But the thing is, it’s not about us being adults. It’s about us being together. It’s about us being loved.

So, if ever I’d grit my teeth at these past-grown-up worries my parents have for us, I’d just have to remember that it was love calling, not some other kind of worry. It won’t be long until that love get doused off, get cut from the tapestry. Let’s make the best of all we can while our folks are alive.

Now, onto the tweets, which aren’t really telling, you see:


I’m working on a lovely piece, or two, which I can’t speak of yet. But frankly, anything which involves local submissions get the best of me.




Let me blog about this here when I can’t post it anywhere. Jen Azantian, whom I sent my manuscript last October after the DVPit, finally responded. I thought, after many months of silence, that it was a pass. Well, it WAS a pass, but hers was one of the letters that made me believe in myself and my story, because she believed in me. I don’t regret about her “passing” for it; the truth is, my writing improved every month, and even now, I am constantly re-weaving the story as a continue to query.


Somebody get me that purple ribbed flowy dress.



Last night was most beautiful. I will not choose to wear my rags. I have an option to be clean.


I will always love this photo. And I hope this plant thrives where it is.

This week, Angela starts working with us; she reminds me so much of Eleonor, my MS’ heroine. Allisgood had two, or maybe even three important transactions. Things are going up. We are going up. x