The Circus Is A Whore

At this point in time I've decided to give up on writing. The circus is a whore with shitty looking clowns and half-assed acts, stumble filled and drunk. There are holes in the tent and the animals are all gimped. All the while, the guy selling the peanuts is kicking you in the balls every few minutes, all to remind you: the internet connection here is no fun at all.

Upon my return we will see where it goes from there.

Full Court St. Michael

It's different, it is. The biggest "whoa" being the full court, hoops on either side with a center line where tip-offs take place but rarely do. I once heard there was a neighborhood league 'round these parts but it is almost certain that there isn't one now. The sun strikes the pavement the way a stranger says hello; unfamiliar but willing. In San Jose over the eastside hills, the shining attack is direct: bombarding the driveway half-court without mercy, save for a very green and very leafy tree. If the leaves were a haircut it would be a Beatles' mop-top hideously mismanaged. Here at the St. Michael Village basketball court, however, the daybringer takes a different approach. It flanks the center line with an angle only the unholy commit to. A most cunning assault . . . if it weren't for the mighty tall green army at guard gracefully standing steadfast. As the day rises over, the court is saved from first morning dayfire by tremendous trees that stand with haircuts proper. Wild grass grows. Gravel strewn about on raw pavement. A small concrete stage sits on one side silent in this sunrise hour, life kept afloat only by the sound of a rubber bounce-bounce. Shoot. Miss. Bounce. Scattered about is a steel playground consisting of slightly rusted swings, slide, see-saws, and a minor jungle gym. It's too early for kids to play. Instead of the stale snails of San Jose leaving trails of ick as they sludge about through their prosaic existence, the St. Michael court is home to black and yellow caterpillars with more meaningful wriggles. Though they walk their usual walk, these eyes catch each step as a funky dance from here to there. By San Jose sandal or St. Michael slipper (no sneakers), from here to there, neither court is better than the other. It's different, it is. And that's all that it is.

Location: Las Pinas, Philippines

No Water

No Power

Hot Day

yeah yeah



Nevermind sweating bullets. I'm sweating mothercrackin' artillery shells here! You'll have to excuse the bloggity blog blog silence folks. I'm still trying to settle with no computer of my own - WOOHOO POWER IS BACK ON - a borrowed laptop and an internet connection slower than a two-legged horse. When you are accustomed to broadband speeds, dial-up is a kick in the balls. Or for you puroresu fans out there: a Busaiku knee kick.



Um. Yeah. Ouch.

My routine of writing, drawing and strumming the guitar is out of the loop. I'm still chasing them with a slight itch on me fingers to phrase, pen, and KRUNG! Yes, hah, can't say I play the guitar. Although I do strum the stringed bastard. One entry I had hoped to conjure up was the peculiarites between my guitar back in the U.S. and the one here in the Philippines. I even already have a title for it. You'll see it if it ever goes through along with the written fragments I have now and what I hope to write in these next couple of months. Expect heat, sweat and contemplative complaining. The contemplative part exists only because I have access to tea. Without that it'd just be complaining a.k.a. bitching. As much as I'd like to continue with writing a steady stream of absolute nonsense, there are variables keeping me from staying up to date with my little piece of the web. So for now who knows what lurks around that shady bend?

As of this writing there still is no running water.

yeah yeah