deep inside, all writers - would be or established - are chronic ocd (obsessive compulsive disorder) cases. or to put it euphemistically kind, neat freaks. nothing, it seems, dampens (or inspires, on the obverse) the writerly urge more than the intractable messiness of the quotidian.
here's a struggle, a daily one, i always end up losing, anyways. i confess, i'm an unapologetic slob in all other aspects of my life. dishes pile up in my mildewed sink, clean and not so clean boxers, well, you get the picture.
but there is also this raging senseless impulse in me to make sense of all the disparate whatsis of my daily existence. i have this unfulfillable want to order all this randomness. this is, maybe, why i did closeted journal obsessively before i discovered this naked blogging.
take a day like yesterday. i got off at union square and a giant popsicle (some 35,000 pounds by police estimates), the color of strawberry, was literally melting, juicing red the busy street across the new york film academy. it was a failed stunt-a stab to set a guinness world record- by a beverage manufacturer about to launch its new line of frozen treats in time for the sweltering summer.
on my ride home, i overheard this scintillating conversation between two old men, one more washed up than the other. old man 1: "i need a wife." old man 2: "no problem, take mine."
and just before i dozed off, i caught the tail end of an interview of a manila based politician on my pinoy satellite tv. i don't remember what he was being interviewed specifically but suddenly the pontificating politician, who was without any hint of any chinese gene in his mien, suddenly quoted an ancient taoist philosopher on how to treat the grumblings of an agitated populace. he said, "treat them as you would fry a small fish. just medium heat and no unnecessary turning."
now there. how in the world can i fossick for some sense, some order, at least in my writing - in my journal or in my blog post - in a day with disparate highlights such as those? or should i even bother to?
i guess, in our post-post-postmodern ethos, this should be a non issue, after all. unfortunately - and here, i guess, lies my problem - i am doomed forever to be a conventional, if not hickish, reader. deep inside, i'm still a mark twain kind of reader, one who still firmly believes that the difference between truth and fiction is that the latter has to make sense.
in a way, my kind of story of a day like yesterday would be one where firefighters hurriedly arrived to the giant melting popsicle scene and the sirens of their trucks drowned out all other unnecessary chatter i could probably overhear. and after they hosed out all the red sticky goo, they left the scene with the street still glistening pink.
