it's always been parlous for me. i mean the writing. something there is in the telling of a personal story, the compulsion, perhaps, to expose oneself, that invites not-so-positive vibes to my insular universe.
once in manila, an editor-friend came up with a book idea-a compendium of love letters written by gay men from, as they say, all walks of life. the cantankerous train conductor, the bored box office boy. not just the adjective/adverb-addicted literary types.
my then boyfriend volunteered one of my shorter letters. we both felt right of his keenness with the project. he, being just dumped three months before, for some sort of vindication of his lover-credentials. i, for the crispness of my prose which i have never since gotten back, for god knows why. and then, just a day after he mailed the manuscript, we both figured in a car accident. for the next three months, i dragged my left foot wrapped in an itchy cast.
thursday, i wrote, cavalierly, of the strange man's travel plans. then, a day after, some friends from canada came and demanded i go with them to visit their relatives in washington dc.
a weekend without the strange man.
on our way to dc, our group took a pit stop at a rest area somewhere before baltimore. a friend told me i needed coffee. i was not being myself, he said.
it was almost four or five in the afternoon. the wind has blown away the sun. some of the leaves of the trees were starting to fall. and in the sky above, a hen hawk, dead still in the air, looked for home.
