lotto

both the jackpots in new york's megalotto and that of manila have breached records. hundred plus million dollars in the big apple and double that, albeit in pesos, with the lotto in imelda's city of man.

woody allen: "if only god would give me some clear sign! like making a large deposit in my name at a swiss bank."

in front of the nearest deli that sells lotto tickets, saw a dollar, not crinkly, in fact, very crisp--must be from the cold--atop the Daily News bin. a kid, drowning in his over-sized, lint-infested bubble jacket, swiped the dollar just as i decided it was okay for me to adopt this orphaned bill.

sulked away from the lotto queue. went to the chinese, instead. bought hot and sour soup.

the girl at the counter, her facial skin so tight from the radiant heat of the open kitchen, did not drop a fortune cookie in my takeout bag. she must have been instructed, perhaps, to do it only for orders five dollars and up.

nest, angel, snake

second day of queuing outside east coast's only jollibee.
again, my fretful feet got the better of me. and should i remind myself again of the line? snaking two blocks down from the store's entrance.
just before i left the line, the woman in front of me must have dozed off.
she let go of her pocketbook, her wallet flung out soon as her bag hit the pavement. the credit cards from her billfold scattered like a disturbed nest.
_______

later, accompanied the boyfriend to the laundromat.
on the far end of the folding table, an unkempt woman took time to fold a still damp comforter over and over.
winked at the boyfriend. "leave her be," he said. "that's beautiful," he added.
"why?" I asked. he ignored my question.
vaguely remembered a Merton quote.
the beauty must stem from her belief that an angel might come down and sleep in it.
________

finally at home, writing this entry.
stewing, awaiting the boyfriend's good-night call.
waiting, silent like a snake.

lit

a character in a french movie asks another, "how beautiful am I today?"
she replies, "as beautiful as my heart."
he smiles and his face is incandescent. as if it is lit from inside.

dream

the wind howls on. the window by my head rales.
my dog snores.
still heavy with sleep, i get out of bed and do this entry.
and write of what?
i envy my dog. in his sleep, he yelps.
awake, i am devoid of dreams.

eternal

watch a re-run of ryan-ryan. leo valdez sings that love song from the pop ballet rama-hari.
bango ng champaka, the chorus wells up. nalimbag sa alaala, the song meanders on.
bien lumbera, the librettist, hangs out masterful line after line as casually as a grisly washer woman flings out sheet after sweet, scented sheet of linens on a line.
ang pansamantala, the ephemeral, naging walang hanggang, becomes eternal.