Set Phasers to Stun

Oh hai internetz. Some of you kind people may have noticed that, for the past couple of days, I haven’t been posting as rabidly as I used to. Well, it’s primarily because I have rediscovered life now. Screw that chick (methinks it was Annie Dillard, but Google-fu is wonky right now though) who said, “The writer does not need to concern himself with the world.” Because, dude, screw that. The only reason anyone ever writes is because of the world – either it fucked him up good, or it just fucked him hella good (to continue on the same crass vein; apologies to relatives who may be reading this).

I have discovered that in my newly rediscovered life – a resurrection really; long periods of existential dread have a deplorable, albeit predictable, habit of sucking the life out of you – there’s not much internet access to go around. Yeah, I’m stuck in a cave for the better part of the day, but it’s with a person I haven’t seen in a long time and miss so terribly that everything’s got this new feel to it (kind of like how one’s ass feels against upholstery that’s still static-y from the plastic wrapping).

Also, I’m actually going out. And not just to take a walk in our dismal neighborhood park with the children. I am going out and talking to people that aren’t half my size, people who won’t back down from an argument because you offer them candy. But well, never mind that my FB Scrabble rating has gone down because people have gone on a Force Forfeiting Rampage in my absence, never mind that my Plurk karma’s down – hell, never mind that my SSM pledge has been experiencing a setback in schedule. I’m actually trying to act like a normal person. And any semblance of normalcy is something I’ve been oh-so-desperately yearning for.

But enough melodrama. So. What have I been up to? Before anything else, notice the absence of the SSM logo in this post – this is more of a Sasha Update than anything else, really. But this doesn’t mean I won’t be tossing in thoughts on a short story, or on writing for that matter. Because I dovetail that way. I’m still reading, yes, yes, I am. I’m also still trying to write, which is a real sissy way of saying that I’m not doing writing at all, just thinking about writing, and we all know that doesn’t count, not really. What else, what else?

At times like this, the OC in me hankers for a list, and I’m not one to deprive the OC in me.

1 – Monday afternoon I went back to Katipunan after a very, very, very long time. Yes, three weeks is a long time. You, Constant Reader, should know that a lot can happen in three weeks. (I apologize for the obvious Stephen King phrase there – I’ve reread his “memoir of the craft,” On Writing, and the “Constant Readers” just jump all over the place.) So. I went back to Katipunan, because you know, like a One Tree Hill Season 1 episode title says: Sometimes you gotta go there to come back. And I went there. And I’m here. And I’ve come back. And I reiterate that static-y ass metaphor I used earlier.

2 – Tuesday night, after hours of procrastinating and some fascinating mindnomnom about bees, and polar bears, P. and I went to Gateway to get some Trekker action. Man. Don’t get me started on Spock. Okay, too late. Brace yourself. Or skip this item, because I’ve already blabbed about it in Facebook and Plurk. So. Spock. Spock Spock Spock Spock. Oh honey. As I’ve said in many a public platform, Spock (as played by Zachary Quinto – this is important, man), honey, you can do that finger-to-face thing to me any freaking time you want to, bebehh. As I ranted to an FB contact, “It’s all there. The bao haircut. The uniform. The ears. That bulbous nose. Winona Ryder as MILF. The goddamn angst of being a un-belonging half-breed. His insistence on logic and stoicism when we all know there *so* was tongue in that kiss. He’s the bruised little boy in the playground we all wanna hug, more so because he refuses to cry — he‘s the man in uniform with a deplorable but it-grows-on-you haircut that we wanna get seriously FREAKY with.” And yeah. Long live and prosper. To which Wappy and I say, “Popcorn, dude, popcorn.”

3 – Also, Tuesday night was spent with friends. Dearly missed friends. Yes, I am aware that the phrasing in that last sentence made them seem dead, but, yeah, guh. We talked, mehn, we talked. And there was a creaking in my brain that I first mistook as the beginnings of a migraine – but it was really just the sound of a creaky organ waking up again after weeks of gleeful hibernation. Oh, and there are no words for how much I missed them people. And I won’t attempt, because they’re all real men where they come from, and they squirm like the good little boys they are when I try to tell them how much I luuuurve them.

4 – In relation to Tuesday night / wee hours of Wednesday morning: the books I borrowed from Kael. Nothing makes me giddier than raiding your room and going straight to your bookshelf. Or in this case, huge striped sando bags of books. I unearthed about seven, seven very pretty books, and I’m currently planting the seeds of a BFF-ness with said owner of books so when I say Pretty please, he’ll give them to me. Hi, Kael. It’s me, Sasha, your soon-to-be BFF. You know, like, yeah, well, with the imbecilic taxation of books some nincompoop at Customs/DOF invented (I will start on this at a later time, when I’m not so happy because fuck it, this is a backwards-ass country we live in), it’s nice to get new books. Ah, new books.

I’ll try not to bore you any more than I already have by bringing out the kilometric list of add-ons to my TBR Mountain Range. But I must say something about this whole rereading business I’ve been on lately. When I left United, I brought with me Tracy Thompson’s The Beast: A Journey Through Depression – since it helped me enough at seventeen, and there’s no harm in rereading it with a wiser (naks) and hopefully less-impressionable mind – am also putting my pen to it, scribbling on the margins, because dude, nothing is sacred anymore. I’m rereading Thompson, because I need to. It’s one of the best memoirs on the illness I’ve ever read – much, much better than Elizabeth Wurtzel’s Prozac Nation – funny how all the critics raved about it, which makes me suspect that none of them have actually been depressed. Anyway, I might have to talk about depression-memoirs later on. I’ve got a slew of them on my third shelf, right beside the Phil. Lit. and the Canon. (If you wonder, The Beast was wedged between Von Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther and Charlson Ong’s Conversion and Other Fictions.)

I’ve reread King, because it’s nice to go back to the things you missed because the security guard was roaming the hall, and you’ve been on that seat with that same un-bought book for about five hours. Anyway, with King, I’ve found that I disagree with more things this time around than when I first read the book on the sly over at NBS about four years ago. And I’ve also become a more vehement champion-er of some of the things he says. I won’t bore you with those things either, because I have a feeling you’ll hear enough of them in the upcoming blog entries.

That said, abangan ang susunod na kabanata.

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About Sasha Martinez

Her sins were scarlet, but her books were read.

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