This little boy alone in the doughnut shop has only to figure out how to taste the hole of his Choco Wacko.
/
Ever tried staring into an empty cup for a full twenty minutes? Falling in love is like staring into an empty styro cup for a full twenty minutes and wishing you could stay at it for a little more than an entire lifetime.
/
Whitney’s (Houston) all over the place.
Is she talking to me? I sure could use some talking to now.
/
Shaved head. Big weary shoulders. Shame worn on the neck and back. What proud little Miss dumped you among Love’s many trashed fools?
/
What do I know of Love?
What do I know of Love?
A waterfall of hearts shunned
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Elementally Yours
Sabato. Morning light
streaming through dirty
glass louvers.
Fatigue creeping up my back
and around my sunken eyes.
Life just grinding on when
I just want to be left alone.
By you. With you. Or both.
I do not know.
One thing I do know: It's you I feel everytime I hit the pit
of what I thought was my bottomless soul.
It's you I have for despaireach time I pick up and define
an exquisite shard, a gossamery
shred of me.
It's you I know whenever
I wonder just what I am
really made up of.
It's you I sense. It's you I live. It's you
I cannot ever really have.
Isn't It Ironic, Dear Alanis?
Tomorrow in your eyes my heart so tightly clutched to itself the way gnarled mud-smeared Hope-chapped fingers close around a prized ticket to the fullest and bluest of full blue moons in quiet rigor mortis.
To A Close Friend, Faraway
Dear Jeroen,
I’m at home now, in bed, writing intensively on a laptop for nearly 34 hours now. So many papers to write; so much work to finish; so many worries to free one’s mind from. Sigh. I wish I could take a real vacation. The last one I had was way back in summer of 2007. It sure feels like a lifetime ago.
How’s Palestine? How’s your heart breaking with compassion—or, is it rage?—at the face of her people’s plight? I may not know just yet how “compassion fatigue” assails the heart, and I’m just guessing you must have had some knowledge of it—what with your travels and volunteer experience—but I want you to know I believe in what you do. And I appreciate the wisdom of why you do it. It can never be too futile finding meaning in one’s life, even more so when you’re not alone in searching for it. May our friendship make you feel that it is so. As warmly as the sun embraces the earth with morning light. As beautifully as Spring adorns the trees with bright fragrant blooms. As gently as the sea smoothes away the wrinkles of the still gray shore.
As fondly as I close this email—
Il fratello tuo nel cuore e lo spirito, Jeprox
(Drawing courtesy of my meager visuo-spatial intelligence)
*Jeroen, 26, has just earned his MD at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven. He visited Negros Island last March for some medical missions (in which I served as his interpreter.) He is currently doing research in Palestine.
I’m at home now, in bed, writing intensively on a laptop for nearly 34 hours now. So many papers to write; so much work to finish; so many worries to free one’s mind from. Sigh. I wish I could take a real vacation. The last one I had was way back in summer of 2007. It sure feels like a lifetime ago.
How’s Palestine? How’s your heart breaking with compassion—or, is it rage?—at the face of her people’s plight? I may not know just yet how “compassion fatigue” assails the heart, and I’m just guessing you must have had some knowledge of it—what with your travels and volunteer experience—but I want you to know I believe in what you do. And I appreciate the wisdom of why you do it. It can never be too futile finding meaning in one’s life, even more so when you’re not alone in searching for it. May our friendship make you feel that it is so. As warmly as the sun embraces the earth with morning light. As beautifully as Spring adorns the trees with bright fragrant blooms. As gently as the sea smoothes away the wrinkles of the still gray shore.
As fondly as I close this email—
Il fratello tuo nel cuore e lo spirito, Jeprox
(Drawing courtesy of my meager visuo-spatial intelligence)
*Jeroen, 26, has just earned his MD at the Katholieke Universiteit Leuven. He visited Negros Island last March for some medical missions (in which I served as his interpreter.) He is currently doing research in Palestine.
Friday, August 29, 2008
28 Questions and Paper Napkins
A year ago to this day, August 29, 2008, I had one of the loneliest nights ever in Bacolod City. I was alone on a table at Dunkin' Donuts-Lacson, with no book, just a lowbatt cellphone and a half-empty gel pen, waiting for the clock to strike 2:15 AM so I could take the tryke to the South Ceres Terminal and board the first morning bus trip home. People came and went, some lingered, others wolfed down their food. None of them took courage to look me in the eye and strike a witty conversation. The newspaper was in the hands of a portly gentleman, looking positively enamored with what's inside those brackish pages. I admonished myself: The next time you get yourself stranded, be sure to bring your rambunctious cousins and the entire school library along.
Nevertheless, I remembered my half-empty gel pen, so I rose and walked towards the counter, asked for a wad of paper napkins, sat back, caught my nape with my left hand, knotted my brows, and wrote:
Will the winds rock me in my sleep?
Will the rain wash away my memories?
Will the sun dry up my days?
Will the night lay my foes to rest?
Will the trees bow to my humility?
Will the birds sing about my death?
Will the rainbow herald my soft renaissance into the world?
Will my friends write my story with their footprints?
Will my life become a penciled illustration in a child’s well-loved storybook?
Will the cars run the distance my too-young feet once covered?
Will city lights dim when I blink goodbye?
Will the poets bleed verse when they remember my name?
Will lightning carve my name on a mountain that knew the weight of the skies too?
Will God give me a cross when I ask him for a coffin?
Will love be like a sick dove when my iron heart manages to trap it in?
Will music grow arms and feet in the still-death dance floor of my mind?
Will Cassandra talk about the past when I tell her I’m scared of things to come?
Will the angels soil their robes when I ask them to dig up my sins?
Will Summer cry in torrents when my soul chooses Fall and my heart freezes like Winter?
Will love look at me and see why I see even if I’m not looking, even if there’s nothing there?
Will my phone stop ringing in my imagination?
Will hot chocolate taste like the sea when my tongue couldn’t tell anymore what is sweet?
Will my dreams sprout wings when they break free from my mind?
Will my poems take root in the hearts I long to have?
Will my voice drift unheard in the breeze of history?
Will Spring sing mournful songs when I’m no longer around to hear them?
Will the End cease to birth New Beginnings when I’m no more and I couldn’t go on?
Will life be different when I’m gone?
Those 28 napkins were lost to me forever just hours after I took them home with me from the doughnut shop. In my hurry to jump into bed, I left them in the pocket of my jeans. The woman who does our laundry took my jeans off the "to-be-recycled hook" and did her job. How history can be reduced to a lump of dried wet tissue! But the heart remembers. Even the beauty of loneliness lost can be reclaimed. It all came into being a year ago to this day. But I still have these songs, in a place where neither exhaustion nor a laundrywoman can take them away.
Nevertheless, I remembered my half-empty gel pen, so I rose and walked towards the counter, asked for a wad of paper napkins, sat back, caught my nape with my left hand, knotted my brows, and wrote:
Will the winds rock me in my sleep?
Will the rain wash away my memories?
Will the sun dry up my days?
Will the night lay my foes to rest?
Will the trees bow to my humility?
Will the birds sing about my death?
Will the rainbow herald my soft renaissance into the world?
Will my friends write my story with their footprints?
Will my life become a penciled illustration in a child’s well-loved storybook?
Will the cars run the distance my too-young feet once covered?
Will city lights dim when I blink goodbye?
Will the poets bleed verse when they remember my name?
Will lightning carve my name on a mountain that knew the weight of the skies too?
Will God give me a cross when I ask him for a coffin?
Will love be like a sick dove when my iron heart manages to trap it in?
Will music grow arms and feet in the still-death dance floor of my mind?
Will Cassandra talk about the past when I tell her I’m scared of things to come?
Will the angels soil their robes when I ask them to dig up my sins?
Will Summer cry in torrents when my soul chooses Fall and my heart freezes like Winter?
Will love look at me and see why I see even if I’m not looking, even if there’s nothing there?
Will my phone stop ringing in my imagination?
Will hot chocolate taste like the sea when my tongue couldn’t tell anymore what is sweet?
Will my dreams sprout wings when they break free from my mind?
Will my poems take root in the hearts I long to have?
Will my voice drift unheard in the breeze of history?
Will Spring sing mournful songs when I’m no longer around to hear them?
Will the End cease to birth New Beginnings when I’m no more and I couldn’t go on?
Will life be different when I’m gone?
Those 28 napkins were lost to me forever just hours after I took them home with me from the doughnut shop. In my hurry to jump into bed, I left them in the pocket of my jeans. The woman who does our laundry took my jeans off the "to-be-recycled hook" and did her job. How history can be reduced to a lump of dried wet tissue! But the heart remembers. Even the beauty of loneliness lost can be reclaimed. It all came into being a year ago to this day. But I still have these songs, in a place where neither exhaustion nor a laundrywoman can take them away.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wala Ba Kayong mga Load Diyan?
Thirteen lucky strikes—and counting
Jeprox G. Lingamen
August 27, 2008
Wednesday night, on the usual boring bus with the usual boring people. I’m soaked in sweat down to my seatmate’s Polo Sports jersey, sighing thrice every two minutes, and (by the gut-feel of it) fast nearing expiration. I am lonely, and home (sigh) is a whole episode of The Singing Bee and DYOSA (plus commercials) away—if evening traffic relents and the driver turns out to be Gabby de la Merced. The tired yellow screen of my trusty long-suffering Nokia 3410 said it was 09:17 PM on this side of busted long-suffering Earth. I got a slightly “emo” feeling out of it, something sort of “emobilizing.” To snap out of it, I did a balance inquiry on my phone. I only have “0 minutes worth of local calls and 13 free text messages,” it said. Not exactly joy-inspiring, I breathed back, futilely.
But then I thought of William Tell (of all people), aiming the one Life-or-Death arrow at the bloodiest apple sitting smugly on his young son’s head. And then I thought of me, having “thirteen,” and the potential misses that go with them, something everyone must deal with, anyhow, anyway. Oh well, better take my shots at the smugness and bloodiness of things than never at all. (And so long as I’m careful to keep my shots from hurting the winsome little life so dear to me, I’ll be just fine.) With that, I felt my self-grin burgeoned into the freest of smiles I had all day. Softly. Bit by bit. Not without mischief. I flexed my fingers and gripped my phone. Tastiera attiva. 3 messaggi ricevuti. Leggi:
(1. Blame it on the blood glucose plunge)
Ana: Prox, bring ka sud-an ta sa panyapon ha? Madala ko rice cooker kag bugas. Hehe. Kung may ara. Kabay pa.
Jeprox: Huo ah. Lihapon ko ang pusog-pusogan ni Dada.
Ana: Ano pa gid?
Jeprox: Ang mga nagkalapulak nga ibà sa ugsaran.
Ana: Wow, aslom ba.
Jeprox: Madala ko kalamay.
(2. Texting takes its toll)
Karlyn: Nainit-init gid ko subong nga gab-i ah.
Jeprox: Ngaa man?
Karlyn: Kay gapangita ko bayo nga green, wala ko may makita… Hehehe…
Jeprox: Green nga pinta na lang eh. Ibasya mo sa bayo.
Karlyn: Wala gani… kailinit gid ya… hehehe… teh, nag-abot ka na sa inyo?
Jeprox: Bago pa lang ko ayon. Girl, tawhayan ko anay phalanges ko ha? Gabiring sa kakatext eh. In one hour, kung ara ka pa, text taka. Ok lang?
Karlyn: ‘K lang ah, wala kaso.
Jeprox: Gabinhud sila actually, kay naka-vertical ang akon radius kag ulna magtext para lapit sa’kun nawong kay myopic ko. Teh, ang circulation medyo issue.
Karlyn: Hehehe… gintun-an mo gid na… teh, pahuwayan mo lang anay imo kamot eh…
Jeprox: Huo na, huo na. Registered Nurse ka na.
(3. Cheesy Chum—as opposed to Fun Chum)
Nhaye: Manugpuli ka na? Indi ko carry ang strength mo for your job. Bravo. Pray anay ko hon ha.
Jeprox: Ang swerte naman ni Allah.
Nhaye: Tayo ang maswerte hon. Hehe.
Jeprox: Oo nga. We have each other in a time when we are at our best and worst. We are us at our most real.
Nhaye: Ok hon ah, basta ara gid ko pirmi para sa imo as long as may lakas ako. Hehe. Kamo ang mahalaga sakin.
Jeprox: Indi man pagpasobrahi abi. Daw mabudlay mag-gaab diri sa bus.
(4. When Inner Beauty paid a visit)
Jeprox: Good eve Jess, Jeprox ’to :-) Bisita man ko sa Inbox mo ah. Hope you’re Godspeeding. Tira-tira!
Jess: Good eve man Jeprox. Thanks gid sa pagbisita sa Inbox ko ah. Charge complete na eh.
Jeprox: Pwede ka na gali mag-Super Saiyan eh :-) Carry mo na part. Kung gwapa ka, gwapa ka gid na ya—a friendly reminder from Myra 300e, Belo Medical Group, and Jeprox.
(5. A push too far)
Jeprox: Dada, Mabini na ko ayon. Ako indi man gid busog, indi man gid gutom.
”Verificare Servizi Operatore”
(Sigh)
I went home to a doting mom, a dad laughing heartily with my brother on the phone, a snoring little sister, Julian frantically catching Jasmine’s “shotgun kisses,” and four-and-a-half tender juicy beef chunks on a salted rice bowl. I changed into my favorite flannel shorts and chomped away, careful not to chuckle too hard on the thought that at anytime tonight I might just get a Pasaload from someone, somewhere. Who knows? Sometimes, even thirteen couldn’t mean the worst of luck there is.
Jeprox G. Lingamen is a daily commuter of the San Enrique < > Bacolod bus.
He’s known better than to “text” most of the bus ride boredom away.
His mobile number is +63 [0]921 440 9011.
Jeprox G. Lingamen
August 27, 2008
Wednesday night, on the usual boring bus with the usual boring people. I’m soaked in sweat down to my seatmate’s Polo Sports jersey, sighing thrice every two minutes, and (by the gut-feel of it) fast nearing expiration. I am lonely, and home (sigh) is a whole episode of The Singing Bee and DYOSA (plus commercials) away—if evening traffic relents and the driver turns out to be Gabby de la Merced. The tired yellow screen of my trusty long-suffering Nokia 3410 said it was 09:17 PM on this side of busted long-suffering Earth. I got a slightly “emo” feeling out of it, something sort of “emobilizing.” To snap out of it, I did a balance inquiry on my phone. I only have “0 minutes worth of local calls and 13 free text messages,” it said. Not exactly joy-inspiring, I breathed back, futilely.
But then I thought of William Tell (of all people), aiming the one Life-or-Death arrow at the bloodiest apple sitting smugly on his young son’s head. And then I thought of me, having “thirteen,” and the potential misses that go with them, something everyone must deal with, anyhow, anyway. Oh well, better take my shots at the smugness and bloodiness of things than never at all. (And so long as I’m careful to keep my shots from hurting the winsome little life so dear to me, I’ll be just fine.) With that, I felt my self-grin burgeoned into the freest of smiles I had all day. Softly. Bit by bit. Not without mischief. I flexed my fingers and gripped my phone. Tastiera attiva. 3 messaggi ricevuti. Leggi:
(1. Blame it on the blood glucose plunge)
Ana: Prox, bring ka sud-an ta sa panyapon ha? Madala ko rice cooker kag bugas. Hehe. Kung may ara. Kabay pa.
Jeprox: Huo ah. Lihapon ko ang pusog-pusogan ni Dada.
Ana: Ano pa gid?
Jeprox: Ang mga nagkalapulak nga ibà sa ugsaran.
Ana: Wow, aslom ba.
Jeprox: Madala ko kalamay.
(2. Texting takes its toll)
Karlyn: Nainit-init gid ko subong nga gab-i ah.
Jeprox: Ngaa man?
Karlyn: Kay gapangita ko bayo nga green, wala ko may makita… Hehehe…
Jeprox: Green nga pinta na lang eh. Ibasya mo sa bayo.
Karlyn: Wala gani… kailinit gid ya… hehehe… teh, nag-abot ka na sa inyo?
Jeprox: Bago pa lang ko ayon. Girl, tawhayan ko anay phalanges ko ha? Gabiring sa kakatext eh. In one hour, kung ara ka pa, text taka. Ok lang?
Karlyn: ‘K lang ah, wala kaso.
Jeprox: Gabinhud sila actually, kay naka-vertical ang akon radius kag ulna magtext para lapit sa’kun nawong kay myopic ko. Teh, ang circulation medyo issue.
Karlyn: Hehehe… gintun-an mo gid na… teh, pahuwayan mo lang anay imo kamot eh…
Jeprox: Huo na, huo na. Registered Nurse ka na.
(3. Cheesy Chum—as opposed to Fun Chum)
Nhaye: Manugpuli ka na? Indi ko carry ang strength mo for your job. Bravo. Pray anay ko hon ha.
Jeprox: Ang swerte naman ni Allah.
Nhaye: Tayo ang maswerte hon. Hehe.
Jeprox: Oo nga. We have each other in a time when we are at our best and worst. We are us at our most real.
Nhaye: Ok hon ah, basta ara gid ko pirmi para sa imo as long as may lakas ako. Hehe. Kamo ang mahalaga sakin.
Jeprox: Indi man pagpasobrahi abi. Daw mabudlay mag-gaab diri sa bus.
(4. When Inner Beauty paid a visit)
Jeprox: Good eve Jess, Jeprox ’to :-) Bisita man ko sa Inbox mo ah. Hope you’re Godspeeding. Tira-tira!
Jess: Good eve man Jeprox. Thanks gid sa pagbisita sa Inbox ko ah. Charge complete na eh.
Jeprox: Pwede ka na gali mag-Super Saiyan eh :-) Carry mo na part. Kung gwapa ka, gwapa ka gid na ya—a friendly reminder from Myra 300e, Belo Medical Group, and Jeprox.
(5. A push too far)
Jeprox: Dada, Mabini na ko ayon. Ako indi man gid busog, indi man gid gutom.
”Verificare Servizi Operatore”
(Sigh)
I went home to a doting mom, a dad laughing heartily with my brother on the phone, a snoring little sister, Julian frantically catching Jasmine’s “shotgun kisses,” and four-and-a-half tender juicy beef chunks on a salted rice bowl. I changed into my favorite flannel shorts and chomped away, careful not to chuckle too hard on the thought that at anytime tonight I might just get a Pasaload from someone, somewhere. Who knows? Sometimes, even thirteen couldn’t mean the worst of luck there is.
Jeprox G. Lingamen is a daily commuter of the San Enrique < > Bacolod bus.
He’s known better than to “text” most of the bus ride boredom away.
His mobile number is +63 [0]921 440 9011.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Let Me Be
i am a well of Night
you don't want to come near me
the stars, all the bright things
had left me wailing soundlessly
even my tears won't come
to fill me up.
/
for even just seconds
let the world dim,
make the sun blink,
for the Light is too much
for me, a creature of Darkness
never used to seeing Life in color,
afraid of seeing Beauty
i cannot manifest.
/
Loneliness is just
a small withered leaf
falling in Time as i am
/
the full moon blinked
and in that heartbeat
of darkness
i knew
how gravely Light
has lied to me
all along
/
tonight
i decide
to remain
eternally
broken
i am crystal
breaking as
a bad omen
but please
please
pick me up
hold me close
and let me be
let me be
the brutal beauty
they so
refuse to see
you don't want to come near me
the stars, all the bright things
had left me wailing soundlessly
even my tears won't come
to fill me up.
/
for even just seconds
let the world dim,
make the sun blink,
for the Light is too much
for me, a creature of Darkness
never used to seeing Life in color,
afraid of seeing Beauty
i cannot manifest.
/
Loneliness is just
a small withered leaf
falling in Time as i am
/
the full moon blinked
and in that heartbeat
of darkness
i knew
how gravely Light
has lied to me
all along
/
tonight
i decide
to remain
eternally
broken
i am crystal
breaking as
a bad omen
but please
please
pick me up
hold me close
and let me be
let me be
the brutal beauty
they so
refuse to see
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
On Love At 12:42 AM
eighteen minutes
to 1:00 AM
scruffy dogs bark
at orange cats
the world outside
is cold and dark
the moon no longer
gives a damn
everything seems
willing to give up--
the peeling yellow
paint on the wall,
the blinking cursor
on Microsoft Word,
Life falling in Time
as Haettenschweiler
size 12,
boldfaced,
underlined,
justified.
but what of
this heart
beating you
feeling you
every second
everywhere
anyhow?
i do not know.
to 1:00 AM
scruffy dogs bark
at orange cats
the world outside
is cold and dark
the moon no longer
gives a damn
everything seems
willing to give up--
the peeling yellow
paint on the wall,
the blinking cursor
on Microsoft Word,
Life falling in Time
as Haettenschweiler
size 12,
boldfaced,
underlined,
justified.
but what of
this heart
beating you
feeling you
every second
everywhere
anyhow?
i do not know.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Me In My World
I joined a weekend class (August 23-24) on Peace Education at the Niall O' Brien Center, Bacolod City. There were thirteen of us in the group, including our facilitator, my mentor and friend Jo Villanueva. The class' opening activity was a a self-introduction through a drawing of our individual worlds and what we are in them.
You see here what came out of me at that time:
"I AM TREE BRAVING THE EYE OF THE STORM"
The text on the left side of the drawing reads:
darkness reigns
only so long
as the spirit
slumbers on
so waken
take flight
haul the sun
out of the sea
breathe fire
breathe Light
come burn
with Life
darkness reigns
only so long
as we
let it
jefwoks08.23.08
Where me and my world are concerned, in the Here and the Now, I like to think that says it all.
You see here what came out of me at that time:
"I AM TREE BRAVING THE EYE OF THE STORM"
The text on the left side of the drawing reads:
darkness reigns
only so long
as the spirit
slumbers on
so waken
take flight
haul the sun
out of the sea
breathe fire
breathe Light
come burn
with Life
darkness reigns
only so long
as we
let it
jefwoks08.23.08
Where me and my world are concerned, in the Here and the Now, I like to think that says it all.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
What Were You in My Dream?
you were
an angel
breathing
silver fire
the rupture
of Omniverse
a flood of
angry bats
hawks
and shadows
i fled
i hid
i found you
here inside
daggerblooms
bursting free
*for the heart that is yet to heal
an angel
breathing
silver fire
the rupture
of Omniverse
a flood of
angry bats
hawks
and shadows
i fled
i hid
i found you
here inside
daggerblooms
bursting free
*for the heart that is yet to heal
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Search Results for "Script"
Nah. Nothing monumental here whatsoever. I just got to a point where I was asking myself whether I'm "scripted" or "not" and this mundanely amazing (amazingly mundane?) thing happened: I got the word "script" typed letter-perfectly (in plum font color, i don't know why) on my mind. Next, a "click" and a "pop" preceded a "search" around my mental databases, with matching tinkling Christmas song and a "status bar" showing "30%" then "70%" then "100%" with which a burpy frog's sound heralded the entrance of these write-up bits as they hit the top two spots amongst the trash yielded by the split-second process.
"Let me be the dark script filling row upon row of Time's soft-flowing cheek..."
--Journal entry for January 17th, 2007
"And as always I am the script that scars this shore. That cries. And whimpers. And whispers. And sobs. And sighs. And sleeps. I am tired. Draw over me this blanket of sea. Again."
--From my poem "Crab Song," January 1, 2006
They are so far the most dramatic search results for "script" that I felt like writing a blog entry out of them. Side note: Judging from my mental search engine's Results Autoranking Manager's maiden performance, I do have a predilection for drama. Oh well, make out of it whatever you like. I'm happy to have discovered a new way to kill Time--by the split-seconds.
Another side note: Scope and Limitation--this hobby caters to whatever word the author whimsically pulls up from his vocabulary. The coverage of the search will only be all of the author's literary lifeworks. This is in consideration of the fact that his mental search engine is performing very much the same functions (as during hobby time) on a practically daily, hourly, per minute, and per second basis, towards more self-preserving and self-actualizing ends. It is therefore the responsibility of the author to strike a clever balance between the Must-Dos and the Nice-to-Dos in his life. Even Prudence dwells with Mirth.
"Let me be the dark script filling row upon row of Time's soft-flowing cheek..."
--Journal entry for January 17th, 2007
"And as always I am the script that scars this shore. That cries. And whimpers. And whispers. And sobs. And sighs. And sleeps. I am tired. Draw over me this blanket of sea. Again."
--From my poem "Crab Song," January 1, 2006
They are so far the most dramatic search results for "script" that I felt like writing a blog entry out of them. Side note: Judging from my mental search engine's Results Autoranking Manager's maiden performance, I do have a predilection for drama. Oh well, make out of it whatever you like. I'm happy to have discovered a new way to kill Time--by the split-seconds.
Another side note: Scope and Limitation--this hobby caters to whatever word the author whimsically pulls up from his vocabulary. The coverage of the search will only be all of the author's literary lifeworks. This is in consideration of the fact that his mental search engine is performing very much the same functions (as during hobby time) on a practically daily, hourly, per minute, and per second basis, towards more self-preserving and self-actualizing ends. It is therefore the responsibility of the author to strike a clever balance between the Must-Dos and the Nice-to-Dos in his life. Even Prudence dwells with Mirth.
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