bopis

It's past lunch. The dinner and tomorrow's breakfast lay in wait I'm still thinking what I should have done this morning. I should have written more about Alexander, his Dionysiac lineage, and the Gordian Knot. Is it good enough luck to conjure denouements?

Or I should have checked the autobiographical narratives of my students. One of them is a father, another is a member of Crucified Thorns Gang (CTG), and one is both Ugly Duckling and Cinderella. A lot of them were valedictorians and salutatorians. Only one has confessed falling in love with her teacher. No one has discussed murder or rape. As if a psychiatrist or priest, I shall not name names. (In fact, I don't know their names. They submitted under their student numbers.) As a fictionist and for the sake of my students, I employ this plus-mask: one of the abovementioned facts is a lie.


Or I should have logged on and chatted some more with my best friend who is in Singapore, suspended in a full and careless understanding of my excitement.

I should have walked, as I have done 11 mornings in my life (or was it 11 lives in a singular, indestructible morning?), along the brown snake that is the Pasig River. And watch the insects and birds whose names I disdained to learn so I could name them myself. And try to fend off trite musings on the invincibility of Heraclitus and "what does it matter if the boy (who was not yet) Rizal did or did not lose a slipper?" In the end Rizal threw the script of shoes away only to walk his ultimate morning in my mind forever.

I should have kissed a parent, an aunt, a brother. Or I should have called her, wished her luck. Ask for her forgiveness because I'm bound name her. Whisper love.

What I did was oversleep. Exactly what I shall not do tomorrow.