Diving into this wreck (an exercise on randomness),

these are what I came up with:

A list of things to do, two items in all. A bunch of keys, minus one key. A view from a window, moonlit and square. Left-over sadness in a yellow mug. 

A thin volume of poetry, dog-eared where the months have settled. Some random dream of forgetting, wafting in some fugitive breeze. 

A movie ticket, a concert ticket, four recital programs, three laundry receipts. 

Strings, an unlabeled bottle, forgiveness. Irony. A lotus flower, lilac and plastic. A smooth, round paperweight, squinting under the lamplight. 

A torn piece of laughter. Dust. A pill. 

An empty notebook. Shyness, folded beneath folded years. A pinwheel. 

Four pencils, sharpened and useless. A memory of trees, the comfort in shadows. 

A lone moth. A strand of sunsets. Blue post-its. An unfinished letter. A question. 

Nine questions. No answer. No answers.

Blanks and blues

on random things and loneliness

The dust keeps settling too nicely on the floor. And now I need to wipe them off my books. I ask myself how it is that I keep forgetting, when I keep reminding myself to bring that notebook everywhere, but it's a lie. I often forget to remind myself. The thought seldom crosses my mind. But today I will put it in my bag and have it dig a snug space in my bag. 

Later, yes. 

I have just committed the sin of looking back at what I have written. I shouldn't have done it. But what gives, when this space is so tiny, the ceiling, not high enough? No matter, I have enough space inside to put things in, though there isn't much headroom for memories as there is for listlessness. 

Time, I steal--because I have to, because I want to. Twice, during the last eleven seconds, I typed spave, instead of space. 

Let's see:

It's March and yet much rain has already fallen. What is the world coming to? There isn't much to be seen where I am. There never is, but how come I see so much?

How many sunsets more?

This is me, still.

When I bristle, my forehead still distorts itself into impossible lines.
When I feel the lines carving themselves into my forehead, a friend always still manages to smooth them out.
When twilight comes, the impending dark still doesn't present itself to me as something innocuous.
When I think of hunger, I still fumble for noodles.
When it gets too cold, my skin still breaks out into rashes.
When there is a note that seems especially daunting, I still don't try to reach it.
When the cash in my wallet starts to thin out, I still manage to pluck out a bill and spend it on fruit shake.
When I get really angry, I still find my throat constricting itself into a tight little knot.
When I lose my way, I still always find my way back home.
When I find myself back home, I always still turn all the lights on.
When sleep eludes me, I still turn to Joni Mitchell for solace.
When Joni Mitchell fails to lull me, Miles Davis still always saves the day.
When the coffee gets cold, I still throw it away.
When I throw cold coffee away, I still feel sorry for having to throw it away.
When I finally decide to watch a movie, something or another still somehow manages to keep me from it.
When I get bored, I still find my gaze landing on my books.
When I open a book to read, I still fall asleep on the seventh page.
When my eyes begin to droop, I still could never remember where I put the bookmark.
When I fail to find a bookmark, I still find myself dog-earring the page I'm about to fall asleep on.

How am I?

Let's see.

So, I've: added Hershey's milk chocolate with almonds and Green Cross hand sanitizer to my grocery list and Escada Ocean Lounge to my favorite perfumes; scrapped Kylie Minogue from my playlist, replaced her with Sarah Jarosz and Melody Gardot; spent less time in heels; been watching stupid comedies for relief and relaxation; and toned down my tendency to seethe and pounce when I don't get my way. Well, I still seethe, but not as much. At least, I don't pounce anymore.

Aside from that, I still: listen to Jazz for those I-wanna-feel-smart moments; read Rilke, Louise Gluck, Conchitina Cruz, and Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta for my poetry fix; am addicted to "Glee"; think that pink lipstick is pretty; depend on my stash of music to lift me from despondency; wallow in despondency and don't see it changing, at least not anytime soon; adore Lea Salonga; look to the moon for inspiration; wear cuffs, the bigger, the better; think that a narrow mind is a sad, sad mind; keep on finding myself stuck between rocks and hard places. And there is an item here on this second list that I badly wish I could cross out, but it seems that more waiting has to be done, in order for me to do so.

Anyway, dear reader, how've you been?