The Bangus Ultimatum

Tagaytay last weekend, where memory always waited in ambush. Storm winds moistened by the sea, and chilled by the mountain’s shadows. When I stood by the lake they mocked me in shrill voices. “Here you once spoke of fire and powdershot, and wrote poetry and counted stars. Now you return as but a child, all grown backwards!”

I hate the mountains. Sometimes.

Struck with the flu in Bulacan. What I hate about having the flu is the vivid weird dreams. This time around I was in a planet of discarded wires and data ports, rusting copper endings and static electricity. And there, waiting for me, was Claude Shannon.

I kid you not.

He told me that as always, my timing couldn’t be suckier. But that was to be expected, because I refuse to live (and believe) in the gaps. Clearly I needed to relax, and I should consider a trip out of town (too late).

Maybe I need to cut on my reading. And no more brownies!

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