Before Work, Work, After Work, More Work

As pragmatic as this title sounds, my day’s routine has ceased to excite my imagination. In order to remedy this dilemma, maybe the best way to spend my early mornings now is to concoct new breakfast recipes. It used to be that two loaves of bread could serve as a full meal; plus strong coffee, and everything will be fine with my stomach from 8:00 – 12:00 AM. Not anymore. This morning, I needed manansi (scaly fish) cooked in vinegar and then fried, to go with my bread, and I needed some fiber, slices of cucumber and tomatoes, plus a recent favorite, sunny side-up egg. Then I finished with two slices of watermelon. My mother and I ate leisurely, with her reminiscing about the days when she used to sew dresses for her cousins who were always invited to dances. It did not matter much that I had to do the dishes afterwards because my mother’s history allows me to own stories that I can store in my ‘baul’ for future creative pursuits.

But before I get carried away with details of the best time of my day, let me tell you that I got to translate medical documents today (that will pay me some few dollars), and I got to finish a book editing project for a publisher-client. After washing the dishes, I shall proceed to my computer and proceed with this technical stuff. Once in front of my PC, however, I have the profoundest resistance to proceed with such tasks.

Maybe rebellion is good because in rebelling, I go back to writing, and in going back to writing I start imagining again. I imagine a story set in the American period, when the City was under strict zoning. Two lovers can’t see each other as often as they want because any tryst will cost them their lives. I imagine a child left to fend for his own because the war killed his parents, and as he roamed a city completely destroyed by war, he meets another child and they pretend that everything was play. So they played house and played beggars, and played relationships. I imagine a poem set in motion by the humdrum rhythm, where every line is a struggle to the next line, and every enjambment is a reluctant pause. I imagine it to be wanting in expectations and care. I imagine a biography of a sensible woman, so sensible she forgot to take risks. I imagine a short parable about how mistakes often cost us opportunities for growth. I imagine I am writing.

But as if my imagining is within a zoned space itself, I will have to stop writing and start doing what will put breakfast on my table. Hopefully, I will experience profound happiness in eating such breakfast.