i had mugs of chang in draft. it was opportune. to possibly leave me with a restful sleep yet i stay awake contemplating. that i probably had too many mugs of draft. there was a special surprise bag containing what can be associated with some memories. a champa whiskey bottle to remind me to have even just a glass to celebrate a thirty-first. a pack of joma's to remind me of numerous days in quiet vientiane or quiet luang prabang. a pack of dao coffee. all from laos. and a keychain of a small wooden sinister-looking mask. from bhutan.
i finished the last remaining slides of my last film roll.
it must be humiliating, or, possibly, humbling, the way he seemed to be sidelined. most of the time. by the powers that be that seemed to know not the lessons of capacitating the young with the experience and expertise of the old. he has had brushes with dispensability but in no way it came close to a feeling of irrelevance and being underutilized. most is about the way the end can justify the means, or more of misplaced means to reach the same end.
at the very least he is still fortunate to have a sort of mentor. against all powers that be and all odds. he can find more ways to soar without the limelight.
it could not have been that what they often call the usual fluttery sort- of butterfly feeling that warmly settles on the heart. today should be fleeting. when the day ends, so goes everything that it brought and developed to set with it. not settle. to set out. to fly away. many miles away. many light years away.
this year seems no different. i cannot remember what last year's offered. for sure, it had the same commercialized redness. the same cramped establishments. the same day-induced magnetism that compelled skin to touch skin, lips to seal lips, and eyes to drown eyes.
today, you thought of dying, the manner of dying, the last moments before the consciousness slips into what you may never know. you were distracted by the hovering of a small mosquito and you thought of mosquito-consciousness, its hovering-consciousness, and the last moments before it slips into its death form. you thought of the noisy birds outside your office windows, how they teasingly frolic and play, in a threesome exchange. you thought of your noodle soup, the bundled-up noodles in a sense of frantic shyness, swimming, more like dancing in a steamy flavorful bowlful womb. you thought of the eerie late afternoon orange darkness of your building floor, the emptiness haunts, the silence wants, and you thought about the ending day. it must not have been that what they often call the usual fluttery sort of butterfly feeling that warmly settles on the heart when we exchanged words, brotherly and sisterly as they were, in as most caring as a day like any other can offer. this year seems no different. like any other day, there is longing.