This was taken last week in another part of our untidy backyard. (Don't know why we still keep the old water containers, but thought they'd look good with polka dots.) The past few weeks have been about the details, as I have been trying to finally finish a series of poems that I have been writing for the past eight years. I have no more excuses. If I am to finish them, it should be soon.
Jeans, Maison Martin Margiela
Viscose scarf from Mindanao
Espadrilles from Aldivinco, Davao
Which is not to say that I am enjoying the process. I have finally accepted (A voice says: Are you sure? Another: Keep quiet; I'm trying to be decisive here.), after almost a decade of distractions, that this is my one enduring passion. As such, it occupies most of my time: filling my thoughts, inspiring ideas, giving me perspective. (It's also fun to be anonymous and absent.) Challenging me the most. This blog serves as a breather, a quick sidelong glance. (And the rest? Don't even ask.)
In this way － yes, wait for it － I guess my April Fool's "in a relationship" Facebook joke (considered serious in this day and age) was half-meant. I am tied to the dirt of the details.
My pen is not just my sword (sounds like a testament), it is my shovel (channeling Heaney) or as I would randomly put it: my pick-chisel-flashlight. But as of the moment, as I embark on an itinerary of memories and ideas, I most urgently need it as a walking stick.