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Whose train of thought?

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Old subway lines

January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007

Favorite terminals

Aliza, the hodgepodge
Brian, the happy obituarist
Carljoe, bayaw sa klase at kanto
Daryll, the free migrant
Den, the travelling feline
Egay's friendster kundiman
Egay's lj kundiman
Em, the punch-drunk daisy
Gabby, girl with ribbons undone
Gloria, going places in her jeans
Ian, sandwichspy eating the sun
Jeline, with her random shrapnel
Joel, the rambling soul
Kit, with an eternal itch
Kuya Zivan, high on acid42
Larry's highest hiding place
Maita, going beyond the sunrise
Margie, in a dirty shirt
Mika, the dog woman
Mikael, may abo sa dila
Mitzie, between moons and eggs
Nikko, with his pebbles and sex
Ning, in her little tugboat
Peachy, with patolas and doughnuts
Rabbi, posing on the proskenion
Tintin, detoxing on the couch
Twinkle, traveling light
Vlad, the dirty pop machine
Wanda, warcar at pansitan
Waps, on the old road
Yol, nababaog na nga ba?
Zia, wandering without subtitles

Monday, February 12, 2007
11:16 PM

Last night I bumped into my housemate Ben on the way home. He had a look that could best be described as gleeful. In his hands was a pair of white ice skates.

"Guess what?" he asked.
"You bought yourself some skates?"
"No," he replied, "I FOUND them on the sidewalk. I love this city!"
"Wow! Why'd someone throw them away? Do they fit you?"
"No way, but they look like they might fit you, actually."
"Uh, are you sure you want to see me back on the ice?"


I tried them on anyway, and they seemed a half size bigger than my feet, but if I wore them with thick socks (as I should) they'd fit perfectly. The tips are a bit gasgas, and the inside fluff is more scruffy than fluffy, and the blades need to be sharpened -- but otherwise they're a perfectly fine pair of skates! Orbit, their front flaps say in fading gold font. We will let you glide in circles around the ice, they promise, winking at each other.

I have a vague memory of this children's story about a pair of ice skates stolen by a boy named Peter (?). He wears them and suddenly they have a life of their own, taking him away from the other children on the frozen lake and into the forest and beyond. I don't remember what else happens, only that he turns out safe in the end, if a little shaken. Unlike the gruesome Andersen fairy tale about the adopted girl who puts on a pair of red shoes that make her keep on dancing, across ballrooms and roads and graveyards until she asks a woodcutter to chop off her feet. At which point the red shoes and dismembered feet in them keep dancing and bar her way to the church. She dies of a literal broken heart.

I dreamt I died last night, shot in the chest in my high school by a man with a bow and arrow. I had been flying, then I sank to the ground in slow motion, and crumpled up. Richard said dreams about death are good, that they signal transformation. Sure, but what of dreams about being murdered? Jess said I didn't really die, that it was Cupid reminding me of Valentine's Day. Oh brother.

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