No Smoking Joint

Smog-Free. Shiny-White. Clean Lungs.

Bring in the Lakers! 

it was one of those rare occurrences that i managed to end a story i started---most merely simmer in the hard drive on an endless wait for the right kind of muse to drop by and remove the leash to its culmination. 

to work on a vignette for more than a couple of days in excruciating, let alone the sci-fi short that i've been working on for a week now, still stuck on the fourth page with nowhere to go except to relegate it on a temporary hibernation. although i have the best way on how to end it, but the flow of thought had escaped me as i was on the process of writing. hence, it inadvertently stalled. 

* * * * * 

the recent days found in the online forum i frequent was this disturbing reality of Bradbury-esque proportions. 

the levying of duties on the importation of books in the Philippines in violation of a United Nations agreeement signed in Florence in the 19050s. the sad fact is, one of the signatory countries is the Philippines. moreover, the Customs bureau--with direct coercion and perhaps, nudging by the Department of Finance (whose Undersecretary stupidly iterated that novels and such are not publications of any educational nor cultural nor scientific importance---apparently she never touched a book ever in her life?) vehemently implemented the so-called appropriate taxes on the shipment of imported books on a basis of a misinterpreted Republic Act that contradicted the ratified 1950 agreement. 

as a bibliophile myself, and one of those who believe that the free-flowing of ideas are mostly achieved by one's appetite for anything of the written word, this turn of control by the Philippine government probably has some both ulterior and blatant motive behind. whether to curtail the stream of knowledge or merely to attain a certain quota, such discriminate conduct does warrant public outcry. 

* * * * * 

speaking of books, i'm currently treading through Haruki Murakami's wonderful collection of short fiction: Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. 

and a line on this particular short really caught me on my weakest: 

the close-up filters, as i said, are a cheaper option than those three-hundred-buck 60mm or 100mm lenses used for photomicrography. however i shoot RAW and cropping the images for internet compatibility, i still find the quality of the filters at some point, could be a wee bit below equal than that if you're shooting with a macro lens. 

although the images taken were not the usual macro subjects (insects, flowers, etc), particularly because i could not find one at that moment and the lighting condition would have prevented me from doing so, as well. 

note: click on the image to open lightbox. use arrow keys to scroll through. or the Prev/Next button on either left or right will leaf through the pages. crazy bugger, i know, even putting it up kind of annoyed me. but it's vanity blogified. hehe. 

the dreaded place for a book to be.

it is simply meant an exile. the st. helena or the honolulu for a deposed emperor or a dictator. the Goodwill or the Salvation Army for a thing that has no significant use (or was used before, but was rapidly replaced by something more appealing or advanced or brand-spanking-new). like a vacant space for anything that is junk. 

once a book relegated to that cramped cubicle of solitude, it degrades the value. a bathroom read is the "meantime guy/gal" in the perspective of tight-end spines and crease-free pages. its importance is visually secondary; its relevance, obviously shoddy. from that point, is a communal thing for a literature to commit a conspired redemption---not from throwing itself into the murky depths of the ceramic abyss--but from an eventual liberation on the hands of another.

however, becoming a backlog is a salvation of some sort. like an ex- bound for a reconciliation. a hope that will most likely springs eternal. but for the eyes to feast on, is dependent on its ability to goad. or in most cases, of an empty billfold.

admittedly, i have a few of my own. books that found themselves stacked up with magazines of eons ago, carefully balanced on that lid of burnished white ceramic; and even a small tap would send the entire lot on a tumble to litterbox. they have a purpose, i reckon. maybe why i let them cling to that fate.

as far as bathroom reads are concerned, i am a believer. if not, an advocate. concentration belies the demand for sustenance. a current flow of ideas to counter a physical loss. the rationality had perhaps been proven since man discovered the need. a kind of leisure, so to speak. for that particular interval in time. for whatever reason, it endows a sense of entitlement---a nugget of knowledge in that specific moment. 

never a day that my incursions to the john are marred with lack of reading material. they complete the spectrum of it---like biscotti with a cup of coffee. a filler to that minute box of personal space. whether literature complements, or not, still it is always a must.

the queue:

Gallipoli - Alan Moorehead

The Americans at Normandy - John McManus

Film Noir - Alain Silver (a reread)

The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks (another reread)