Density

I was in a T-shirt and shorts and a huge backpack–the kind of backpack you see in Amazing Race worn by contestants–that day. It was hot. Something tells me it’s around ten in the morning, and all the smoke and the fumes and the perspirations of the crowd blend and stay stagnant in the air.

And this guy, this guy who’s wearing this gray shirt with a Tanabe print on its chest, his old face adorned with reading glasses, thick lenses, cargo shorts–just your ordinary guy. He approached me. Of all people.

“Do you know, by any chance, if Sim cards sink in the water?”

“Well,” I said, taken aback. “I think so. Yes, I think so.”

“Really? I was thinking about it for some time now. I left the Sim card on the pocket of my laundered pants and realized I left it there. I had to find the Sim card then realized that it might have sank deep in the water. So now I’m asking you. Do you think Sim cards sink in the water?”

I thought it was just a casual nonsense question but upon hearing his explanation I assumed that he was serious with this, that he was clearly gathering his thoughts to compose such a question.

“Well, I think it depends on how the Sim card sinks. I mean, it’s the density and all. I don’t know if it’s dense, but if the surface–”, I stopped, trying to think of a not-so-esoteric explanation, “but if it sinks straight to the water, it might sink. If it sinks parallel to the water–like a bed or something–then maybe it might float.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks, buddy.” He walked across the street to the other side and the next thing I know I didn’t see him anymore.

That morning experience left me thinking that maybe it was lifted directly from a Murakami novel, but I don’t know.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on June 12, 2009 at 1:10 pm, filed under IRLs, Slang and random. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

L6

Nine in the morning I was on the bed, lying on my chest, reading a Norman Mailer novel. An American Dream. I have outgrown my bed (well, my queen-sized bed was demolished after Dad and the others had trouble putting it into my new room during the transfer) crosswise: my feet dawdling on the edge, my head bobbing out on the other side. The novel lies on the floor. Put a masseuse to work and it would be such a great morning.

Bobbing out from the building that is my bed is my cabinet, and it was slightly slid open. The lowest shelf of the cabinet are hard-bound books, most of them stale but still stiff, all of them browning. I unconsciously fixed an empty look on the books, my mind contemplating on Rojack’s statement with the police regarding the alleged suicide of his wife–she had jumped from the tenth floor and had ended in anatomic bomb of a corpse–and how, it seems to me, incoherent, unsound, unconvincing the explanation was, and then the thoughts gradually dissipated, my eyes conscious now, and it focuses on a pink Motorola L6, collecting dust through the years of hibernation.

It was my mother’s spare cellphone. It used to run on a Verizon SIM card–my mom’s, actually-and I used it during those sweet Manhattan escapades, used it during confusions with their three-story (?) subways. I brought it home and it worked for almost a year, though one day it stopped getting any signal. I used to blame the cellphone for the absence of an antenna, but after hours of desperate waiting I surmised that the problem is deep within the cellphone–though I couldn’t exactly remember any accident which could have rendered it sick, so to speak.

I wiped away the dust from the screen with my thumb and it looked classy with its shiny metallic casing, looking unpretentious, simple, sleek, ergonomic enough to fit in the hand and in the pocket.

(more…)

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on June 9, 2009 at 3:41 pm, filed under Baaaack then, IRLs, Life at UPLB, Sentemotional. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.

Goddamn that swine flu

A flurry of text messages. “Opening of UPLB classes postponed to June 16, 2009.” Other versions are sent too, mentioning a few names I do not know, but all are paraphrased and mean the same thing. Opening of classes are postponed for a week. Classmates forwarding their doubts. “Is this true?” I said that those were only text messages; it could be a hoax. Those text messages are still unconfirmed, unauthorized, and without the brand of the Student Council I wouldn’t believe those text messages.

There’s a certain text message announcing a case of swine flu in San Pablo City, Laguna. A person who came all the way from London tested positive, and that he/she was confined in a hospital nearby. The text itself said that it isn’t a joke, that you could search it up on the Internet for confirmation and updates.

This morning, the UPLB website confirmed the news of the postponement. My world crashed. My friends are happy that all of us aren’t going to school yet, for one more fucking week. I have to read more books to lull the days away, so I grabbed a Norman Mailer–An American Dream, if you must know–from the bookshelf. Why are they not excited about school?

I would make daily visits to a friend’s house (which I did last week) and access their Wi-Fi through my laptop. Yes, that would be such a good idea. Last week I spent four days in their house: the three of us watched silly romantic movies, smoked Dunhills like raging mufflers, cooked meals for ourselves, even attempted to inebriate ourselves with gin for ten minutes. Ten minutes, for in the middle of the gin-drinking they dismissed the idea. They simply stopped drinking, they said they weren’t in the mood, so I stopped too, and that while packing things up in their garage I exclaimed sarcastically that it was the longest boozefest I’ve ever been to, and that it was the best, bar none.

Yes, I would fill those gaping holes in next week’s schedule.

Saturday, I’ve decided to go to a cousin’s house to help him out of his UPCAT worries. It would be such a good idea to lift the qualms from his head. Then at Saturday night I’m planning to have some booze at Katipunan, though that’s still tentative.

After all the days are filled with something to do, there’s still that something pummeling my mind to the point where I couldn’t appease myself. It’s an itching I couldn’t stop scratching. It’s the excitement. I want to go away. I’m stuck up in this hellhole. I’m holed up the way(pardon the intrusion) Harry Potter was holed up in his room at Privet Drive waiting for something, anything to happen. I just want to go away.

This entry was written by Kevin, posted on June 6, 2009 at 7:27 pm, filed under IRLs, Stress ball narratives. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.