Thursday, January 27, 2011

Cat's Dream


How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings–
a series of burnt circles–
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail

by P.N.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Only when I write

Like right at this moment, finally done with four stories (my quota for this week).

It's only when I write that I feel like my life has a sort of meaning. (Grin) I'm pretty much sure that I'm not really expert on this skill, but this is the only thing I know I can do right.

Like what I always say, "It's only in writing that one can be exact." In writing, I can still delete an idea, add something that just came up, control the number of words I have to say, and even forget about the entire idea that I tried to compose.

In writing, I can take all the time in the world, as long as I know I still have enough before the deadline. And, in writing, I can have a conversation with myself without opening my mouth, like a schizophrenic.

In trying to write a story, whether something that happened in my past, or somebody's that I witnessed, or something that I totally made up for the sake of immortalizing my fantasies or imaginations, I feel like a writer. And,it's where my dream of becoming an author begins, when I feel like a writer and behave like one.

And, only in a moment like this, when I'm done with my quota and submitted them to the editor, that I feel like I'm working, and deserved remuneration. Huh! Life is good!

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

You're still normal!



One day in a breakfast meeting with my co-author, who is the owner of several business establishments here in the city, I spoke about a predicament preoccupying me lately.

Should I be thinking about how to make more money than how much I'm earning now? Am I already too old to plan about my career which is synonymous to income, considering that business plan or career path will cover 10-15 years?

Then, he told me, "You're still normal."

He said if I would receive a million right then and there, I might be ruined.

True enough, I don't know what to do with such big amount of money!

Let nature take its course. We all dream of a good life and need more money than what we have. But it doesn't mean that's what we want right at this moment. Good life is relative. What is good life for you, anyway? For money is but a by-product of our so-called success or should we call it fulfillment.

If one dares to venture overseas for a huge sum even without an inkling of his or her job and life there, he or she may not linger especially upon reaching at the (big word) CROSSROADS.

One must be prepared whatever risk he or she may take whether in search for a greener pasture or for a meaning or purpose of one's existence.

I finished my breakfast not only with a full stomach, but a full heart and clear mind. Maybe, we all need even a single breakfast with a friend or someone who's not akin to us, to destroy some cobwebs in our minds.

Only to be reminded that amid pressures and anxieties, we are still normal. Live life each day!

(reveal your thoughts to me at lorie.cascaro@gmail.com)