At dusk

I like the concept of home, or coming home. On this busy season of celebration and daily work, I relish quiet moments of rest. I'm grateful if I make it home before dark. 

Paul greets me by rushing out of the gate as soon as I park the car in the garage. He relishes the short-lived freedom in the street, but I believe we have sufficiently influenced him to be a homebody because, after 10 minutes of the outside world, he would come inside. He'd be panting, waiting for a belly rub, expectantly waiting to be near my presence. We don't deserve our dogs, but God gave them to us anyway.

Nanay's plants are blooming at this time of year. They thrive under the tropical sun, which we have no shortage of. For some reason I remember an airport staff in Prague during winter. She asked me where I was headed. "The Philippines, where it's hot." She said to me, "Good for you," clearly envious. 

It had just rained. The leaves were moist and happy. 

Paul takes a certain liking to the camera. He avoids getting his photos taken, but he looks at me with curiosity. 

The flowers fall. Tomorrow, as is the habit of homeowners here, the dried leaves and flowers will be swept away. 

Books are plenty in the house. Here are some books in the living room. Nanay tells us we should stop buying books, for where should we store them in our limited space? She says, "Daw library na ang balay ta."



Manong asks me to take photos of his cookies. 

I often tell him that we should sell these at thrice the price and market them as cures for cancer. 

After work

Books I'm enjoying — the proverbial last hurrah for 2024

The Collected Stories of Gregorio C. Brilliantes, whose stories take me to various heights of imagination. I got my copy from the Solidaridad bookstore in Ermita. One Sunday afternoon, after a satisfying after-church nap, I read one story aloud to my mother. The story was The Distance to Andromeda, which I had first encountered in college, during a GE* class with the late Prof. Carlos Aureus. While listening, my mother was transfixed; she looked away, almost hypnotized, until the end, when she said, "Kanami, no?"

Samantha Harvey's Orbital, which I only discovered because it had won the Booker Prize this year. Critics call it a love letter to the earth. Nothing much happens in it, really, but the writing is exquisite, contemplative, and quiet. Six astronauts look at the earth from the orbit, then there are flashbacks of memories from their homes. It left me with heart that's worshipping — surely the universe couldn't have happened by chance?

John Updike's My Father's Tears. His story collection reveals his playfulness and insight. Uncle John is one of my favorite writers in English. 

Manu Avenida's Ikigai Ug Ibang Mga Piling Sugilanon, in Cebuano-Binisaya, translated into English by Prof. Marj Evasco. I'm about to read The Miracle in Barrio Camansili. The stories feel close to home. 

Hannah Whitten's The Foxglove King, which I read for utter pleasure. I saw it on sale at National (Php 300 for a hardback!). A woman named Lore has powers to raise the dead. I'm in the chapter where she meets the Sun Prince to spy on him. 

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