Program 3, 25 minutes. There.
***
I envy Lyndon. He doesn’t jog, run on the treadmill or sweat in a stationary cycle but he’s already lean. He doesn’t look like someone who lifts weights for a living but he’s twice as strong as me, and to think that he was thin back in college. But then again, he rarely drinks, and so he manages his weight and physique like that. Unfortunately, that won’t work for me, not now, not here in Quezon where, it should be mentioned, that drinking is part of our way of living, or at least my peers, and so I am ostracized whenever I bail out of drinking sessions or leave early because I hate to lift weights the next day, post-drunk. Here I am, sweating my ass off this treadmill, wishing I could resist those fish nuggets for lunch, knowing it would be futile, but then again comforting myself that I should not be on a slimming diet because I don’t want to be found bloody and dismembered one day on the bench because of collapsing while lifting that 105-pound
barbell, the plates smeared with goo.
***
We were both young when I first saw you
I close my eyes
And the flashback starts
I'm standing there
On a balcony in summer air
***
I should cover this screen. Running in this machine seem to take forever when I see these digits. I’ll cover everything but that heartbeat thing. There. Why on earth is Manuel playing this song, on loud speakers? This is too cheesy. But then again, I love the singer’s immaculate nose, she looking like an angel, would be ideal if we would be married 5 years from now. Ho-hum…
***
That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles
And my daddy said stay away from Juliet
And I was crying on the staircase
Begging you please don't go, and I said
***
20 minutes, 5… is this kilometers per hour?
***
A writer-friend once told me that surrealists have “night journals” where they write whatever they remember of their dreams immediately after waking up. It’s kind of hard to do, really: an attempt to put on paper the contents of your subconscious that were depicted in your dreams the night before. Dreams, dreams, dreams.
Speaking of which, that one last night was weird, not really affecting though, just… entertained, sort of. To wit: it is a day in our subdivision where suddenly I’m on a couch with someone who is not cute, not hot, but beautiful. And she’s wearing that short black dress, kind of shiny too. She’s Psyche chased by Cupid, a clear lake beneath the floating mist, a bloom on a blanket of grass.
She’s Nami.
***
We were drinking, me, Paul, Lyndon and her. It is implied in the dream that something is happening between us, as evidenced by frequent giggles and moments of damn-I’m-melting-don’t-look-at-me-with-those-kay-rikit-sa-singkit-eyes-but-I-love-them. And then we were out of beer, and so we bought some more, going to the store side by side. Me shuffling and she gliding. As we arrive at the store she tells me that she has something to say, like something more important than the revision of neo-classical economics, whatever. I ask her what, but then again as she starts to talk, I wake up.
Though I have a disclaimer: Last night, I read her reply to my comment on her new album posted in multiply,com, and so that offers an explanation why the dreamed dawned on me while I was sleeping, given the fact that I wasn’t thinking of her or anything related to her before I sleep.
***
15 minutes, 6 kp/h: jog!
Look at that. My heartbeat’s over 110, and I think it’s because of this song, this tachycardia-causing tune. Haha.
***
Do I have to stop this? I know she has a boyfriend, and I have an idea that they’re already over a year now. Mas madaling hulihin ang manok na nakatali, but then again there’s the fact that I’m sort of friends with the guy, the horrible karma and most of all, it’s not the right thing to do. When she talks and I listen, it always dawns on me that this is my definition of wow, and I haven’t met someone like her before. That brain of hers is sexier than Cindy Kurleto, and that smile’s just a sight for sore eyes. The way we make fun of each other tickles me more than her fingers poking my ribs. She even called me up, when I was in Olongapo en route to Zambales a week ago, saying sorry, thinking I was mad because of a smart-ass comment she quipped. And my friends laughed at me because I was stupidly grinning the whole time. Think, think, think.
Perhaps I’ll just enjoy this for a while.
***
That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles
And my daddy said stay away from Juliet
And I was crying on the staircase
Begging you please don't go, and I said
***
10 minutes, 8 kp/h: run run run!
***
I wonder if Nami remembers our first meeting, there in an event held by our organization in a small bar in Timog. I wonder if she knows me as the guy who, while drowning in the blaring juxtaposition of banging instruments, held up a phone in front of her, pointing to the screen where the words “naiintindihan mo ba yung tugtog?!” were typed since I’m not sure if she’d hear me. Come to think of it, we were sitting side by side back then. That simple gesture, born out of irritation and boredom, paved way to conversations with her and her friends, who were really n-i-c-e. I wonder if she thought what I thought back then, that it was odd, strange that instead of the usual exchange-of-numbers routine that people do, what we gave each other was, get this: blogs. Yes, url addresses of our respective blogs. Weird because we were sharing a common fondness about something as ephemeral as, say, literary works in blogs. I wonder if she knew that I was rolling my eyes when I saw someone in the crowd trying to hit on her, the poor fellow, not knowing it was over quickly. I wonder if she knows or if she has an idea about what I think, and if she knew about this work—
Anyway, privacy’s overrated and cheap, so I won’t hide this from her and other people.
***
There, finished. My shirt’s wet with sweat, feels good.
Oh, what would the mind be if not these cerebral exercises from time to time?
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