Getting through

I have a huge pile of dry laundry to sort, fold and "deliver" to every family member's closet, but I have deferred the chore in order to write a few words. I don't want this day to go by unremembered.

At the rate dear ones are falling ill or dying on me, the time I have left has become so precious. The sense of mortality is doubly heightened.

I've become acutely aware of some kind of legacy I can leave behind. Not in material goods, goodness, no!, because I have little where those are concerned, except for anyone who'd take interest in my overused fountain pens. I hear they have resale value -- they come with legit papers, I might add, thanks to Joseph Uy.

Since the month started, I've tried to do "jottings" on this space on sundry matters from making my Mom's chicken potato salad to my husband Rolly Fernandez's hobby of collecting stamps. I don't turn up every day with something to say.

There are days like today when I'm just sifting and shoving the papers that have piled up on my desk, papers that signify the amount of work I attended to in the last 11 months. I should sort them from the useful to the useless the way I do with the dry laundry and gift myself with an uncluttered desk on Jan. 1, 2019.

The spirit is willing, but the body, suffering from holiday languor brought about by a rich diet of ham, cheese, steak, pate and the like, is dragging itself. Anyone who suggests "Exercise, Babeth! Stretch your extremities and go for walks" will be shot.

On days like this, it is best to just follow your bliss, go with the flow and succumb to the allure of another nap.

Source of illustration found here: https://www.huffpost.com/…/cartoons-for-anxiety_n_5bacd763e…

Amy, Diane and Emily

While reading Manila Bulletin's interview with novelist and recent Manila visitor Amy Tan just yesterday after it came out Monday, I took note of this interesting question asked: "Is there any person, living or dead, you want to chat with to write their biography or a book based on their story?"

Her reply: "Emily Dickinson because every one of her poems was so profound. Her poems are very deep and emotional but not in a predictable, sentimental way. I want to know, how did you have these thoughts?"

Today I happened upon a profile of actor Diane Keaton in a back issue of The New York Times (online edition, of course). She was asked what her favorite literary genre is. She then asked if quotes count as a literary genre or sub-genre because she hoards them. One such quote that she had scribbled on the back of an envelope are these lines from Emily Dickinson:

"In this short life that only lasts an hour, 
How much — how little — is within our power."

Coincidence? Synchronicity? A nudge--but towards what direction?

It's uncanny but as I encode these words, the fog in Baguio is rolling in, and I am reminded that I must bring in the laundry from the clothesline before they get damp all over again. I think that is today's message. That's the direction I am taking after I upload this blog for today.

By the way, "I must go in, the fog is rising" were supposedly the last words Ms. Dickinson said. A fitting thought before we all observe Dia de Muertos that has somehow been trivialized by a commercialized Halloween. Funny how of all the images of Ms. Dickinson, it's the one above that captured and captivated me totally.

Those last words won't be mine yet. And I'm not about to spook myself while alone in the house.

Thank you just the same, ladies.