for some reason i thought of revisiting the old blog-- this old blog-- and found waps' entry. found only waps' entry. all our old posts were gone. there was only this resurrection, and a big wave of memory.
(found out that waps just moved them to another address. i won't tell. people are entitled to their secrets. it's not about the exclusivity, not about the other-ing; it's about us and what we used to have, and maybe still have, occasionally, when we find the time.)
those were heady days, man-- '05 to '06. i keep those years in an old shoebox. from time to time a pull a memory out, just to see how much i've changed. sometimes i open the shoebox to toss in another memory, a new one, like last month when we cleaned up pancho's garage and put up christmas lights and ate balut while watching before sunrise, then before sunset, on an overhead projector. or last night when as someone i didn't know at all read her poetry and as i smoked by the bar i leaned back and thought, hey, that was a nice line. that was a nice poem.
what i mean to say is, yes, waps was right: it was a lost year. abandoned? not really. people make new friends, get day jobs, move to canada, find love, become superheroes, but i guess everyone has a shoebox tucked away in a shelf somewhere.
what i mean to say is, yes, there can be resurrections. have a beer. pass the renga. write a line. this is about the poetry and tangina mo, world, tangina mo, memory, you can't steal that from us. we'll clench our fists around it and make new friends and stand on monobloc chairs while reciting five-minute-old poems. our monday nights, even when we spend it at home or asleep or cradling a bottle of beer by ourselves-- our mondays will always be for abandon.
abandon. what a word. mondays are for abandon. you should drop by sometime and buy me a beer so i can tell you all about it. i can even bring my shoebox.