Laid...

"Laid" (v.) past tense and past participle of "lay" 


Laid Up

Fringe Dex has come down with a bug that took months in development, a month to diagnose and he knows not how long to treat. For today, he's taking things easy (as easy as his fevered brain will allow). If any of his arnis friends are reading this post, this situation is one more reason Dex has been...

Laying Low

It's something that I've had to do frequently because of the weakness and the lassitude, also because I have other things to do. I'm returning to the wonderful world of ESL (pronounced "ee es err") because I need to finance my medication for while I'm laid up, and maybe for months beyond that point. It annoys, it galls, it inconveniences like a boyfriend who just won't stop telling you he loves you. I'll need to lay low some more because I'm conserving what strength I have left for the now old job. Y'know, so I won't be...

Laid Off

It's the general consensus that quitting is a lot better. I promise, dear reader, that I will do nothing to jeopardize my plans of quitting the job after it's served my purposes.
 

One Step Short

The position won't be here forever. It could be gone now, for all I know. God knows I need the money, but do I seriously want to go back to the wonderful world of local foreign-run ESL with all its craziness? This is no longer what I want. I would have gladly stayed in this industry to be with Tin, or later on with Gwen, but beside me is not where either woman wants to be.

Add to my headaches this little problem: I may be dealing with something right now that puts me in no position to share myself or a future with anyone. I don't mean that metaphorically. There's a condition that some people have that is cause for annulment of marriage (as per Canon Law): what I may have is about one step short of that.

I'm always seemingly one step short: of greatness, of infamy (though some may argue with that), or getting rich, or what have you. That one time I wasn't one step short of something, I wake up to ...this. 

C'est la vie.

Check back with me in a few and maybe I will have become a step short of, thankfully, something else.

In Search of Decent Sticks

My little “fact-finding” trip south of the Philippines was not martial in nature, but thanks to that, I knew I’d need new sticks in the near future. And yes, a bunch of (wooden) knives to complement and replace the one I already own in case it broke. I resolved to fill part of that need with a quick trip to Quiapo yesterday.

What I should have done was pay more attention to what Jeff was telling me about where exactly he’d previously bought my training gear. Get on a Quiapo-bound jeep, he’d said. Get off a little after you clear the tunnel. The rest of it was a blur. Still, it didn’t faze me: it was a cool late Sunday afternoon and I had time to look around.

Too bad, I didn’t have company. Sunday afternoon shopping excursions— even if for only for anti-riot gear— should really be a shared experience. Seeing how your companion’s eyes light up at your latest mutual discovery (brass knuckles, steel and wooden knives, telescoping batons) takes away the annoyances of aching feet or the heat of the day. Days like this, with companions like that, you’re going to want to part with your money.

Sadly, each shop I wandered into had the wrong kinds of sticks: too thin, too thick, too light, too heavy, sticks that threatened to stick a splinter in your fingers and palm. I’d peered into alleyways full of shops festooned with faux military-grade bags, shirts, shorts, belts, and combat boots. I spoke to seedy-looking men in my search for sticks with the right thickness, length and finish. I’d gone round the area as far as Raon, where I used to buy cheap electronics for my old Practical Arts classes. What galled was that I knew I wasn’t searching the Quiapo area deeply enough, because that place is like any market in a Neil Gaiman novel: if you knew where to look you will find everything you need, even your elusive rattan canes.

I used to know this place at least as well as anyone who studied in the University Belt was reasonably expected to. Yet every scary man in a tank top who stood outside these shrines of macho was pointing to bundles of all the wrong sticks, tied together with plastic twine. Where were my sticks? Times like these, I really missed company: my feet and my head were beginning to hurt.

Finally, at the recommendation of a not-so-scary gay shopkeeper who knew nothing about sticks, I settled on a pair made from lacquered hardwood. I had little choice: none of the rattan canes passed muster and all the other hardwood sticks were cracked or bent. My acquisitions were way too smooth to be handled properly and too heavy for my standard training needs. If I’m not extra careful, they’re as likely to break my wrist or slip out of my sweaty grip and bean someone on the head.

I took out my hardwood cudgels and went through a few of my exercises –slowly— when I arrived home.

Diagonal strikes, horizontals, half strikes: I didn’t trust myself with verticals, not yet. I shuffled, trying to get used to the weight and the increased and potentially more painful mass I was twirling in the air. One stick resting lightly on each shoulder: aim for your opponent’s head now. Lean left, attack with the right-hand stick. Lean right, attack with the left-hand stick. Arms crossed: lean right, strike right. Lean left, follow with left. Arms open now— keep your opponent from moving in!— strike with the right...

Shampoo, rinse, repeat.

I’m rationalizing right now, keeping the buyer’s remorse at bay. And as I tell myself that my find will be useful, I also tell myself that I will consult with Jeff and listen more closely the next time I go hunting for sticks.

Ricardo Montalban, RIP

Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannn!

Saying that and cracking jokes about the man's cleavage isn't going to be half as 

fun anymore. Neither will making those impressions of the original Fantasy Island's Tattoo (De plane! De plane!) be half as satisfying.  

He died yesterday, the actor best-known for his role of genetically engineered superman Khan Noonien Singh on Star Trek  and for his other, more sedate role of Fantasy Island proprietor Mr. Roarke. The people who spend time surfing the Catholic Channels will find Ricardo Montalban 1) thanking God, 2) advocating the rosary, or 3) hawking rosaries with stones from a cave in Jerusalem encapsulated in their crosses. And he was spokesman for the Chrysler Cordoba in the mid-seventies.  ....Not that any of these things ring bells with my four gentle readers.

I guess what should strike them is that the man lived to a ripe old age and somehow didn't piss people off, sully his reputation or figure in a high-profile brouhaha with other celebrities. Considering the climate in Hollywood, that's saying a lot. He was so nice the Pope knighted him, sort of. a role model for many Latinos everywhere-- a Mexican who made it big in the 'States, who never give up his Mexican citizenship up to he day he died.    

 

Ricardo Montalban is dead, reminding us of our own mortality. Reminding some of us yet again of how close we are to it. It's as if the creaky joints, the arrhythmia, the disproportionately increased insulin levels were not enough. 

There is so much for us to do-- like yell "Khaaaaaaaaaaan!" into a Starfleet communicator or praise the Chrysler's "soft Corinthian leather" in Montalban's distinct mellifluous voice--  and so very little precious time to do it in. 

Singing in the Stairwell

It looks like I'm frequenting the stairwell in my office building more than the Hotel Sogo these days. And this is a good thing. I've been meaning to find a more or less unobtrusive place to practice my singing voice. I pretty much failed on that score (the office bathroom being unsuitable), so the stairwell's the next best thing.

The stairwell has the ambience I'm looking for: enough reverb to make the voice sound crisp and lively. It's built like the inside of a giant flute so sound carries to the next few floors. If you keep the door open the sound  travels along the corridor and insinuates itself into the neighboring offices. As long as you sing well, it's not too distracting. In fact it might be somewhat welcome.       

Of course I wouldn't be Dex if I didn't do things like singing in the stairwell for at least three reasons most of the time. So, 

• Reason 1: My voice is somewhat rusty, so I really do need the practice. 
• Reason 2:  I'm often emotionally constipated, so I need the catharsis. 
• Reason 3: At any one time between lunch and ten p.m., the room next to the stairwell is occupied by good looking chicks.
  

To paraphrase myself, as long as I don't sound like I'm strangling the cat, I should be fine. ;) 

More Status Reports

I haven't wished everyone a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year yet. I'd like to, but before that, I need to get some things out of the way.  

1. Had my lungs checked for bugs. I've always had problems with my air-exchangers, you see. I'm waiting for my results with (say it, say it you ham!) bated breath.
2. Spent new year asleep. Just like Christmas.
3. Loking forward to some R&R on the Chinese new year. Heard tell it happens at the tail end of this month.
4. Dex El is working on a writing module for his Language Center.
5. Dex El has been dog tired most days, more so than usual.
   
6. Dex apologizes to the friends he can't see this month or last. Everyone's busy, hard to track down.
7. Dexter hasn't really felt Christmas since before last year.
8. Dexter is turning t i  y f  e.

A belated Merry Christmas, everyone. May you have a decent New Year. 
 

Retired University Janitor Left Holding the Bag, Cuts Album

Picked up from my random net-wanderings-- 

Meliton Zamora is a retired University of the Philippines Janitor who was very liberal with his signature when it came to helping out students in a financial bind. He became their guarantor when they applied for student loans. Sadly some of the students he's helped have been very conservative about paying their debts. Consequence: instead of getting his full retirement pay for his 40-plus years of service, he gets enough money for only a measly 171 days worth of meaningful dedicated work.

In a twist worthy of a story made onli in da Pilipins, our generous ex-janitor managed to cut an album. Friends, family and supporters of this gentleman are hoping that

a.) students he's helped remember his kindness and do something about his situation; and

b.) people who'd like to help him out would buy his CD. 

No doleouts are expected, but "...he will be thankful for any assistance you can give."  Do visit Mang Mel and buy his CD (P350 only) at No. 16-A, Block 1, Pook Ricarte, U.P. Campus, Diliman, Quezon City (behind UP International House) or contact his daughter Kit V. Zamora at 0916-4058104.

What say we show him some love?       

sourced from this multiply entry.

I learned the wrong skills

This is partly why I mislike reunions of nearly any sort. People start asking the deadly questions, the ones that go... Are you dating anyone? When will you get married? Just what are you doing for a living now?  Automatically we start self-checking, comparing, evaluating relative worth in the most haphazard ways. Am I making enough money? Am I working in the field I originally studied for? Just how useless was my college education anyway? 

When my friend Nina started asking me (asking herself) similar questions it dawned on me that Kiosaki (Rich Dad, Poor Dad) was right: growing up, we learned all the wrong skills. We never learned to schmooze, we never learned to prioritize money over learning. We fought with our parents, never realizing that our youthful ideals were nothing more than the fever dream of a youngish old man who never graduated from high school puppy love. Why couldn't we have played ball with the folks-- taken the courses they wanted us to, gotten the good grades, joined the right fraternity and whatnot--  and done our own thing after we got our safe jobs? 

My friend Burt basically said to me once that people who climbed Everest because it was there were nucking futs. Life was all about-- and I liberally paraphrase here-- getting rich, buying a house and car, attracting a girl with big boobs, marrying her, having lots of sex, popping out kids and settling down. Those who didn't think this way were likely prissy artistes who... well, at least Oscar Wilde (lucky bastard) was comfortable in his artistic uselessness.

I'm not. 

Growing up, I learned all the wrong lessons. I'll be honest and state that I may be too old a dog to learn the not-so-new tricks. I'll likely die poor, with nothing to give my life value except the little achievements that parents and people at reunions laugh at. But at least I'll change what I can. I can't be Christian and discount the fact that God loves everyone equally-- but that's what makes it moot. We're all affected equally by gravity--in fact we couldn't live without it-- but that doesn't dilute our admiration for the people who manage to fly.         

Ending the Year of the Klutz...

...by being one. 

Slammed my head into a wall while running in the stairwell a week ago. It wasn't as painful as it was funny. I learned first-hand just what the boys at Fight Science talk about when they illustrate just how the energy of an impact to the skull travels through the brain and along the neck and spine and into the muscles in the shoulders and the back as they work to absorb and dissipate it. I was lucky that some of the impact was mitigated by my hands and arms (energy travels through them too, all the way to-- yes-- the shoulders and the back).

And just today, in my rush to get to work I forgot both of my cellphones when I would sorely need either one later... for when the fireworks would start. There won't be a way in hell barring telepathy that my parents would be able to know when to come for me later. They won't even know  where to go to pick me up.

Too, I could have sworn that my ATM card was in my wallet yesterday. It was  in my wallet yesterday. I've had no reason to take it out at any time except for when I really needed it, which is tonight.

I'll be en route to Cainta to pick up my phones, then to QC to track down my ATM card. (This is assuming of course that people in my QC house have been practicing their brand of silent interventions in my so-called wayward life.) Then I hie off to Alabang to join the folks. All of this to be done tonight.          

But my year--in fact the last two-- haven't been exclusively marked by physical klutziness. I was also inexcusably socially inept. 

C'est la vie.

I hope this is the last time that I'll be this klutzy-- you know, physically, mentally and what have you.         

Happy new year, folks.

Not Nihil, Nihil

There are two major Christian milestones worth noting, regardless of what denomination of the Christian faith you belong to. One is Christmas. The other is Easter.  We celebrate the beginning of Christ's Mission on the former; we celebrate its fulfilment on the latter holdiay.

The Christian is supposed to witness this truth: God bends over backward to reconcile Himself with His wayward Creation. I sometimes wish He'd do a better job of it-- what with all the broken people out there, breaking themselves against the intransigence of other people; those same people being broken in their turn. I wish the Christians would do a better job of witnessing too-- some of those broken people broke themselves on Christian intransigence.  

Jesus died so none of us would answer the question of meaning with "Nihil, Nihil." When we leave Christmas morning behind, we are supposed to carry the hope and the joy that knowing this gives us. And Love too, love most importantly: to share-- to witness-- these as far and wide as is humanly possible.    

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T: To your "Nihil," I will answer always "Ti amo." 

Happy New Year!

How do you know you're too old for derring-do? 

1. When you demand peak performance from your body and get it less and less;

2. When you find yourself risking life and limb for utterly stupid lost causes;

3. When #2 happens too frequently;

4. When the embarrassing and self-injurious consequences of #2 cease to be charming 

I didn't save a friend's possessions from the potential ravages of a fire. I didn't interpose myself between some hapless old lady and an out-of-control bus. I didn't recklessly spend all my money to make sure a loved one got medicine. I didn't fight off a bunch of goons intent on robbery. 

No. Nothing so heroic. I marked the end of this year by running down a stairwell, slipping, tripping and slamming my head on a wall half a floor below me in the name of workplace punctuality.

I'm okay, for now. I'm just waiting to see if the latest bump on my noggin has any neurological and psycho-motor side effects that I should be worried about. I think my personality's still intact-- not an occasion for cheering if some people are to be asked.  

Happy new year. At least for me, the fireworks came early.  

Season of Lists

Stuff I'm keeping out

If only for one day, let me keep out some guests that have been residing in my mind throughout most of the year. Here's the list--

1. Anomie

The feeling of being disconnected from everything has been my default state since 2005. There have been a few occasions where I connected with people, thank God, but these have been few. I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth, mind, but they have not been quite the connections I needed.

2. Korean ESL Students

I'm sorry. I like them, I do. The women, especially. But I've done nothing but teach them Engrish the past two years. I want to relex und tinks of nothings lelated to koreun schyoodunt. I'll make an exception for my favorite student from my Engrish 11 days, Jenny, but she's busy with her studies in Japan.

3. Women

I have found out that I am pathologically inclined to be generous toward them, and they have consistently given me reasons why indulging in my pathology has been a waste of my time. They make great friends, they do. But only to people who are not the least bit "threatening" to them, like my Tita Dex persona. They will never truly see me as ...me. They will always see either ex-Calauan Mayor Sanchez or Tita Dex.

4. Television Christmas Specials

Most especially the noontime variety show Christmas specials. I don't doubt the intent of the people who watch them, and the intent of some of the people who make them. But I cannot deny the BS and mediocrity that oozes from each of every one of them.

5. Friends

A good number of them anyway. The best time to see them and catch up is waaaay after Christmas. If I were a responsible friend, I would have caught up with them now and again way before Christmas. Saved myself and them the anxiety of rushing to catch up just because everyone else is expected to. Mea culpa, people. And I am sorry.

6. Computers

I have a choice between prayer and non-Engrish related work. But since I plan to greet and engage the Savior in an argument on his traditional birthday, then computers are out. After I argue with God, I will wish him a happy birthday-- moot, considering that he is already happy in himself, if the pastors, priests and shamans are to be believed.

7. Rants and the things that vex me.

If only for one day, I'll endeavor to still the mind, to keep it from overanalyzing everything. To STFU. I realize that I'm an angry man, picking at the scabs of the same old issues. Obviously they're important to me. But at least, just for a day, I have to let them go.

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Stuff I'll be doing

From one grumpy old man to a whole slew of grumpy old men: wine, sandwiches, and a show.

If there's time, reestablishing family ties with Fr. Varela and the rest of my long lost Andalusian-Asian kin. It would be so cool to proudly wear that family's colors. Yeah Dex, feed your delusions of knighthood, why don'tcha?

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Stuff I really want

Aside from a laptop, a car and 42 million bucks?

There must be better ideas than going into torpor after meeting familial obligations on Christmas. But I stopped believing in Christmas reconciliations three years ago. One almost happened, but it soured in February so it doesn't count. Someone please prove me wrong here.

Please.

We finally had "The Talk"

The preamble was respectably short, but I, well versed in the language of rejection knew where this spiel was leading up to.  She sat me down and spoke matter of factly about why this just simply would not have worked. Even if we spaced her gifts over the course of the next two months. Let it last until valentine's my eyes pleaded. Her eyes didn't blink: she was being firm, but I could tell she wanted to be kind.  But the word was final: there would be no Christmas bonus.

Status Updates

Health

Still sick, but I've been constantly drinking water and chugging on vitamins. I try not to miss a meal. The good news is that I am slowly recovering. The bad news is that the lack of sleep I am forced to experience means that recovery will be slow. 

I run/pedal two kilometers a day now, just to keep fit. I can't push myself to do the usual five because I'll need my energy to get well. 

Work

Everybody keeps talking about the recession so much that I sometimes want to throttle the next guy who mentions the word. Answers are somewhat terse when we talk about the Christmas bonuses and sundry that we need so badly. What frightens me is that people around me are looking to me to break the ice, to wave my magic wand and somehow make it all better.

I'm flattered, but I can't even convince my ex to talk to me. It wouldn't hurt to broach the subject at least. I have no plans of being a damned union leader (damned being very operative here), but I can do that much.

...and I can decide, based on management's response, if it's still worth the trouble to stay.

Life Choices

My ex quit Engrish 11 in August of 08. I got this job, at IELTSherp, a nearby office, in part because I was hoping to see her again. With her gone, there's little to keep me here but the students and the pay. But each month I stay here takes away time I can spend on other things I'd rather be doing.  

The people who drink with me know that I have a "grandkid" working my ex's old job who I don't see often. They know I have other friends there who I didn't get to see as often because all this ex business has basically turned my dealings with my former office into an awkward game of "spot the elephant in the room." Someone there who I'd like to consider a friend is the unfortunate object of my totally undeserved ire. I am constantly torn between saying hello and ripping him in half. 

I'm sorry, dude, but I had to say it.

I have other friends in other venues who have been somewhat neglected (sins of omission) because of my preoccupation with filling the vacuum left in Tina's wake.

My parents are constantly puzzled by what I've been doing (nothing new there) but I'd appreciate it if they'd preoccupy themselves with something more constructive for once. Like focusing on their own lives.

I know, I know: they care. And if I were in their shoes I'd probably be nagging my kid too. But I'll wait my turn. There's got to be a better way to engage my kids besides.    

So now I'm wondering if everything I did was worth all of this. Friends I don't see, long long hours, inadequate pay, continued parental doubt, being constrained to act on the 16th and 30th of every month, love of my life running away from me like I was frigging satan. 

Social

The good news is that I have actually gone out on several dates already, and I had a wonderful time  on my most recent outing with a colleague. I gave her a tour of my happy places-- Mongolian Grill and Subway-- on the same day. No, we're just friends and we're likely to stay that way. We're both too hung up-- Tina's words, not mine-- on our exes.   

The important thing is that I had an opportunity to be chivalrous, to lavish attention on someone without being treated like a leper or drawing the wrong kind of attention. It means a lot to finally be seen for the good in me.  

My friends from the 20th floor are moving to the tenth, it seems. I'm cautiously optimistic about this, because it means more shared elevator time. And maybe the rest of the staff at 'Epsis won't consider me an oddity anymore.

Because every time I share floor space with them someone invariably sings something from Arnel Pineda. And invariably they sing "I don't waaaaaaant to remee-mber/ the things we used to do/ all the things/ that remind me of youuu...."  Sigh. The exigencies of the long-locked.

Don't worry, I'm used to it.   

A Good Yarn

I was supposed to make my way to Deovir along Recto, the default art store for geezer-artists like myself since the Marcos era. I'd buy what I needed, hop into a cab and rush to the Ortigas area. At about this time, I would be in tmy building, at the elevator, waiting to share a ride with my friend, Kai. I'd get off at the 12th floor and casually walk down two flights of stairs (praying I wouldn't get clumsy, fall and break something) to my office on the 10th.

But that isn't happening today.

Because watching William Shatner on Boston Legal is such a compelling thing.  I'm a sucker for a good story, William Shatner and old movie footage near-seamlessly integrated into a show.  Get yourselves a copy of the Season 3 episode Son of the Defender. You'll see what I mean. 

I just wish coming to work a minute late didn't cost me a crapload of cash, though. But as I'm a teller of yarns, I'm always a sucker for a good one.     

A Seven. Finally

Melanie is a nurse who has had me as an Engrish teacha for a couple of months now. She broke the infamous IELTS glass ceiling recently and garnered for herself the magic score. 

This pretty much makes 

1. my waking with a stiff neck and aching shoulder;
2. my traveling in a semi-stupor today; 
3. not seeing my friends from the 20th floor today

worth it.

Now if I can only stay coherent for the rest of the day, I should be fine. 

Quo Vadis, Dex?

Success 

Finally finished that draft I’ve been slaving over on and off the last six or so months. I just hope I don’t wuss out and change it again before I finally have it sent.

Hermit 

If you cannot invest in a spiritual refuge, invest in a physical one. Security and complacency will not necessarily follow, but at least you’ll have one contingency covered. 

Zombie: Been There, Done That, Ate Brains

I'm way past that point when you wake up and realize that you've been one for the longest time. You realize that you've walked around with a gaping (figurative) chest cavity and infected everyone else with terminal ennui and existential angst. 

The question now is what you do about it, when traditionally, there's no real cure for zombie-ism.

[Insert how much you miss your ex here. No, still no reconciliation in sight, there will never probably be one.  One caveat though: it does get better, even if only in tiny little bits, over time.]

I Saw No Zombies

...but there's always next year. (I've always found them charming in a camp way, you see.) I did see my dead relatives (and those who survived them) when Mom decided to shanghai me on her road trip with Pop to Batangas. Saw granny on my mother's side on the trip back. I must have been on the road for a total of seven or eight hours.

I'll be making a few more road trips as Christmas approaches. Quo vadis, indeed, Dex? I don't know, I've only got the most vague plans. But that's what makes these lifelong road trips fun. 

  

Thank you

Even if what happened this morning was nothing more than a lying dream. Thank you.

The Gift of Tongues

On days like this I wish I could drown myself in beer. It's another weekend and there is still far too much to do, three places too many in which to be. And like a dedicated soldier of the old Soviet Union, I'll throw myself at the tasks anyway.

I don't relish the idea of knocking back a few super drys with my old friends. Beer tends to loosen tongues. More often than not, loose tongues let slip sentiments buried in the name of keeping the peer group from splintering. Addled friends then use their unsheathed, sharpened tongues to skewer each other. 

It would be great though, if those loose tongues would stay soft and just lightly touch. The arms would follow, then the torsos. The night would pass and all those buried sentiments would rise up safely, usefully, out of our souls and into the great hereafter... where all the hangups, the recriminations, the fouled expectations go after we've come to terms with them.    

But we all know that's not gonna happen. 

I waste my gift on people who don't appreciate it. I think that's my superpower-- the ability to find and pledge myself to lost causes with pretty words.  

Anyway, tomorrow (meaning later today), I will use the old silver tongue again. To explain the intricacies of teaching TOEFL. To ultimately give another batch of dreaming Koreans another shot at a life unfettered by the limits of their native language. 

It's the job, I know, and I'm not really complaining much. It's just that there are far better uses for my gift, far better places for my lips, my breath, my tongue to be, now that I've put another work week behind me.

I hhhhhhhaaate weekends.   

Travel Light

A man shouldn't have too many possessions. If he's going to be attached to his things--as men invariably are-- then they'd better be few. Enough, ideally, to fill a tote bag.

When I get back to Cainta I'm throwing out my old clothes-- I've actually begun that already, turning the old rags into, well, rags. But I'm a long way from finishing. I'm doing that with my Quezon City stuff too. When I'm done, everything I can conceivably wear--shoes, suits, ties, shirts, socks-- should fit in a container that I can carry and stuff in a bus at a moment's notice.

There is of course the problem of the rest of my stuff. I am a hopeless pack rat. Everything else I own will not fit in a gunny sack, will not be ...portable.

I'm not going anywhere, not yet anyway. I just want that option to be open to me quickly in case I have a need to exercise it. I honestly don't quite know why I'm obsessing about "traveling light"-- wait, I think I do: another irritatingly human urge.

It probably explains my attachment to the Hotel Sogo.

Part of me does not feel moored to anything, and considering that this condition is likely to persist, I'm subconsciously, metaphorically preparing for life on the road.