Unity and Struggle

I've always loved this.

"That mixture of America and Remerica and them Changes, them blue Africa magic chants. So I am a carrier. I got the stick. I ain't stopping. If you, whoever else you tapped, then them too."

http://mailer.fsu.edu/~njumonvi/baraka-miles.htm

work mule

that's me. lexie workmule ann diao. work's hard round here, but the warm whiskeys ain' half bad.

With rue or without, I think the first two hours of every day should be spent nude.

Update! And go!

It's been a while since I've posted anything. But here's an update: I'm cooling it with "Diao's Meow". Sorry, blogspot. But wordpress has the multimedia thing down.

As I write this, I'm in Manila: a solid 12 hours ahead of good ol' Tallahassee, sitting in a seaweed green guest bedroom, hoping my rapid typing isn't keeping the mer-maids in the next room awake.

Before now, summer in the US had been kind to me. I took an extended stay in Columbia, SC with the Mom and made it up to DC for a few beautiful days with some very beautiful people. Had a short stint in Tallahassee before taking the arduous solid 27-hour plus commute to the Philippines. While home, I worked at the Paperback Rack for a little extra cash flow, and hung out with two of my favs: Nige and Cale.





I'll be focusing on another blog that's dedicated to the oral history project about the equity compensation bill for Filipino veterans (whew). Follow me at: meowdiao.wordpress.com

The last week of spring semester is always tres rough. My treat to myself today was eating the equivalent of my weight in pizza, and a shower.

This is Old

"I'd sew your buttons for you," he said as he fingered the empty space behind her ear. She couldn't tell if this tickled or annoyed her, but she must have made disgruntled look because he quickly retreated his hand. Smoke crept steadily up from her neglected Nat Sherman. "I know how to sew" she lied. The last two buttons hung pathetically off of her once five-button petticoat. You used to be so full. She was an acquaintance to minor wardrobe malfunctions: stilettos breaking, shoes mysteriously disappearing (but just one) and of course the sempiternal thread hanging from every article of clothing. When he wasn't looking she ripped the loose thread of her lost buttons from her petticoat.

Sharon caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her face had not changed, but she felt re-(insert verb here). Why so fresh? She is a pampered girl, but far from indulgent. It is the little occurrences and lingering sartoris on which Sharon dwells. Memories to stash in her pocket to snack on later. A last drag on her cigarette and she looks not at him, but herself through his eyes. Nothing she didn't already know. When one is so vain it is only rises to the skin like helium, fills a balloon and eventually diffuses to those around them.

She took his hand and put his middle finger in her mouth. The pit of his stomach stirred. Secretly he was a little worried he forgot to wash his hands using the bathroom.