As we speak inflated

Dear Tina,

E. Yevtuchenko once said that each poet is a farm worker if even a little bit. Well, this farm worker has been tilling the fields again after a very long drought. If not for anything, the pieces refusing all this time to hatch oblivion in my drawers may once again get another chance at life. Having said that, achieving transcendent emotional and cosmic heights in the process, shall we then continue with our newly-revived correspondence?

And now the ugly subject of Bubot is broached. Going back now, I feel that time was the lost footnote of astropheric idealism--a time when we had the luxury to pursue noble causes. But I guess the subtitle for the book, tatlong dosenang sundot ng damdamin, is just that: three dozen small jabs and merely a foretaste of thunderous outpouring in the future. All three of us are just waiting for it to become a self-fulfilling prophecy, perhaps? At any rate, we should be thankful for the measly trickles of the moment. Judging from recent conversations we've had as a group, I could safely deduce that we are all still deeply committed to presumptions and tedium. There may be hope for us as poets yet.

I was quite flustered by the fact that you find my pieces worth a second (or more) reading, but the comparison with Murakami may be stretching it just a wee bit. Yes, I'm quite elated that I somehow regained my Muse but, as is usual, I feel that what I've written so far are but a futile exercise to display new words of arranging boredom. My poetry are just journal entries in summary--sufficiently intellectual but possess deranged verbiage just the same. So I'll hold off on the ecstatic celebration for now. It's not the Cosa Nostra after all.

I'd like to disagree with you though on the getting on each other's nerves aspect. I am aware I sometimes still get on your nerves. But you have always been the impatient one. I, on the other hand, have come to terms with the fact that your whims can sometimes be likened to a pop-up book from hell. I've accepted you for who you are, eccentricities and all. Either that or I just refuse to let you drive me up the wall ever again. And now I'm ready for rehab.

More anon. With love always.