YOU WAKE up to the rhythm of a wall clock made in China, those cheap kind that goes berserk after a year even if you replace the husband-and-wife battery with another fresh husband-and-wife kind from the on-sale shelf of that behemoth of a made-in-China store we call, for want of another name, Wallmart. Ah, if at all, Wallmart sells those goody-goodies so cheap and so affordable, but each time I get into that store, I pray to all the archangels and the cherubim and the seraphim that there is one, at least one heck of one goody-goodie made in da Pinas.

But zilch. Nada. Nothing. Zero.

Or, ibbung.

So: that rhythm of that China clock--of course, I would not buy an expensive one, made in the US, please!--wakes me up, as if saying, You, You, sabbatical man, dream on! But you have a novel to write, you have another novel to finish, you have a translation job to do, and you have to read the manuscript of Lorenzo and Samar so their book will see the light of day!

Ah, command, command, command.

I close my eyes. I fantasize it is still evening, and this evening promises nothing but plain dolce, yes, the Italian kind, the dolce that is pure sweetness.

But the China clock bought at something like 7 dollars US, and cheaper than those from da Pinas even if China is closer to da Pinas than to the US, is insistent.

So I make that murmuray rite, say good morning to myself, and write this sabbatical note on my 11th day of freedom.

Good morning, sun! Good morning, Mr Sunshine!

Hon, HI/11 Jun 2014

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