Koby

I can’t concentrate on work today. I feel agitated. Koby, the dog of my father in Carmona, is sick. Me and Koby had never been close, hell, I could count in my fingers our few encounter. Koby is a Labrador. He has been my Father’s and my brother’s pet since I was in college. His loud barking always give me a scare whenever I visit Father in Carmona. He terrified me. Over the years however, me and him seemed to go along very well, a bond which I couldn’t understand. I am not fond of dogs, or any animals for that matter. I am a stranger to any feelings of attachment other beings felt for animals such as dogs and cat. But I unconsciously grew fond of Koby. Maybe my Father’s, “Koby would not do anything harm to you, don’t worry” soothed my nerves. We meet only a few times, but whenever I’m in Carmona I would always throw foods on his way so he would not bark at me anymore. I would open the door / the gate where my Father locked him so he could lay off somewhere else, at his own choice. There was one experience with Koby that I could not forget. It was Sunday. We always met on Sunday. Mother and Father woke up early to buy groceries in the nearby market. They briefly woke me up to tell me that I would be alone, but to not worry because Koby is with me, he was lying next to the bed. I said okay. I returned to sleep. After a while, I woke up to a sound of scratching. It was Koby. I just lay there, then fall asleep once again. I woke up, made an effort to look about me and saw Koby lying at the side of the bed, sleeping. It was pure comfort. He never moved away from my side the entire time. It made my heart ache right now thinking about it. What more with my Father who shared thousand memories with Koby, it must be so hard. I do not know what is going on, we know he is sick, maybe because he is getting old, perhaps it was negligence on our part as pet owners. This was not the first time he got sick. When he was a year old or so my brother took him to the vet 50/50, he survived. This time it is a lump in his chest, my Father told us. This time it just Father and him. My brother got married. Financial support at this time is scarce. I am left frustrated. I did what I know I could. I tried to do further research for some home remedies cure. I promised my Father to get him to the vet when money arrives this week, hopefully it arrives this week, we don’t deserve you, Koby, but we are praying that you endure and give us more days until hope arrives. Don’t leave my Father just yet. 

Prayer of the Puer by Sheila Heti

Chapter 7 

Page 58 

I am writing a play. I am writing a play that is going to save the world. If it only saves three people, I will not be happy. If with this play the oil crisis is merely averted and our standard of living maintains itself at its current level, I will weep into my oatmeal. If this play does anything short of announcing the arrival of the next cock - I mean, messiah - I will shit into my oatmeal. 

Who among us will be asked to lead the people out of bondage, only to say, God, I have never been a good talker. Ask someone else. Ask my brother instead of me. There is no way to accomplish what I feel I must accomplish with this play. There is no way in heaven or on earth! I am the wrong person to do it. Look at the shitty red hoodie I am sitting here in. Look at my dirty running shoes. I have such small breasts. God, shouldn't you call upon a woman with greatbig knockers, who the people will listen to? Why do you call on me, who doesn't have the cleavage to capture the world's attention? Ask my sister instead of me, whose big breasts are much more suited to doing your work. 

May the Lord have mercy on me for I am a fucking idiot. But I live in a culture of fucking idiots. I cannot be saved if not everyone is saved. If everyone around me talks nothing but shit, how can I hold myself aloof? My fate is not separate from everyone else's fate. If one man or one woman can stand up and call themselfs saved, that means we all are. And I know I'm not, so no one is. 

All were offers.

I got a call from someone today, it was an offer to write a script for a specific project. I said okay, anytime. Few months back, I got a call from another someone, it was an offer to write PR for Grace Poe. I said okay, anytime. Few more months before, or was it last year, a text came from a friend telling me that a friend of hers is looking for someone who could write a novel for the game application they are establishing. Again, I said okay. Two weeks ago, a friend, a colleague, and a boss asked for a favor all at once, "vane favor, patulong ako sa paggawa ng letter. I love you vane" says one, "will you be able to write an angle to this story, give me a deadline on when can you do it" says two, "vane, can i asked for a favor? Can you compose my answer to these interview questions? Deadline is today." All offers included a praise of how good of a writer my soul is and other blah blah blahs of the world they could think of. All were offers. Whatever art came from it, I have no idea.

They say a writer never forgets the first time he accepted a few coins or a word of praise in exchange for a story, oh that sweet poison of vanity in the blood, have I succeeded in not letting anyone discover my lack of talent?