Tuesday, October 11


Writing non-fiction piece about Coke (and colonization, go figure). When first draft was workshopped, was told, predictably, to hike up you (or I). See, this is exactly what don't like about nonfiction, the exhortation to put you (or I) on page. Like, blatantly. Unlike in fiction when everyone knows it's about you but you can always say sod off, it's not. It's my, brr, imagination.

And so, was thinking of something more substantial to put in paper other than relevance of Coke to weight issues (surely, one's belly has little neo-colonial ramifications) and hanging out with lola in living room, when she started talking about her old store and memories of cases upon cases of Coke being hauled from 10-wheelers to our front yard. Discreetly placed phone near her mouth to record. Voila. Legwork.

Now have absolutely fantastic liberation-era story about Coke.

Was listening to recording early this morning when remembered once ardent desire to do this: record our conversations (for fiction material). About her childhood in Masinloc, Zambales; about her early teaching days in barrios; about the outbreak of war; about 1950s; about Martial Law. Used to have fits of urge to convulsively jot things down, but eventually decided against it. Will have to rely on memory; and if not, then is not worth writing. Perhaps.

She turned 90 last Sunday.