Small talk in the 22nd century

Yes, time has bent that much in the past year that I genuinely believe we're actually in the 22nd century. I guess that means I've lived over a hundred years now, which is impossible, because I also genuinely believe I'll die earlier than my peers. But, well, time has bent that much.

Yet, some things remain the same. We may be working at home - yes, I know I have been doing this for years now, but it still feels different this time around, because we've also lost those moments that punctuate the tedium of being in front of your computer for most of the day. No more meetings, and the free coffee that comes with it. (Reminds me of a government bureaucrat offering me Starbucks because it might be my preferred coffee, when I'm really just fine with the coffee-flavored water at the conference room. Still, the idea of tax-funded Starbucks.) No more feeling around the room, finding a way to either be an active contributor or someone who's quietly listening in. No. Everything is a call, and thus the expectations have been recalibrated.

I realize I have more meetings lately. I talk to companies from here and abroad looking to understand whether there's something to be gained from working with us. In the old days these meetings will be awkward. This should be an email, I once told myself, as this lady said she didn't realize the sandwiches she ordered would be for two, and offered me one of the sandwiches. And yes, I ate the sandwich, because it'd be awkward not to.

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Anxiety dreams, part two

My dream last night was different in two ways.

One, it wasn't an elaborate chase sequence like most others. It was, for the most part, me in an office. I don't really remember much of what happened, but the setting, I remember.

Two, the dream was apparently so bad that I was screaming in real life, and Shalla had to wake me up.

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Human scale

 Two ladies entered the restaurant Shalla and I were in yesterday.

"May dine-in ba kayo?" one of them asked.

"Wala po, ma'am," the person behind the counter answered.

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All the words I'll leave behind

"It's your blog. You write for yourself. Don't think about what they think."

This was a long time ago. Definitely back in college, when I made "blogger" my identity. I think it was Icka who said this. I can imagine her face when she said it. About what, I don't remember.

Occasionally, even up to now, this would echo in my head, especially now that I take weeks planning an essay, particularly those really long ones. I'm sure nobody reads those, because attention spans are short and demands for one's time are many, but still, I write them. It's my blog. I write for myself.

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Dove Cameron as Bubbles

The idea of travel bubbles isn't new. I mean, not new considering how the fabric of space and time seems to have dilated beyond recognition in the past thirteen months. Objectively, the term is new, the same way "quarantine pass" and "you're on mute" didn't exist until this time last year.

I remember this talk of a Hong Kong-Singapore travel bubble almost materializing, but then not happening, because of a spike in cases somewhere. I assume Hong Kong, since they're the city I've been monitoring more, for some reason.

In the past few days, however, that term's bounced back in my head. There's a Taiwan-Palau travel bubble, and there's an Australia-New Zealand travel bubble, all involving places that have had a better handle on this pandemic than we have, and so have earned the confidence of similarly-minded places to bring people over without the need for two weeks of quarantine.

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