I periodically tell myself that a clear-cut work space would transform me into the productive person I would like to be, which I think is my roundabout way of justifying my perpetually subpar performance in the arena of productivity: I never have enough room, therefore, I can never assign a corner devoted solely to work, therefore, I can never be focused enough to achieve my full productivity potential. Yes, that is what I tell myself in the face of clocking in x number of hours re-watching Parks and Rec or marathon-ing Masters of Sex or getting sucked into the vortex that is 1Q84 (pahinga lang naman sandali from all the theory!) or, in the case of the last two weeks, getting well (kasi mahirap nga naman mag-concentrate kapag ubo ka nang ubo).

These days my designated work table is also the dining table. Because we have more books than shelves to put them in, the dining table also doubles (triples?) as a shelf, and because the dining table is also in between the “kitchen” (a.k.a. a corner with a counter, sink, and cabinets) and the stove (which has to be by the window so isn’t located in the “kitchen”), the dining table inevitably also functions as the space for cooking preparations–an activity I have, for most of my life, avoided, but am now beginning to try out (I’ve so far cooked simple pasta dishes and monggo, all given the highest ratings by A., who is clearly not a picky eater). Oh, and we also eat our meals at the dining table, and the cat fairly regularly parks its butt on it too, just because. Somewhere amid all that action is a dissertation waiting to happen (I hope).