Can’t Confuse the Perpendicular with the Curve


In the academy where I used to work, I had a smart, well-educated bosom female colleague with regular facial features that were quite appealing and more importantly, a curvaceous figure that could make any man forget his name. Let’s call her AJ.

Although I was a decade older than her, we would heartily exchange stories about love, life, and men while inside each other’s room. When she finally broke up with her on-off longtime boyfriend who, she complained, kept taking her for granted, she set her sights on one of our male colleagues named Cammy.

Before continuing on, please understand I’m not trying to sound smug here. But my internal detecting device for men who are gay and men who aren’t functions perfectly like any present-day gadget made in China. For example, I knew it the very first time George Michael exuberantly sang and danced on “Wake Me Up Before You Go-go” MTV. Undeniable. When Brooke Shields started dating him, I thought “Who were they kidding?” Yet she claimed some years later she did like him and suffered heartbreak out of their brief fling. Incredible.

Likewise, long before the rumor was confirmed by Hollywood insiders, my suspicion had already begun as soon as I came to note the manner Jeremy _ opened up a window in a scene from the movie Mission Impossible 4. I was like “Wait a minute…”

Bear in mind, Jeremy is still one of my most favorite actors and George Michael had composed and sung some of my best-loved songs. My male best friends were mostly either bisexual or every inch gay. They are remarkably fun and pleasant to be around with.

My point is, my radar works fine. Maybe it’s a special gift granted to me by the heavens above. So when people around want to know if the man they’re curious about or interested in is gay or not, they come and seek my opinion. First I whisper “Make him move or talk for three seconds and I’ll tell you.” One two three. “Aha, definitely gay.” Saves the ladies time and effort without question.

Actually, I’m kidding; many others are much sharper than me. Although it’s surprising many have poor perception in that area, too. They won’t be convinced unless they’d see hard evidence. Such as when the man arrives for work wearing bright face powder and pink lipstick. Also, not a few believe they could somewhat reverse things under specific circumstances.

Similar to the case of my female colleague AJ. This was how one of our conversations went:

AJ: I think our friend Cammy is cute.

Me: Don’t you like muscled guys? Cammy looks like Popeye before ingesting his can of spinach.

AJ: It’s okay. He’s fair-skinned due to his mixed heritage and I like that. We were sweet together last night strolling at the mall. I want to ask him out.

Me: To where?

She gave me a naughty wink. Uh-oh, I thought. She had been ventilating on  some “action” missing in her life.

Me: Hey, he’s gay.

AJ: Maybe. Although I felt a particular hardness from him last night and I almost asked… but I wasn’t straightforward enough.

I didn’t dare query her on the “what she felt” part as it was creeping me out.

Me: You know, if we grabbed Cammy firmly around his ankles and turn and shake him upside down repeatedly, he’d still scream out for only men as bed partners.

AJ: (feeling confident nevertheless) Cammy is the ideal one, temporarily. No other prospect in sight yet. Just wish me luck.

The very next day.

Me: How did it go?

AJ: (Not smiling) He simply said it was time for us to go home.

Told ‘ya. No, I didn’t tell her that. I just kept silent.

Update: AJ is married now to a straight guy and they have a two-year-old daughter. Happy ending.


what do you associate me with?

Fun question by Tumbler for its members to take part in. Since this is my official blog, I’m doing it here.

Lemme see… (I think) I associate myself with:

stormwinds that can sway the trees gracefully

beautiful sunsets, sunrise too after I’ve had a good night sleep; early morning fog, cool breezes

a starry night with the bright full moon; just the glorious moon could be enough most of the time

pretty cute writing notebooks and materials (I love buying them though many of them remain unwritten for years; I still like keeping them all)

lightning without the thunder; rains, rainy days on weekends


empty libraries, neat spaces, filtered sunshine through the trees or curtains, pretty beds and white blankets

delicious seafoods, hard-action films, pop songs

simple living, minimum possessions, spartan or monk-like existence

my awe for favorite (classical) authors so far: Thomas Hardy, George Eliot, Washington Irving, Victor Hugo, Albert Camus, the Bronte sisters, Hermann Hesse – after reading one or two of their works

colorful gardens, rooftops, view of bright city lights from someplace high, fireworks display


Source:, Tumbler


images of faraway galaxies and the universe, rainbows near, beautiful places on earth

all versions of the sky – cloudy, deep blue, orange, overcast, sunny

long eyelashes – (I ain’t a beauty but) they’re the first thing people notice and compliment about my looks, fair skin, baby-fine hair

solitude, late-night ponderings, peace and quiet, and yeah — feelings…

tender hearts, romantic love forevermore; love that’s worth dying for (only found in books and movies, I know I know)

fancy and oftentimes flamboyant drop or dangling earrings, red lipstick, (often red) nailpolish, minimal makeup

high sensitivity, honesty, stubbornness (at times), silliness, passion

deep sympathy for animal suffering

misanthropic disposition, certain prejudices (oh please, those who deny having an ounce of bigotry are awfully phony)


freedom from obligation

dramatic prose and poetry, words words words (according to an ex-blogpal)

source: riggu, Tumbler


memory of a lover’s gaze penetrating into my soul

Anything that takes my breath away. Anything that inspires me. Thing is, I’m easy to please and inspire.😉

Wohow. Answering that single question was fun indeed. There’s more but that’s it for the meantime. 


One of my all-time faves which I used to sing with a childhood sweetheart/playmate named Alvin Afable with his naturally light golden brown hair (owing to his blonde good-looking American dad).

The Woman My Father Loved

Her name was Lucrecia. Both her looks and her intelligence were nothing to write home about. Unsophisticated, uneducated – unmistakably a native from some faraway province.

But it was her character or perhaps her bearings that won my secret admiration. Resourceful, strong, diligent, alert.

I remained civil in my dealings with her, though, and kept my distance – for fear I’d earn the combined wrath of my mother and my sister.

This impression I’ve held since way back I can’t help not include in this memoir of mine. Because deep inside, I had more appreciation for the woman whom my father claimed he had mentored than I’ve had for my mother. A year apart in age, if my mother would be found watching TV all day and with nary a care for a worthwhile hobby to cultivate, Lucrecia would be found hanging her finished cross-stitched pieces on the wall and would think of the projects she’d pursue next.

Knowing my father, I wasn’t surprised she turned out to be the kind of lady he was proud of. They were together for the longest years. Their partnership started when she became his all-around assistant at the nightclub he used to own.

But it was a love put to an end by the complexity of our family situation.

My father entrusted his life savings to my sister. – his favorite child. The one who, he admitted, gave him pride for being the most successful in her career and the one who was able to marry into a rich family.

Somehow my mother was able to convince my sister Lucrecia’s daily visits and presence in the house to look after my father were ruining her image to the neighbors. Inevitably, the issue of money got in the way as well. My sister had all the authority so I had no say as to such family matters and simply received second-hand news as to the dispute between the two sides that just got uglier and uglier.

My sister and mother made a sudden resolution to ban Lucrecia from the house. The latter had to give in but not without a fight (taking her case to the municipal hall). The ending: she was given an amount of cash as a settlement. She had no choice but to completely stay away from the man she loved and took care of for maybe four decades or more.

My father, who became bedridden had no inkling as to the events that were taking place. I was told to be tight-lipped about the reason for Lucrecia’s unexpected disappearance. My sister persuaded me Lucrecia’s permanent absence would be best for our father and the rest of us. Since my voice had been deemed weightless for as long as I could remember, it’d be futile to go against their decisions. Besides, I had my own drama to deal with as a single parent caring for a sickly child and all. I was fed up with my own circumstances and tried to find solace at whatever temporary pleasures that would come my way. I also wanted to be happy, not be miserable due to constant flesh and blood theatricals; I myself couldn’t understand what I’d been feeling and going through. Yes, excuses that I have come to regret and currently pay for.

I never saw Lucrecia again.

I knew it broke my father’s heart so much. He no doubt thought she simply got tired and abandoned him. There was no way I could tell him. His knowing the truth would be pointless. It’d devastate him, not to mention the family feud would certainly escalate and things could only have gotten worse. His downward spiral, however, began as he turned his attention toward alcohol consumption; which my sister, my brother, and my mother tolerated – he was in his late 80’s anyway, they rationalized. I bid him to stop drinking – but he expressed his wish to end his life. He was clearly committing suicide.


Except on Father’s Day, nobody else really comes to visit my father’s grave. I have no idea what has happened to Lucrecia. She would visit from time to time if she had known. She must not know for sure where the love of her life now rests in peace.

Brother Sun, Sister Moon (2)

As far as I can recall, there’s only one thing my brother has unremittingly been passionate about: women. He’s had five children – from four different mothers; not to mention the string of ladies he’d had relationships with. I was an unfortunate witness to the several occasions he discarded the pitiful women as soon as he got tired of them and somebody new came along. Not classically handsome — his smooth-talking style hardly ever missed. I believe my mother spoiled her son to a point, I can no longer count the number of times I had to shake my head at the unwise decisions he had made in his life.

He’s still in his forties. – a couple of years younger than me. A good person, on the whole (though massively flawed in certain ways). Talkative, outgoing, forever bursting with humor; one of the very rare people who could make me laugh and giggle for two hours straight. More than half of the conversational fun I’ve had in my entire existence I owe to him.

There was this problem: He’s been a heavy smoker since he was in his teens. No intervention could halt his cigarette habit; a dependency he kept on denying throughout the years.

At present, it’s our mother who is in denial. Even though my brother has lost more than 30 pounds in a matter of six months; even though he’s lost his appetite for food and feels nauseous every time he attempts to ingest substantial solids in his stomach. It’s as if she’s thinking, “No, it’s not happening to my favorite child.” Nothing, however, has been definite as his medical lab tests still have to reveal what’s really causing his health troubles.

He’s raising a daughter who’s barely two years old right now – from his current partner. A woman who’s twenty four years his junior. I remember expressing my disapproval upon learning he was trying to have a baby with her (his new lover at the time) scarcely three years ago. I knew a possibility like this wasn’t remote. In addition to his addiction to nicotine, my brother wasn’t the type who’d be into wholesome eating and sensible exercise.

I feel somber these days whenever he enters my mind.

In spite of the conflict we’ve had and his ongoing resentment toward me due to my lack of devotion to our mother, I’m worried about him. He’s my brother after all. I really don’t want to think about what might happen. I wouldn’t want to lose him.

Yet I’m beginning to get scared.

The Girl Was Really Pretty – The Power of Beauty (2)

My (bisexual) male friend had been narrating to me the story of how their district’s congressman fell head over heels for a married woman and subsequently used his power to have her all to himself. In philippine politics, that’s just heinously appalling. My reaction: “He must be crazy.”

My friend’s reply: “But then, she was really pretty.”

I was like, “Huh?” Pause. “Oh yeah, right.” (secretly rolling my eyes)

I don’t know. But wasn’t that justification more than a bit shallow?

In all candidness, some guys unconsciously utter something exasperatingly superficial their fairygodmothers would no doubt flick a finger against their comatose heads. And it’d sound like “Toink!”

Another time, I was talking to my (straight) male business pal about my shock in learning a customer committed suicide because of heartbreak. “Why would he kill himself over a girl?” I blurted out.

To which my pal responded, “The girl was really pretty, you know.”

Toink! Toink! Toink!

C’mon… I mean, can’t they think of a more sensible ground to account for men’s actions other than their single-minded absorption to women’s physical attributes?

OTOH, if those guys had done what they did and the ladies looked like Hilda the Beast, it would’ve been more perplexing. I guess I get it.

Still, what if some male colleague asked me, “She’s a blackbelter. How could she have gotten herself raped by him?” – and my answer would be, “Easy. The rapist was one hot-looking dude.” ??

Alright, scrraaap that. Makes no sense. Duh!🙂


  *No selfie of me available yet. Don’t worry, I look exactly like them. ^^ just kidding…

simply missing you…

You are this heart’s prose in a rose,

the room in my mind

lucid in all its feelings

that keeps the soul in each poem,

the essence in  every meaningful essay.

What if tomorrow begins its relapse

as soon as the color of your

words turn to rust

caused by uncertainties barely clinging

yet persisting

upon a surface where

no secret could be hunted.


Don’t let it fade

don’t let it break

Will the road end with your love or hate?


I need no wealth from your mind

nor the touch of gold from your rhymes.

They aren’t what I came here for.

But the light of the star that

flows from your sun perhaps

is what I’ve burned for.

Like you may never get to know

how you’ve always been

the city I would always long

to get lost in

the city I’d always love

to go home to.


– geena, aug 2016

source: touchyonbeam, Tumbler

the way I am according to them

It’s been raining all week. How I love the rainy season with its mild cold weather.

Since I’ve become fond of Tumbler, jotting down writer quotes has been fun and I’ve kept a few which I fancy describe the person that I am. Perhaps.🙂


I have punished myself by telling everyone about my life.

Vaslav Nijinsky, The Diary of Vaslav Nijinsky.

The head is too wise. The heart is all fire.

Maggie Stiefvater, The Raven King

I don’t profess to be different from my kind. I’m consumed by the same wants and the same longings.

Edith Wharton, The Age of Innocence

There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong.

Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey

I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.

Anna Kamieńska, A Nest of Quiet

Thank God for books and music and things I can think about.

Daniel Keyes, Flowers For Algernon

I do not think I have it in me anymore to struggle and fight and suffer; I want to be quiet and happy.

Martha Gellhorn,  Selected Letters

She liked to disappear, even when she was in the same room as other people. It was a talent, as it was a curse.

Alice Hoffman, The Red Garden

I approach most things in life with a dangerous level of confidence to balance my generally low self-esteem.

Roxane Gay, Bad Feminist 

I love like a leaky faucet or I love like a dam breaking. There is nothing in between.

Shinji Moon

I was shy, withdrawn, and read obsessionally. But I never wanted to be anyone else other than me.

Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anais Nin

That’s my problem: I think too much, and I feel too deeply. What a dangerous combination.

— Tumbler (via dryyoureyes-startbelieving)


I was a romantic and sentimental creature, with a tendency towards solitude.

Isabel Allende, The House of the Spirits

Have you ever fallen into yourself and gotten lost? I’m so far from people, yet at times I wish for them. I wish I could understand them and deal with them without all the pain and bitterness that comes with contact.

Henry Rollins, ‘Black Coffee Blues’

I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes.

Ferdinand de Saussure

I am still so naïve; I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am. A passionate, fragmentary woman, maybe?

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

I will never be a morning person, for the moon and I, are too much in love.

Testy McTesterson

You have so many layers, that you can peel away a few, and everyone’s so shocked or impressed that you’re baring your soul, while to you it’s nothing, because you know you’ve twenty more layers to go.

Craig Thompson, Carnet de Voyage
love the photo. I forgot where I got it, sorry.🙂