Vacation Photos (Again) From Way Back (2014)

European Vacation 2014. Okay okay, so I was a few pounds heavier then, aside from being two years younger. Please take note: No photoshop at all this time. My sister just sent me these pics which she had kept away from me for almost three long years. Grrr…

inside a museum in Greenwich London
I just had to have a pic of me with the prettiest stewardess I’ve laid eyes on
the most heavenly handsome man I’ve  come face to face with — the guy on the left
with a sweet tourmate in Brugges Belgium



somewhere in the undergrounds of UK


very charming house in the suburb of Greenwich London






pretty Mercure Hotel in Greenwich

I’d done my very best for the kid

Still estranged from my child. He had texted the usual precise “Hi, hope you are doin fine” twice in a year — obviously for the mere heck of it. Other than that, nothing. No visit, no show of concern, no birthday nor sincere holiday greeting.

Ah yes, he sent a brief letter via text msg enumerating his misdeeds and trespasses from way way back to unload from his conscience. No apology though. And I wondered what his purpose truly was for sending such a missive.

Nobody reads my blog anymore. I, however, still see Philippines on my stats and I suspect it’s him because he has always known this blog was set up for the two of us.

Once again I can say with confidence I have done my very best for my child. That’s the reason my conscience is clear. That’s the reason I didn’t shed too much tears over losing him. Because my son actually owes me an apology.

When his father left us, I took all the responsibility of raising him, with nary any help from anyone, literally. I had no maid to help me take care of him. I worked my ass off for the money that would financially sustain the expenses of raising a child. I practically did it all.

No, I wasn’t perfect. I made mistakes. I confess I had laid a hand on him — which was wrong: my only real transgression as a mother. I had thought it was okay because my parents especially my own mother, who was bipolar and mentally unstable, had done the same to me. I did feel guilty every time. And I begged for my child’s forgiveness throughout the years.

On the whole, I know I’ve been a good mother. People around us believe so. I showered him with love and might have spoiled him enough he turned into a brat. I also have to take into account the blood of my ex-husband that runs strong in my son’s veins. How else could I have been so clueless I was raising a monster.

He was sore I spent money for myself when I traveled to Europe. My own money. Money he thinks shouldn’t have been spent and should have been simply kept in the bank… until when? Until the day I die? I begged for him to come with me which I’d be willing to pay for, because I wanted him to be with me in the fulfillment of a long-time dream.  He refused.

In the almost three years he stayed away from me, I repeatedly got in touch with him, even went to his office four or five times, trying to make peace with him, offering my help if ever he needed it. He ignored me, dismissed me, and showed disrespect a number of times. Not different from the very midnight he left home, packing hurriedly and slamming the door so hard it woke me and several of our neighbors. No explanation, no goodbye.

I wrote him a letter late last year before I went to Norway. I handed it to him and told him if something happens to me, whatever is left will be his. I told him I love him and have done my very best for him. But he was rude and so full of himself as usual which made me cry.

Anyway, he and I know everything in that letter I wrote was true.

And still I ruminate as well on what an asshole and a monster he really is deep inside.

A Year In Review

Gave up my teaching job last January. The downside of not being busy and earning much less and feeling like I’m not being productive hit me a few months after. I must admit, however, getting enough sleep now probably beats all the drawbacks.

Used my FB account to get entertained through postings of male American pro-Trumpers. Whether they’re my friends or not, I go into their sites and read and click Like on their intelligent rants and funny memes.

I lost weight mainly because my stomach acidity had forbidden me to consume my favorite drinks – milk tea, Coke, and juice. My sleeping patterns have become ungodly too – going to bed at dawn and waking up at noon. I also started to eat more healthily. They all contributed to reaching my ideal size which makes me feel awesome.

Oddly, I came to like a guy who had shown me kindness during my Norway trip even though his physical attributes are way way off my standards. We became FB pals and kept liking each other’s posts. That’s all. Because in spite of his looks – being plump and short – he’s very popular with ladies and he even has had quite good-looking girlfriends. In my mind I was like “You gotta be kidding me…” 🙂 .

The highlight of my year was my Norway adventure. I had a magnificent time I didn’t even want to go home. What a wonderful experience I hope to be able to travel to Europe again soon.


Heart Uninspired

Far from being wonderfully measured, I don’t mind if life solemnizes mine once in a while. The simple details of my life are being cherished. Along with my simple declarations. There is content in not knowing. In non-engagement. Nothing to complicate this resting heart.

But as my arms stretch out far to the dark of a quiet night, my past starts to pound while the sky bodes of a compelling flashback. My mission begins to lose strength day by day.

Is it a mere feeling of unease over the fact everything I’ve been running away from keeps finding me in the end?

Can’t afford the risk of my own extinction. Not yet. Maybe I need another new inspiration. Something that will let me plunge into some dream state – get sucked in through the handsome vibe of a good-natured cavalier. To cover my thoughts, to bless my battles and freedom. Someone who will keep this world from fracturing.

Upon my word, my hope, within a silent pledge. Do not punish me for such honesty. Let me live in between spheres against my infinite capacity to feel – as you and I together with our sense of dedication will abbreviate further.

And I promise, I promise I will transform my very fire for you.


– geena, nov2016

photo source:tumblr_od7c0ulwem1u1l8sno1_540



My Heart Belongs to Donald Trump

It’s improbable I’d have this much enthusiasm for a U.S. presidential contest ever again. Oh stop clapping. But really, it’s been a wild ride — and still, I am glad to have aligned with the most extraordinary candidate to have run for the highest office. 
His disinclination toward political correctness was what brought me in, not to mention his strong objection to illegal immigration. His fighting spirit is beyond compare plus the man’s punishing campaign schedules are clear display of excellent work ethics.
Sure I have squirmed more than twice during the sixteen-month course by dint of his unpresidential remarks and style; and when he went for the jugular in jarringly swatting down his GOP rivals one by one.
He’s right, however, on several matters. The planet’s most glorious country is indeed infested by corrupt systems and officials. The government has long been failing and burdening the middle class. Incompetence has prevailed in many executive levels of the administration.
The point of issue is to bring back the nation’s lost grandeur. I’ve been told by my co-bloggers from different lands that nothing and no one will be able to save America now or in the future. Who knows? Maybe Trump can, if given the chance.

Unfortunately, there’s one or two slices of the American citizenry pie Donald Trump could not penetrate. What a bummer if Hillary wins. Even to the eyes of outsiders like us, America no longer holds the same stature that it reveled in twenty years ago. And now it’s even going to be run by a felon? What a joke.
And what a waste. The Dem nominee’s loss could be an opportunity to flip the middle finger at the controlling media and airhead celebrities who should’ve stuck to their real tasks instead of indulging in political swaying and partisanship.

Obama contended Hillary is the candidate qualified for the job of the president. But is such an endorsement well-grounded when it’s coming from somebody with one of the most unimpressive performances as the U.S. topmost leader?

I’ve been aware Trump’s chances of winning are slimmer because he may end up lacking in the solidarity of both the African Americans and Hispanic voters. Not to mention he made the mistake of waging a war against the media which resulted in the most vicious character assassination of a presidential candidate ever. Most Americans have been used to bland political personalities whose facades have been either protected or polished by their press campaigns; they aren’t ready for an unconventional live wire that’s Donald Trump. These factors leading to his loss I may be able to understand after the elections.

Now what I may never be able to comprehend is Hillary’s takeover of what I’ve always regarded as the most powerful and esteemed nation of them all. Strong evidences lead to the veracity she committed malfeasance while in public office. That makes her liable (to be tried in court) — so technically, she stands as a criminal. And criminals aren’t supposed to rule the world.

Whatever, Donald Trump’s victory is the only early Christmas gift I could wish for this year. The enchantingly feisty candidate I find the most likable, authentic, and believable — warts and all. I’m so glad and proud to have stuck with the man.


“First Love” by Ivan Turgenev

I felt fortunate to have recently read Ivan Turgenev’s “First Love” — a touching account of Vladimir, a sixteen-year-old boy who became deeply smitten with his new flirty gorgeous neighbor gal named Zinaida, described by his own mother as “a woman capable of anything.” Zinaida and Vladimir ended up as good friends and even came to declare love for each other. But hold it – the boy may have felt strong amorous feelings for the girl who was five years his senior; she in turn had only brotherly affections for him. The reason? She had fallen in love with someone else. With whom? The identity of the third party, the boy’s competition for her love would be revealed in the latter part of the novela. Yet you impatiently ask: C’mon, who was the guy who got to complete this sweet Russian romantic triangle? To everyone’s surprise, it was the boy’s very handsome father. See, how can you not love this story.

Vladimir : Oh, sweet emotions, gentle harmony, goodness and peace of the softened heart, melting bliss of the first raptures of love, where are they, where are they?

Describing his relationship with his father : Sometimes he was in high spirits, and then he was ready to romp and frolic with me, like a boy; once – it never happened a second time – he caressed me with such tenderness that I almost shed tears…. But high spirits and tenderness alike vanished completely, and what had passed between us, gave me nothing to build on for the future – it was as though I had dreamed it all.

Zinaida and Vladimir’s father’s first meeting : When my father was on a level with Zinaida, he made a courteous bow. She, too, bowed to him, with some astonishment on her face, and dropped her book. I saw how she looked after him. My father was always irreproachably dressed, simple and in a style of his own […].

Zinaida reciting lines from “On the Hills of Georgia” : That the heart cannot choose but love. That’s where the poetry’s so fine; it tells us what is not, and what not only better than what is, but much more like the truth, “cannot choose but love,” – it might want not to, but it can’t help it.

Vladimir on his on and off insecurity as to Zinaida’s secret beau : I thought I would walk off my sorrow. I wandered a long while over hills and through woods; I had felt not happy. I had left home with the intention of giving myself up to melancholy, but youth, the exquisite weather, the fresh air, the pleasure of rapid motion, the sweetness of repose, lying on the thick grass in a solitary nook, gained the upper hand; the memory of those never-to-be-forgotten words, those kisses, forced itself once more upon my soul.

I fancied her very walk was quieter, her whole figure statelier and more graceful… And mercy! With what fresh force love burned within me.

I saw her blush, and grew cold with terror. I had been jealous before, but only at that instant the idea of her being in love flashed upon my mind. ‘Good God! She is in love! But with whom?’

Zinaida hinting to her suitors of the man who owns her heart : . . . but out there, by the fountain, by that splashing water, stands and waits he whom I love, who holds me in hs power. He has neither rich raiment nor precious stones, no one knows him, but he awaits me, and is certain I shall come – and I shall come – and there is no power that could stop me when I want to go out to him, and to stay with him, and be lost with him out there in the darkness of the garden, under the whispering of the trees, and splash of the fountain.

Vladimir witnessing in stealth Zinaida’s strength of devotion to his father : . . . a strange feeling stronger than curiosity, stranger than jealousy, stranger even than fear – held me there. I began to watch; I strained my ears to listen. It seemed as though my father was on something Zinaida would not consent. I seem to see her face now – mournful, serious, lovely, and with an inexpressible impress of devotion, grief, love , and a sort of despair – I can find no other word for it. She uttered monosyllables, not raising her eyes, simply smiling – submissively, but without yielding. My father shrugged his shoulders, and straightened his hat on his head, which was always a sign of impatience with him …. Then I caught the words “You ought to free yourself from that.” Zinaida sat up, and stretched out her arm…. Suddenly, before my very eyes, the impossible happened. My father lifted the whip, with which he had been switching the dust off his coat, and I heard a sharp blow on that arm, bare to the elbow. I could scarcely restrain myself from crying out; while Zinaida shuddered, looked without a word at my father, and slowly raising her arm to her lips, kissed the streak of red upon it.

Vladimir, in the end, deeply pondering on his feelings and the affair between his first love and his father : I had grown much older during the last month; and my love, with all its transports and sufferings, struck me as something small and childish and pitiful beside this other unimagined something, which I could hardly fully grasp, and which frightened me like an unknown, beautiful, but menacing face, which one strives in vain to make out clearly in the half-darkness….

I, now…what did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment?

And what has come to pass of all I hoped for? And now, when the shades of evening begin to steal over my life, what have I left fresher, more precious, than the moments of the storm – so soon over – of early morning, of spring?

Vladimir’s family moved to another city. One day a letter was received which caused violent agitation to his father and made him shed tears. He then requested his wife to send money to their former hometown. My guess: Zinaida became ill. Unfortunately, soon after, Vladimir’s father died of a stroke. On the very morning of the day when he was stricken down, he had begun a letter. “My son, fear the love of a woman; fear that bliss, that poison….”

Four years passed. Vladimir had graduated from university and learned that Zinaida had gotten married. But before he was able to see her, she, too, passed away while giving birth to her child.

Vladimir : Even then, in those light-hearted young days, I was not deaf to the voice of sorrow, when it called upon me, to the solemn strains floating to me from beyond the tomb. […] Her whole life had been passed in the bitter struggle with daily want; she had known no joy, had not tasted the honey of happiness. One would have thought, surely she would rejoice at death, at her deliverance, her rest. […] only with the last spark of consciousness, vanished from her eyes the look of fear, of horror of the end. And I remember that then, by the death bed of that poor woman, I felt aghast for Zinaida, and longed to pray for her, for my father – and for myself.



Brief thoughts on the U.S. Elections


This presidential race has become vicious, not to mention ridiculous. That the press was able to direct the sheep’s attention from a public servant’s official wrongdoing to an eleven-year-old tape of an alpha male brag is just preposterous.

I have wanted to see a woman occupying the highest post in the mightiest nation on the planet. But not this one. Not Hillary Clinton. Why? She committed malfeasance — so technically she’s a criminal. And it’s unthinkable that a criminal gets to rule the world.

Anti-Trump Republicans, Mormons, plaster saints, and other versions of NeverTrumpers seem to be more consumed by their own egos and posturings they keep on sending off their high opinions of their own opinions all over social media, accentuating their IQs and “standards” that, they imply, are too prominent (for them) to support Donald Trump.

Let me insert a massive eye roll here.

But I won’t be giving up on this one, win or lose.