Morsels from Past Romances

ECQ (Enhanced Community Quarantine) here is going to end very soon and I doubt if I can secure time again to be able to write after lockdown gets lifted on May 16. I’m trying to write down what I can especially in these times when nobody’s sure what’s gonna happen in the days to come. Whatever befalls me, I’m at ease knowing I’ve at least chronicled as much as I could in this blog. Besides (in case I survive the pandemic), my scripts here will provide some sort of cushion when I start forgetting everything by reason of senility. 😀

Since I’m having difficulty drawing inspiration to generate a lovely piece on the subject of my romantic history, I’ve decided to simply recount a few of the memorable moments and brief descriptions of the rogues who had touched my heart. Here we go:

First Love: We were sitting side by side by the stair window on the fourth floor of our university building while in deep conversation. He was on my left. We paused talking for a few seconds. He slowly edged closer and gently placed his hand on the side of my right hip. We resumed our exchange though his hand remained in that position for the rest of the time. It was an intimate moment that just felt good.

Our big date was at the Luneta park. We ate cheeseburgers at a cafeteria in the Chinese Garden. We took a stroll, sat down in front of Manila Bay and talked till nighttime.

Never permitted him to kiss nor touch me, even though he was the one taking out his wallet within the duration we were “on”. He once stole a kiss on my cheek and I went apoplectic. Poor guy. Crazy me.

When I was having a hard time during enrollment and there was little he could do to help me with the school procedures, he kept buying me little snacks throughout the whole afternoon.

Our teenage relationship could’ve blossomed into something more precious and beautiful if I had given him the chance. I didn’t. Because I thought I was too good for him. That he was gearing up to become a civil engineer failed to register on my lame brain.

A year after I broke up with him, he came over to ask for a reconciliation. I laughed at him — and coldly left him on the street. Yeah yeah, I treated the boy badly. A year later, I ran across him holding hands with a girl in a pretty blue dress, and she was way way more beautiful than me. No jealousy on my part but… I looked so plain then and felt so ashamed. 😀

Second love (first major love actually)

We met at work — my first job. He became my boss shortly after our affair began as I requested him to absorb me to his department. We lasted four years. Highly toxic. He was many years older than me. A womanizer… yet lousy in bed. Too bad — considering he was my first lover. Oh there were good times. Friendly and extrovert, he’d take me to social meal gatherings, meeting up with his fellow managers and long-time associates. All I could manage to do was sit down and munch food during their discussions. Now I understand why he would string me along: To show me off to his pals.

Third love (became my husband)

A year older than me. Sweetest romance. The best lover I’ve had. (I already wrote a post on the father of my son)

Fourth love: So much younger than me. Good-looking, he was also the exuberant and talkative type. We lived together for a few months and he regularly played board games with my son. The young dude was good in bed.

Okay, I’ll stop right there. The next ones were either insignificant or not serious. On top of it, the level of assholerism was staggering. Not really worth writing about.

There. Finally, I was able to pop up a post regarding my romantic past. Item on my list checked.

sunset view from my bedroom window may 5 2020

The final dot has landed in place

Deep inside, there’s relief the blog is gone. For almost a year that it remained dormant, it got in the way and merely cluttered on my list of other Tumbler sites. And though it’s been inactive for long, it served as a reminder — or the thread that, to a minimal extent, bound me to him still.

The magnitude in which I wrote the “letter to asshole” was intentional (Note: No, the term asshole wasn’t included anywhere in my missive to him). Pretty much like a few cases in my past, I had to do something extreme to push to the very edge something that wouldn’t be healthy for my well-being in the long run. Making sure there will be no point of return when the dust has settled.

I repeat, there never really was a friendship, as he would like me to believe. I reckon he reappeared recently perhaps for the bits and pieces of verses he could use for his work-in-progress sonnets that I’d been willing to dole out to him before. Most probably, he was plain bored and needed variation whiling away time.

But I can’t write ardent verses anymore. I can’t keep on waiting for him anymore. I don’t want to hear the words “Be patient with me”  one more time. I’m fed up knowing he’s been chatting simultaneously with other ladies during our brief conversations.  I don’t want to walk on eggshells anymore. I can’t stand his grouchiness or grumpiness anymore. I can’t endure his chronic sadness anymore. I’m just sick and tired of all the BS.

In essence, I can’t afford anymore bestowing unremitting love and care to people who can’t give back in more or less the same degree what they received from me .

Yet I can’t help feeling rotten. Because in our last chat he made it appear it’s all my fault — and that made me feel I’m the bad person, again. I was open for a more polite and amicable end but he sounded livid, switched the tables, and slammed me to make me feel like the fool.

Sheesh. Men…

I won’t be dropping by his Tumbler anytime soon. 

OLB blog is now dead and buried. Honestly, I don’t miss it.
The final dot has landed in place.

I have only myself to blame

I know, I know… He shouldn’t have been allowed entry into my virtual life again in the first place. There’s nothing equal to a man’s shabby conduct towards you to whack your self-respect and makes you want to hop into some therapist’s couch for three day-long sessions. But since I have no money, this invaluable blog is good enough. I’m glad mr.poet-cum-librarian cannot follow me here.

To continue: Stumped and stunned by that blog entry, I started writing “the letter” to mr. a%4h#le (which I ended up posting below). In all respects, I’d been nice towards him throughout the week. So how uncharacteristic of him to post such a thing. Oh yes, the attack to a cherished special dimension of my existence was upsetting to me.

The letter was sent to OLB — the blog only he and I had been sharing. There was no denial from him I was the target of his Clarita Estes’ entry. His response undeniably manifested of his resentment over my appeal he doesn’t comment on my posts — besides his recent realization I ain’t the erstwhile online gal of former times. Moreover, he was livid by my fore referring to men critical of unattached women while covertly begrudging their own marital status. I might’ve crossed the line, I guess; in view of the fact he wouldn’t let anything in his virtual realm tap on his actual personal life. Quite identical to how I feel upon his intrusion and disparagement of my parallel universe.

In truth, I repeatedly wanted out and be beyond the grasp of his tentacles. I stayed as far as I could and didn’t seek him at all, believe me. Out of the blue, he would message me about missing my friendship, lamenting of his perpetual sadness, and would give every indication over his fondness for my written enunciation and interest in my writing progress.

Regardless, there was never a friendship in a real sense. He simply couldn’t be there for me. Why then did he accord a tiny amount of time to me for two years?
Artists’ constant need for variety, for one. Second, he could’ve ran out of chatmates every now and then between moods of boredom and melancholy. Third, he said I was a wonderful storyteller and he did like my compositions. Allow me the treat to believe that. ha ha.

Anyhow, I could detect by a mile I didn’t belong to his A-list of online associates (he disclosed having a close circle of artists friends, writers, etc.). Hence, my “you couldn’t accept me as a friend” line. He was often in a rush during our conversation and was more absent than present. Again, a whacking thump to my esteem as I sort of bewail my inadequacies such as not being young enough nor intelligent enough nor artistic enough to merit his fellowship. In addition, “Be patient with me” had turned into his never-ending mnemonic. One time he got agitated, he made it clear our association could only prevail on his terms.

Sometimes, too, I wonder if he enjoys pushing my buttons. He went on with insensitive deeds he already knew could disappoint me. What do you call somebody who takes pleasure in hurting people’s feelings because it serves as a substantial boost to their ego?

Hey, in fairness, he’s not a bad man. Without question, he isn’t as dreadful as my other blog pals from yesteryears. Uh, by no means is he the sweet type of guy. But the librarian that he is, he has provided me some few poetry files and links, Percy Shelley’s archives among them. He’d given around half a dozen dot-dot advice throughout my poetic attempts on top of it all.
Just the same, he’s a typical man. Not that apart from all the rest.

Alright… No need to reprimand me. Yes I deserve what I got. This time I vow never to commit the same mistake, ever again.

Btw, he did finally erase our Tumbler blog OLB last night.

+++++ to be concluded ++++

What Took Place

You will have to bear with me on this one. Because I feel somewhat rotten for what just happened. Feeling like a fool all over again.

I guess the lockdown worldwide has had everyone glued online heavily which in my case caused a few peeps to reach out to me again. Mr. poet-cum-librarian was one of them. It started early last week. We hadn’t been in touch for many months except for the Christmas greeting he sent on Tumbler messenger. Although I was polite in dealing with him, I told him about being already smitten with someone else. The fact the dude is actually a dead poet from the Romantic period of the 19th century 🙂 was omitted in my confession. Having said that, I expressed my request to turn into a storehouse the blog he set up for me which he wouldn’t delete. Then we subsequently lost touch again. I became ultra-busy to boot. As in no communication between us for months … until last week.

He informed me he had gotten sick — afraid he might’ve caught covid-19. Because of our history I was genuinely concerned and could only wish for his recovery. The man had been significant in my poetic exposure and poetry appreciation — that I graciously acknowledge, even though I no longer carry the same feelings I’d had before.

The next day he assured me he was feeling much better. He conveyed gladness to have reconnected with me and our camaraderie was renewed. Because I was stuck at home, I wanted to be creative and was eager to post once more my lyrical attempts plus sundry stuff on our blog OLB. Having him as a reader has always motivated me to be mindful of my writings. There was, however, one appeal I made: That he wouldn’t comment on my entries in any manner — a privilege he had previously enjoyed. He seemed displeased — his ego slightly thwacked. Look, I’d had it with his rushed and half-hearted replies ages ago so he could get on to his next or waiting other female chatmates. I was practically doing both of us a favor. He displayed miffed behavior nonetheless.

In the days that followed, I couldn’t impel myself to write a single romantic stanza — which was easy for me in the past since I had designated myself as geena the romantic poet. It could’ve perplexed him even more. Having had access to my Tumbler files and former journals, he inevitably came to learn a lot about the type of person that I am.

I paid little attention to his own blog posts knowing some of them are about me, positive or negative. What took me by surprise was the one which touched on my fantasy life. What right has he got to barge into my precious domain and criticize me for it?

+++++ to be continued ++++++

Letter to an asshole

When a woman is frozen of feeling, when she can no longer feel herself, when her blood, her passion, no longer reach the extremities of her psyche, when she is desperate; then a fantasy life is far more pleasurable than anything else she can set her sights upon. Her little match lights, because it has no wood to burn, instead burns up the psyche as though it were a big dry log. The psyche begins to play tricks on itself; it lives now in the fantasy fire of all yearning fulfilled. This kind of fantasizing is like a lie: If you tell it often enough, you begin to believe it.

— Clarissa Pinkola Estés, from Women Who Run with the Wolves (your blog entry a couple of days ago)

+++++

Oh wow… what an obvious innuendo, Greg.

One thing I’ve learned at this stage in my life: One can’t easily espouse stuff they read from ostensible experts as bonafide doctrines of our existence. Especially if the author is younger, their proclamations textbook-based, and has practically glided into their adulthood with minor glitches.

Somewhere I had read Rachel Weisz’ no-nonsense remark “Someone can do whatever gets them through the day” — and I’m like Oh yes.

Nov of 2017, while my mother was in the ICU taking her last breaths, I was tossing and turning in bed, seriously traumatized by the speed of her decline. Extremely on the edge, I couldn’t sleep for days. I forced myself to think of something else, anything, that might somehow help preserve my sense of balance. So I thought of Pedro Pascal (no clue then he was actually gay) because I was smitten with the guy after I had watched his action movie a few months before. In my mind, we were in love…doing a slow dance. Anything… anything that would make me survive those horrible moments.

I have a fantasy life, yes. Since I was 9 or 10 years old in fact. And I feel fortunate to have had an alternate reality throughout the years when oftentimes it’s not possible to acquire everything we wish for in this world. There is nothing wrong with that.

I’d been married once. I hardly consider it the happiest phase of my life. Maybe my kind finds more calm and delight in singlehood. Yet that could raise a form of anger in some people, I discovered.

Traditional thinkers and most men ridicule or look down on unattached women. Probably unaware of the truth they are desperate themselves for being trapped in their own marriages; they couldn’t choose divorce for its complexity and for fear nobody’s gonna look for them in their cold old age. Which render them constantly reassuring their wives of their undying devotion while secretly falling in love with far younger ladies left and right. I believe that’s more appalling than a woman’s solitary status.

And perhaps it’s one of my idiosyncrasies: I had previously either blocked or asked at least three of my FB acquaintances to quit messaging me when it was plain evident they were simultaneously chatting online with other female chatmates in some alternate fashion. I don’t know how they do it (How disgraceful, imo).

It’s simply the way I am — period.

You deem me queer — a misfit, an outcast, whatever (I say yes to all such labels) — more or less, it seems. One thing is crystal clear: Your conventional mind cannot afford to comprehend and welcome people like me. No different from the past when you judged me by virtue of my oddity and couldn’t accept me as a friend, for the way I really am. You, therefore, have no business sauntering anywhere near my realm.

                                                        ***

You can delete this blog anytime you wish. I have no use for it when lockdown gets lifted on April 30. I confess I had aimed to utilize this to finalize my old notes and be somehow creative while under house arrest. But I really want OLB removed as soon as I’m done with it.

I do wish you well.

#april 19 2020 letter#pls do not respond thank you

Happy Birthday to me

So happy to be alive and still kicking.

Went to Eastwood city. My 2nd most favorite place in the city. Yup, that’s the moon up there at dusk today.

Don’t let these photoshopped pics fool you. I’m a middle-aged gal, so I had to remove a few wrinkles here and there.

my true heart

Makes me want to cry even. Each time I look at it.
My favorite photo of all time.

For God Bless Me with You

There are several romantic tunes I had liked in my childhood and early teenage years that still make my knees weak whenever I listen to them. One of them is You Make Me Feel Brand New. It’s the loveliest romantic song I’ve ever listened to and The Stylistics version is the best, imo.
For God bless me with you

I’m like wow, that’s the most beautiful love line I’ve ever heard within a song — even though I’m not religious at all. The rest of the lyrics that perfectly match the melody are very touching, too.
… like notes to a song out of time …

Only you/ care when I needed a friend. Believed in me through thick and thin. This song is for you/ filled with gratitude and love.

You held my life within your hands/ Created everything I am.

So I’ve been pinning down my favorite love songs once more — pieces that have prevailed on my list to this day. Because I’m kind of inspired again. Never mind that the guy doesn’t exist anymore and English Lit is about to celebrate his 230th birthday by next year.

And I’m still struggling with Spotify so I continue to use YouTube. Yeah, I remain as no techie. Drat. I’ll simply console myself with my favorite mellow tunes online for now.

Please note: I’m well aware the wordings should be “for God blessed me with you.” But I prefer the line minus the conjugation — as we always lovingly say God bless you.

nov 2019 stroll at Sky Garden, Gateway, Araneta City

Profiling this lady from Manila

Nothing earthshaking with regards to my existence and life story. Everything about me is simple, average, mediocre. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I can’t bring myself to lie or commit any type of fraud. Maybe I’m basically a good girl because of my decent upbringing — but, mind you, I am no angel. Am I a disciplined person? I can consider myself so — because undisciplined is someone I’m definitely not. My rebel character, however, springs up every now and then as I am moderately notorious for being a nonconformist.

I got married to a master electrician a couple of decades ago, a union which lasted on and off for unbelievably ten long years. We had a son whom I raised singlehandedly until he reached the age of 22. When this only child of mine got a job five years ago, he left home and never came back. We haven’t reconnected eversince.

How do I describe myself? Painfully shy and quiet, honest, sentimental, loyal, sensible, skeptical, stubborn, thrifty, broken and, imo, deeply flawed. Also sometimes cold-hearted with people (by reason of blistering life events) but, most of the time, I’m truly soft, sensitive, vulnerable. I used to be so self-conscious of my bashfulness and whatever eccentricity I’ve had. I wish somebody had told me it’s okay to be different. That you can conduct your oddness with grace and pride.

There’s a tendency for my written expressions to become melodramatic especially when they touch on matters of the heart. Even so, my belief remains that exceptional poems and prose have stood out for the justifiable degree of drama they exhibit.

Many people have deemed me a strong woman. Deep down, I’m not. I’m a baby in the middle of physical pain — and I’m bloody fearful of losing my independence and financial self-reliance. How I wish I were tougher like the handful of women I have admired.

You think I’m a cynic? Perhaps so. A famous author, nonetheless, asserted people who have been cited for their cynicism are actually deep thinkers who possess razor-sharp observation when assessing situations. Isn’t that a bit encouraging? 🙂

A small number of things I believe in: Romance-wise, I hold faith in the existence or reality of soulmates, in love that lasts till the end of time, in faithfulness, storms of passion, kindred spirits. The younger me had consistently nurtured a few ideals about love; yet the older me today doubts her capacity for this four-lettered word. What do I really know? All I can say is that I sure have suffered from feeling too much and allowing my heart to rule over my sensibilities.

Aging has been a painful phase for the eternal girl in me. How can I feel old when my heart keeps failing to recognize the march of time?

Religion is also a never-ending thorny issue in lieu of my need to believe in a Higher Power so it can help me endure life’s hard knocks as well as ease my sense of isolation. Lamentably, atheism seems more suited to my way of thinking.

That both my parents played favoritism among us siblings scarred me for life. I was the quintessential daughter who couldn’t measure up to her beautiful elder sister.

In school, I had been fond of the subjects Art, History, Astronomy, Law, Philosophy, P. E., and of course, Literature. The following, btw, were the awards and recognitions I received during gradeschool years: Best in Reading and Writing, Best in Language, Most Polite (my mother taught us her children to always greet our teachers), Most Industrious (I regularly stayed after class to arrange back the chairs and put things in order around the classroom — something I enjoyed doing).

My loves: reading, writing, traveling; dogs and cats and indiscriminately, all animals; dancing, rainy days, breathtaking scenery of landscape and nature, pretty malls. I love looking up at the sky morning, afternoon and night. The moon in whatever shape and shade has found a fervent lover in me.

My likes and interests: exercise, hard-action flicks (minus any revolting graphics), milk tea, Coca Cola, food and drinks that have chocolate in them, pasta, funny guys who make me laugh, humor among plentiful things and situations, clouds, libraries, bookstores, alleys and balconies, elevated trains running across the sky, mountains, snow, falling rain; the colors pure white, light brown, soft red; cool weather, musk scents, astronomy. So far, a few of my most favorite authors and poets are Richard Jackson, Albert Camus, Fernando Pessoa, e.e. cummings, Kenneth Rexroth.

I don’t mind doing housework, several chores I find relaxing such as washing the dishes. I like being organized. Yet I have this frustrating habit of not putting things back in their proper place.

My hates: summer at its peak, loud blabby women, bugs (especially the big flying ones)

A couple of my minor regrets: First, not keeping a diary. Second, not learning how to ride a motorcycle: I fancy women bikers as ultra cool.

I would want to live forever not just because I’m afraid of death but because there’s so much in life to cherish and hold on to.

In my next life, I’d be a female librarian, a musician, a versatile actress, a great poet.

*******

Another all-time beloved song. Everybody likes this old classic. My most favorite version is this highly dramatic rendition by The Four Tops.

“I will take the wine while it is warm
and never let you catch me looking at the sun
But after all the loves of my life, you’ll still be the one.
I will take my life into my hands and I will use it
I will win the worship in their eyes and I will lose it.
I will have all the things that I desire
and my passions flow like rivers in the sky
And after all the loves of my life, you’ll still be the one.”

something personal – 1

In my nearly ten years as a resident of wordpress, I’ve aimed several times to write about my romantic history because love and liaisons with men occupy a dominant portion of my existence. To this day, I’ve written only a single post on my ex-husband, and managed very few minor mentions of previous boyfriends, and that’s it. I simply couldn’t motivate myself to reminisce and compose pretty pieces on dudes I couldn’t care less about anymore. But if you ask me how things are concerning the jerk who is presently the apple of my eye, half a dozen full posts definitely won’t be enough — if I’m not feeling mortified revealing the current motions of my heart.

There’s something odd in me when it comes to love. It’s hard for me to play games — I can never get the hang of it. I feel better when I leave it to the guy to have the final say as to the state of our relationship or connection. Whenever it’s my call, I feel miserable. It’s an inexplicable nature of mine.

When I get sick and tired of a man’s bullshit, I do things that would make him quite uncomfortable so he’d skedaddle like an imbecilic skunk. Really. And the best way to freak out any guy is to give a hint as to my wish that I be the only one in his heart. Or when I keep stressing to him how much his presence means to me. The expected reaction could be very funny. Such imbeciles.

Very direct here this time: I like good-looking men. Or men who at least were good-looking when they were young. I was brought up by parents who put looks and wealth as the two most important things in life. So I’ve had a lifetime struggling with disposing the mentality that my success is measured only by my beauty and my financial capability. Oh and let me add fame to make it a trinity.

— to be continued (by adding more to this post later bcz I’m busy working right now yet the need to write sth is becoming an urgent matter) —