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

Nobody Does It Better

My previous posts have expressed of my long-time aspiration to draft a romantic saga and I’m kind of banking on the pleasure I’d gain during the process. Penning fervent briefer tales (just for the heck of it) seems easier, though, and more fun; maybe it’s a project for me worth undertaking in the future.

Expounding on the technicalities of the carnal acts would be interesting and challenging for sure. How else would I be able to grow paragraphs from lines I came up with such as this:

At first their kisses had been tender, then they turned hard and fierce, but what surprised her was how he trembled when the moment began erasing limits that could prevent them from exploring one another.

Or this one:

…her soft but intense moans have stirred him to violate her further with his punishing tongue; the lust of the dark night later succumbing to their terrifying acts of love.

My favorite tagalog films I can count using my one hand; four of them belonging towuthering-heights-poster06 the romance genre. The one I liked the most was derived admittedly from “Wuthering Heights” – and with that I contend in complete candor and minus any intention to appear smug this single fact: we make amorous movies better than the westerners. (please calm down….) Why, you demandingly ask? Because the focus of the narrative is constantly on the lovers — we tend to eliminate what’s unnecessary — so the plot gets embellished by the magnitude of the couple’s affection for each other.

Going back to that well-crafted favored flick of mine, watching it preceded my reading the book, which made Emily Bronte’s masterpiece, initially to my opinion, convoluted, dry, undemonstrative and queer. 🙂

hihintayin
My most favorite tagalog  film: “Hihintayin Kita Sa Langit”

My second favorite was inspired by Harold Robbins’ “79 Park Avenue”, a novel I had read and enjoyed immensely in high school; my third unforgettable film titled “Karma” was probably an original that told of an enduring devotion between two souls, spanning different generations through –hold your breath– reincarnation. Either the man or the woman would die due to murder committed by a third party yet both would cross another time to find and love each other again.

Our race has been known for indulging in the shindigs of feelings and emotions (I can say the same for Indians and Koreans if you ever have seen their lovey-dovey productions). It explains why crimes of passion aren’t extraordinary occurrences here. A filipino romantic film grabs you by the neck from across a tempestuous scene or is right through laced of twists and turns. Frankly, we find western movies on love somewhat lacking, not to mention a little flat and laid-back (sorry…). American love stories are “underdone” rather than “overdone”, a former blogpal had put succinctly. I remember my excitement prior to watching the high-grossing “Love Story” and thinking afterwards “That’s it? How boh-ring!” Although I was delighted in recognizing “The Notebook” and “The Thorn Birds” came close to our standards of an ardent flick.

Unfortunately, we go overboard with the hysterics, especially in recent times, and it rationalizes my current apathy for Philippine movies. They aren’t the way they used to be. Too much crying and yelling – I’ve no idea why. All I know is getting a load of such cinematic frenzy even as a form of diversion won’t be good for my essence.

Anyway, if my fiction writing plan ever turns into fruition, plenty of scenarios will inevitably spring from my own experiences. We’ll see.

The Heart That Recognizes No Time

Valentine’s Day might have rolled off without me as the other half of a romantic couple, but please, sing no doleful songs for me – because love still abounds within and around me. Love that I have for my son, for the few family members and friends I’ve still got, for the things that make me happy. Even though I have made the decision to eschew actual liaisons in my life, it still holds power upon my being as a woman… and I would forever have this need to write about it. A misty-eyed 14-year-old red-rose dreamer I remain.

Talking about the four-letter word that has consumed every female being on our planet since time immemorial, is there any higher mystery that has ever lived inside our minds and souls? How often have I seen women appeal for love in the same way they appeal for mercy in the face of life’s unforgiving peripheries? How many women like me have been taken in by its glowing illusions and promises?

In a land notable for people willing to die in the name of love; where round-the-clock “telenovelas” lord over TV ratings, and endless media themes speak of passion “conquering it all,” people here from all walks of life clutch stories of high and low from the annals of their beloved sentiments.

A measure of emotional chaos had already presided over a huge fraction of my younger years – courtesy of many a rambunctious affair of the heart. Could it have something to do with the precarious self-esteem I’ve carried around which stemmed from my childhood insecurities?

One delicate lesson I’ve learned from those years: The surest way to drive yourself batshit insane is to cling to the notion that love will stay, when it is in fact wiggling in all directions to depart from you.

539496_10151293754222475_1232428942_n[1]So I’ve often found myself asking this question: What do I make of the rules when my heart usually does the thinking for me?

The rules of love I am always in danger of forgetting.

The rules of love I have, in helpless frustration, inked onto my skin.

It’s been more than a year since I’ve freed myself from any romantic entanglements on my side of the globe here. The main purpose of which is to keep me away from an internal cage I have long since escaped. I was starting to think I’d never get the brand of peace I’d been searching for. So I had to run away in hopes that tranquillity would be able to find me. Gradually somehow, it came and I got it. I almost couldn’t believe it. Simplicity and space had held dominion; allowing for sensible calm to reign inside of me; granting me a tempered existence…and a liberation that surprisingly gave me some of the most remarkable times of my life. So I began to think happiness would be here to stay. Finally. Then came the major blow last month that brought me to my very knees. The one that shattered my hopes for a continuous path layered with calm and beauty.

It’s like I’ve closed my eyes with a smile and dreamed of rainbows and butterflies. But when I opened them again, a totally different world has taken place. Completely.

*****

Months ago, I watched Rihanna’s tearful confession at the Oprah channel of how she still feels for the man who has assaulted her. She got castigated and maligned by the public as a result of that interview. I may not have gone through what she experienced, although as I watched her painfully shedding tears over a first love she just couldn’t let go, I somehow understood her. I don’t necessarily condone the actions that took place between Rihanna and Chris Brown. But the girl merely in need of drama in her life, they say? No. It’s just a woman in love who couldn’t help being true to her feelings.

When we were little children, my parents would watch popular reruns of Tom Jones’ musical show and made us dance every time he commences with the upbeat tune of “It’s Not Unusual.” Before the end of the show, he would belt out tender, ardent songs like “You’re My World” and “I know” – and my sister and I would listen. When we became young girls, we’d remember and be dreaming of the princes in our futures who would feel that way about us. Just like in those songs.

Then we all grew up…and we lived…and we learned.

You began to realize no man is worthy enough to make you consign your heart to prison once more. In the same vein you get jaded by the reality that princes do turn into frogs eventually.

Valentine’s Day – and what it stands for – will preserve its magic in my mind nevertheless. Besides, it’s always good to foster the feeling until the end of your days.

That‘s how you find the emotional girl in me. The girl who may be cited for not truly condemning drama in her life. A woman, to be more precise, who would turn 80 decades from now, and still be longing of walking along some rose-full field of dreams.

The woman with a heart that would probably never know of time.

 

Writers’ Take On Passion In Literature Of Modern Times

Two weeks ago while I was casually browsing on the internet, I chanced upon an interesting exchange of perspectives among certified writers taking place on FB as they touched on the subject of passion in prose. Initially, the conversation was set in motion by a lady writer who had just finished watching “The French Lieutenant’s Woman” based on the period novel by John Fowles that tells of a story of passionate love verging on fragile intensity and more than negligible risk. Sarah, the main character is a “fallen” woman who’s unfit for love, yet this French lieutenant guy blindly falls for her. So the questions that pervaded principally in the discussion were: Are dysfunction and hindrances elemental in generating powerful feelings in romantic fiction? Must the strength of passion be tested through the battle against the barrier? And is there really such a thrill in the forbidden-ness of consummated sex? When we live in a world devoid of forbidden stuff like we do now, we try to find what’s missing in our lives through literature and similar other forms of escapism. It could be true then that a substantial impediment is crucial for passion to last or even exist, and the struggle to overcome that barrier is elemental to the success of a love story told through the pages. Hearts must be ready to bleed. That much can be true for the majority of hopeless romantics of this world.

Well, the FB sort-of debate flowed and took some twists and turns until it touched on a colossal issue of the modern writer’s dilemma. Each writer then began sharing his/her valuable insight in what they deliberated to be the contrast between romantic literature of the past and romantic literature of the present. There’s this growing but discomforting recognition that readers of today swoon for passion represented by the likes of “Twilight,” “The Time Traveler’s Wife,” and “The Notebook” despite their obvious flaws. Ruffled by the fact that it just might go on to become the wave of the future, prospects for quality serious prose look dismal considering present literature continues to be awash with vampire love triangles, ridiculous plotlines, absurd settings and sundry other pieces of cheesy romantic narrative. Romance fiction in the tradition of “Wuthering Heights” and “Pride & Prejudice” doesn’t seem to carry weight as it used to. Today’s genre of prose has dishearteningly upended the traditional classics in the book market. A concern these writers share is that they may also have to kowtow to the demands of the market trend somehow and do away with their desire for original creativity in their written art.

Is “bad fiction” really here to stay? As the same flamboyance in cinema-making surges ahead, we may be resigned to the reality of the bastion of banality which ultimately blights on the integrity of “high literature” and so-called certified writers. The FB conversation went on to belabor on the writers’ objection to this moneymaking scheme practiced by fad writers to recycle the same plotlines, characters, settings, etc., expressing in unison their dissent for both the authors and the readers who indulge in said genre. People crave for passion in literature. True. Yet these days, people want to get it from nonsensical fantasy settings that also provide hindrances strong enough to make love challenging or forbidden (which bring us back to the point above). This emergence and success of vampire books, movies and TV shows inundated with tales of supposed ardor and true love, have they practically been ghosts of the real thing we found in Wuthering Heights, Romeo and Juliet, Jane Eyre, etc.?

One writer tried to neutralize the feeling of disdain by saying these fiction authors who cater to the current market might have been highly successful because they were able to explore passion that is meaningful and relevant in present contexts. It’s as though genuine passion cannot thrive anymore in this modern society because of numerous distractions around, that results to us readers being slightly desperate for out-of- this world passion to fall for just about anything.

My idea of Nirvana
Ok, so what’s my personal take on all this? In all the most important regards, I hope writers of any genre would continually be able to come up with literary books worthy of occupying places of honor on our shelves.

And frankly, I haven’t considered things much on their side of the equation because I’m not even a professional writer and I’ve no intention yet of dipping my toes on the pond of fiction writing. But speaking of passion, well..

The goal of love is rapture. There’s undeniably rapture in passion, and love without passion is like eating chocolate without sugar. That’s how it is for me because I’m simply a sucker for all things sweet.

No doubt even the most cerebral of women crawl on their knees in the name of love and passion. Do I go on to confirm that our species truly thrive on obstacles engineered by love and its variety of forbidden constitution?

It’s not something I’d like to answer right this moment so I may have to get back on this topic in another post.

But this I’ve got to ask for now. How did we women end up being vulnerable to such literary crap anyway? Female readers have always been the never-ending target market of what has been established as “Chick Lit” (that presently includes the genre fiction we’re submerged in). Literature of this kind definitely gives an erroneous touchstone for our romantic longings. I wish we have been trained to be more of inveterate thinkers like men which would make all these fabricated stuff about silly romantic fantasies and passion-defeats-all illusion unnecessary. We’d therefore find no urge at all to pine for a 600-year-old vampire, even if he’s as handsome as Robert Pattinson. Neither will we find perfect chemistry between Borat and Jessica Alba (creepy huh?), nor reason out that it’s ok for a woman to suffer for love as long as the man is a superhero like the ever-busy Superman, Spiderman on the go, or the elusive Batman.

Women have a choice. Books that encourage women to be stronger, more discerning and selective in matters of the heart are rare yet essentially precious. They are a must read for us delusional romantics who believe dysfunctional love just might be the real thing, in accordance to what’s been fed to us since we were young girls. I believe we do badly need such empowering books both for the benefit of young minds and for the reversal of all the crap that has accumulated in our not so young minds.

But then, I bet books of this ilk would unfortunately sell only 8 copies.

Love Verses from a Hopeless Romantic

I’ve come up with a few small poems to celebrate my passion for the printed word. I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at doing this, but I’m not so sure.. Anyway, I’m hoping you’ll like them.

Let the wonders of heavens

send me back into the past,

so I may choose no other splendor

than the moment

I was sitting right next to you..

                -ooo-

Raindrops on roses

after a soft spring rain

kindle fragrant memories

of how I used to revel

in the grace of your love..

Caught Up in the Rapture

There’s a certain someone who’s making me happy these days. It’s not that I suddenly found myself in a relationship or something. No, it’s not like that at all. I’m not even sure I can consider this a romantic feeling. But yeah, I like the guy (Of course, he’s a male). And I intend to keep his identity a well-guarded secret. I hope none of the people I see everyday would manage to sneak in this particular entry as they might be able to get an inkling as to who the person could be. How did it happen in the first place?  Well, recent events had me cornered in an emotional checkmate that left me a little dazed. I managed to recover alright but found myself already smitten. Too late..


I’ll just say that he’s funny, smart, considerate and beautiful. Nonetheless, I can tell he’s a bit of a bad boy. (Yeah right, here I go again. I’m totally hopeless. Tsk tsk..) And oh, I almost forgot, he’s urm, younger (Now please, don’t give me that look. I’ve still got a teen-age heart, remember?). I just like him. Well, as in Like with a capital L. Nothing more than that.  I intend not to let him know about it, don’t worry. I’d really rather not. Otherwise, it’s gonna be a bad road to travel. That I’m certain of.


At this point in my life, I try to stay away from emotional complications. I know myself well enough. I can be a mess when it comes to the affairs of the heart. The annals of my romantic history would be able to prove that.


Anyway, I’m simply keeping him in my heart.. And that’s all for now..


What else have I been up to lately?


I’m still drooling over Chris Hemsworth. The hottie who played Thor in the movie of the same title. Love, love his face, and his voice… Let’s not even get into the body, okay?


I read a certain book that swept me off my feet. It’s titled “Singular Existence” by Leslie Talbot. It’s one of the funniest books I’ve ever read which happens to target my demographic as a single woman in her ah, “late thirties.” She’s completely hilarious with her biting wit and shrewd commentaries. I carry the book everywhere I go nowadays, reading it again and again. I recommend it to every single lady, young or old.  Be prepared though to be blown away by her radical views about certain issues that plague the realm of Singlehood.


My son is back in school after a two-month vacation. Now I miss having to come back home from work, turning in the key to open the door and see him just there, in all his splendid adorability. Pardon me, he’s still my baby after all.


I’ve also been contemplating on finally ending my (close?) friendship with one of my colleagues at school. We have very little in common. We’ve got opposing points of view on several matters. Frankly, I’m just way smarter than him (it’s true, it’s true). And our friendship couldn’t withstand the crisis it had undergone a few months back. I felt then that my friendship had been totally taken for granted. I used to think I’d miss having him around as my bestfriend. Surprisingly, I don’t miss him at all now. I’m actually grateful for the distance between us these days. Things do change.


I’ll leave you with a message that I just posted on my FB wallpost a few minutes ago. It’s meant to be dedicated to the current apple of my eye. Here goes:


Things have surprisingly come to a full circle.


As you’ve done your part on what you think is right for you.


I guess it’s better to take matters one day at a time.


Which leaves me too with no excuse not to do my best for you, once more..


Welcome back.


< Yup, yours truly is happily smitten and inspired.> (Pathetic huh?)

Some More Silly Verses from Yours Truly

Okay, so I’m still keeping some more of the silly verses that I came up with several years back when I was still high in love with an ex-boyfriend. I’ve had second thoughts about publishing them here because they’re too mawkish. But I figured, what am I gonna do with them now? Might as well share them with my readers even if they end up assessing me as obsessive compulsive (just a bit, really) during my romantic relationships. I refused to take a look at these silly verses for quite some time because the thought that I actually wrote them for “those morons” makes me feel like a moron (a thousand times) myself. Eew. Aside from the fact that I find them extremely corny and cheesy now. Oh well.. Maybe I should have waited for Valentine’s Day, but I simply want to send them out in the ether. Just to get it over with.

Here goes..

 

Fate may deny me the chance

To lay my eyes on you once more

But eternity will grant me the privilege

To keep you in my heart, for always..

**********

 

No star can make me gaze at the sky above

As I could only wish for a shooting star,

So rare yet spectacular,

To remind me of you..

**********

 

I catch every little stardust

That falls from the heavens

And I clutch them close to my heart

As they slowly spell your name..

Then I no longer seek the reasons

Why my heart could long this much..

**********

 

The struggle to find the love

That I could never seem to find

Illuminates the truth

In the fragment of time

When I most wanted and needed you..

**********