Needn’t Explain Myself Really

A long time ago, a bestfriend hinted that maybe I don’t know how to love. I was a bit hurt by that. But I made it my business neither to verify nor dwell on that notion about myself. There were more important things to do. Her remark has lingered to this day.

No wonder it would take another dimension for me to find a certain happiness I can’t fully explain. Where there’s love, care, and specific matters of the heart. Does it matter if it’s real or not? I’m here anyway and I’m being sustained by it all for a while.

Anything, anything that would spur me to fill up a few blank pages. No, not just anything or anyone. Something, somebody with some substance and merit — regardless that he’s a third-rate version of you talent-wise. And I can’t believe I said that. But I tell it like it is.

Explanation not necessary, I know. Something in me still feels like saying “sorry.” We’re not in the real world anyhow. I’ve learned to be convinced by that.

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…My one true love remains myself.—

Cassandra Clare, City of Bones

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 to 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. 🙂

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.

I Just Want to Read and Write (2)

Many a time I think I should hasten to deposit my narratives here. A bus might hit me tomorrow I want to make sure at least two-thirds of my life story in cohesion with the contents of my mind has already been unloaded; as proof that someone like me lugging a few bohemian sentiments once walked on this planet.

An arcadian repository of my experiences, perspectives, impressions is everything I intend to leave behind. That’s the reason I’ve put links connecting all my other blogs in case a future reader, if there’ll ever be one, gets wrapped up in my wholeness — my shallowness, silliness, oddity, and tiny misdemeanors. All that radiates out of my pages is all that comprises me. My unholy meditations and dusky history were barely cloaked. My intellect which is nothing to write home about can be easily detected. My looks hardly embodying that of Esmeralda are for everyone to see.

This writer has no delusion to become a total pro or a celebrated one. My imagination admittedly isn’t fecund. Vapors from within that might precipitate creative tales are non-existent. My mediocrity allows me to experiment and blunder repeatedly. Writing rules don’t apply much therefore. My incomprehensions have provided no terms to work against said freedoms.

So I’m wont to share my most favorite writing advice and this one I’ve yet to follow (Pardon me, I don’t know who dispensed it):

The most original modern authors are not so because they advance what is new but simply because they know how to put what they have to say, as if it had never been said before.

***

Intermittently I miss some of the bloggers I have loved from way back. But I’m reminded of my discomfort across the connotation most were endowed with the right amount of astuteness to decode my very core.

I squirm not so much for the pitiful endeavour on my part to write poetry (forgive my penchant to be venturesome) as for the fondness I fostered around those ex-Romeos. Nah, no way could I have felt that way toward such a prick. Although the inspiration that had been afforded me was worth it. I guess. Still, the mark of shame has made me want to occasionally sob over my instant noodles at breakfast time.

The politics of “I read you, you read me” repels me. I confess to having developed certain conceptions for blogs that have supposedly amassed scores of viewers. The writings are often generic and those scribblers are typically the ones who click Follow and Like recklessly. That might explain why there hasn’t been a resident in my Reader for ages. Manual encoding of the name is how I drop by a site. And personal blogs touching more on the writer’s chronicles or feelings and beliefs are the stuff which catch my interest.

What’s my point really? Five years on WordPress has demonstrated the truth of my steady appetite for reading and writing. I’m doing this for myself, mainly for myself, and you better believe it. 🙂

The task of carrying a sentence through to completion has been absorbing. Sometimes even more gratifying than the diversion calling for a hot blue-eyed Armie Hammer stand-in and a sturdy bed.

It’s like…where the Hades do you place your senses as you start surrendering soon after a lengthy tongue to tongue wrangle with a persuasive kisser? What woman doesn’t know the sensation.

Ah, it isn’t far from the desire that slowly builds up…leading her to assist him in taking off his shirt so she can thence feel his warm hard chest against hers.

Wohow… How indescribably Oh.

++++++++++++++++

 

This One’s For You

My heart is that of a woman’s – unalike the heart of a man that’s inside yours. Be kind.

It’s not easy everytime I stumble upon a desolated heart – with me thereafter weighing if a touch of compassion could dilute a sorrowful mood even for a briefest moment. Life has equipped me with sufficient insight into pain which makes sensitive struggling spirits not hard to spot. I’ve tried. Hoping sincerely my love serves as good drops of rain that temporarily soothe those few afflicted souls.

Now I wonder how you could have said those things during my absence. Perhaps you should know: In my length of period in this realm, a pattern has sort of ensued. It makes me wonder if I just sound dumb or look naïve or if it’s due to my ethnicity. I’ve gotten used to instances when “some” would assume if I could give more than the decent fellowship and emotional solace I’ve dispensed comfortably. How many times have I been burned by misconceptions; when my warmth and admiration were mistaken for something else.

You and I are birds of imagination that fly and perch on wires of inspiration we manage to find — largely attributable to our love of writing. Here where mythical characters, feelings, situations are within grasp because they’re free; where virtually everything is hardly real. And art getting done is its sweetest reward. Who doesn’t get that?

Yes yes women of the world catch on to your assertions how you’re quite beautiful and brilliant and beyond anyone’s reach. Even so, please get that there also exist gals like me who’d rather swoon over blondies that possess expertise on very technical matters.

You were smart enough, no doubt, to discern that if there had been any “illusions” from my end at the time, I would have beaten the speed of light being the one to initiate and sustain the connection with you. But we know the story and how it ended. It’s in vain to give it another spin. Mind, whatever harsh words and wounding remarks I’d leafed through from your pages I’d be willing to let go. Surely, harmony can be achieved minus the complexities — because I hold on to the view your style and the furnishings inside your pad are still worth a visit.

Your presence in the sphere is undeniably valuable. My empathy and reverence for your special flair can transcend whatever misunderstanding took place, hopefully; since the distance between your door and mine has long been established. Best wishes.

************

 

A favorite from Miss Di Ross for the song’s fetching lyrics:

Let me watch you go with the sun in my eyes

We’ve seen how love can grow now we’ll see how it dies.

Ode To A Beautiful Writer

My thoughts rise with the night

and you are the secret glow within

from where the light of these words flow

your sensibilities, your solitariness

the scars in your heart,

raw, ruthless, lingering

like the breath of a storm

that eases no tide against

the expanse of slumber, sorrow, or hope.

 

There are times I can’t grasp the strength of your prose

but then, no sky is bereft of its beautiful lightning

even the stars have become more captivating

when shining above the metaphor of your passions.

 

Still, I would want nothing

more than to see you heal,

lose the impulse that leads to your fall in spirit

as your sentiments and stories grow incandescent

when you walk between the streets of love and pain.

                 *********

– geena, january 2016

Thoughts On Writing

Some of the best bloggers write with profound depth and a certain delectable flourish I may never acquire in this lifetime. I’ve a good sense to know they belong to an elite league I can never hope to join. And I’ll be okay with that. Nice thing that I’m one of the most ardent readers in this world, and so what I cannot attain to write I will read in all relish from other more naturally endowed writers.

Love letters and sappy poems I have written and occasionally reread either make me smile or feel sheepish. Inspirational author Sarah Ban Breathnach had said writers often write letters meant to their beloved but always end up seducing themselves instead. That simply validates the magic of the printed word, doesn’t it?

I enjoy sprinkling my compositions with adjectives and adverbs. Likewise, writing in pyrotechnics style can be counted as one of my brash endeavors. I’m wary things might get over the top yet I don’t want to restrain myself either. I intend to be venturesome in some of my approaches here. Not to worry, I’ll make an effort not to go overboard. I can be critical at how I put my words together too. And if ever I’d goof up or overdone it, I would simply hope for the good grace of my readers to forgive and bear with me.

I admit to being guilty of committing more than a few writing sins. Among them is indulging in the use of clichés and hackneyed expressions. I also constantly battle with the problem of dealing with identical words appearing in the same sentence or an adjoining one. Reconstructing a sentence is said to be a sound solution here which I aim to become more at ease at.

I’m not exactly a fan of writing rules and advice, even if they come from the gurus or well-known writers. The use of the passive voice, and running to the thesaurus for assistance have been disapproved by some. I don’t exactly get the reasons why.

I personally believe you can be on your own when it comes to this art and your particular class of readers will simply find you. You eventually evolve with your writing and style. The possibilities are endless. Your capacity can be limitless.

All in the name of good writing I hope.

One of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned: “The most original modern authors are not so because they advance what is new, but simply because they know how to put what they have to say, as if it had never been said before.”

A writer has to have a rich vocabulary to make an impact on me. If your flavorful vocabulary is arranged in the right places, the prose becomes more spirited and spellbinding. I believe too that brevity and simplicity aren’t obligatory in the pursuit of sound writing. As long you can hold my attention and interest with the flow of your delivery, then write on.

My site stats have improved reasonably as of late. Sure I’m like all the other bloggers who glimpse at their stat sites every now and then. The rush I get in watching the numbers climb can be exhilarating. To think that I didn’t even bother to touch this account for some four months last year because I was engrossed in my job teaching a certain someone who badly needed my help.

I confess though that earning a reasonable number of readers is not what I really came here for. To reiterate, this blog I have always intended to dedicate to my only child. My all-time favorite American icon Steve Jobs had told his last biographer Walter Isaacson, whom he had chosen and personally asked to pen his life story, he wanted his children to know him as a person. Hence, Isaacson’s authorized biography of Jobs was realized soon after the latter’s death. I had wanted the same thing for a long time now, albeit I wouldn’t want to wait until I’m at death’s door to pen and wrap up my life saga.

It had got me thinking; wouldn’t it be wonderful if my son knew what his mother was like when she was young or what had gone through her mind at certain times?

I guess I need to get the ball rolling very soon as the slowing down of my mind might come in the not so distant future. One of my biggest regrets in life is I didn’t keep a diary in my younger years which means I’ve been struggling from scratch nowadays.

You may ask, ‘why do it in the blogosphere?’ 

Because of the chance that I may elevate the quality of whatever writing I hope to produce here, knowing the possibility a few kindred souls might unwittingly take a peek.

WordPress has advised not to spotlight too much on the “me, me, me” side of blogging if we want wider readership. But 90% of the blogs I’ve subscribed to and enjoy nonetheless are about the bloggers themselves, their lives and all essentially about them, them, them,.. which I certainly don’t mind.

So I intend to start anytime soon. Things will snowball perhaps. I just pray I won’t grate on my readers’ nerves.

 

Out with the Old, In with the New – What 2012 Holds for Me (part 2)

And so 2011 is closing down as one of my loveliest years ever, a time span I consider both rough and smooth-sailing in most regards.

Once again, I might have earned a few emotional scars from certain heartbreaks, job missteps, and quite recently, a tragic loss I wish would leave my memory for good.

Yet it all comes down to the wonderful reality that I’m still around, hoping that 2012 can now welcome me with open arms..

This was exactly my parting missive on my FB wallpost on New Year’s Eve of last year. I consider it as my closure for the definitive year that has seen me through a series of ups and downs. I felt like there were events I could gladly take with me at the dawn of 2012, e.g., a certain Muse (whatever it is) that crawled its way to my writing has been delightful, as well as the rest of the swell stuff that have made my stay on this planet worthwhile and enjoyable. Yet there are also certain episodes of 2011 I want to get away from as far as I can. Specifically an unspeakable heartache caused by the unexpected loss of a beloved pet and the guilt I’ve felt for not having spent enough time with it before its demise, and all because I was absorbed in something or rather someone that was not even worth my attention. I wonder, how can someone get over an unfortunate circumstance such as this? Others might see me as being too sentimental. I don’t know.. Letting go has always been painful for me. I am really hurting..

I do hope 2012 is going to be another fabulous year as I’ve no plan of slowing down yet. Sometimes though, my body has a way of reminding me that things aren’t the same anymore. Ah aging, I didn’t know it would come so soon.

I often wonder if the gift of years which endowed me with colorful experiences has made me a better person at all. And the more important question, do I know myself much better now after everything I’ve been through? Honestly, I still can’t provide anyone, even myself with a categorical answer.

Just ruminating..

Well, there’s one thing I can say with certainty. I am earnestly shooting for another year of splendor which, they say, will be but a moment in the sun.

We’ll see..

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..

**********