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.

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“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.

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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.

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

Prague will have to wait then

 

The original plan was for me to visit Czech Republic and three or four of its nearby countries this year but the travel agencies have been raising their prices and peso to dollar is on its way up, too. I should’ve shopped for an Eastern European promo tour like I did for my Norway trip. Why didn’t I… Drat…I really wanted to see Prague.

I guess I’ll have to wait until next year. Meanwhile, I’m on tenterhooks as to who will win the U.S. Presidential race. My heart will break badly if Trump loses but even the headlines here are anticipating a Clinton victory. Drat drat drat.

And, yeah, I should get busy writing again.

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Happy Birthday Dearest One

 

I used to think I was a much better parent to my child than you were to me. But I’m beginning to discern it may not be so.

Remember the time you told me how things would be better if I’d soon settle down again with someone – just anyone, you said – with whom I could spend the rest of my life with? Amusingly appalling, I thought, because we’d always been confident about our kind; at the same time I could sense you were plain worried of me ending up completely alone when you aren’t around anymore. You even made my son promise to you never to leave me ever. And we both believed him — yet he left a few years after. It became one more testament as to the only person who truly cared for me after all.

I also remember the moment shortly after you were gone, when this other daughter of yours had tried to talk me into shifting my devotion – and I turned speechless; it was not because I didn’t know what to think: She simply stood no chance of convincing me; how it was such an impossibility. Others would differ in their opinion as to my decision, but they didn’t know our history. They’d never come to know of or comprehend my feelings.

Secretly, I still carry the pain of your absence. The pain I’ve learned to conceal behind my every smile; ensconced with the same grief which I make sure descends beyond the perception of my external world. I’ve gotten used to doing just fine dealing with my reality – with the notion nobody understands and will ever understand. Silence has been more comforting anyway.

There are times I realize the tears aren’t solely caused by the sadness of missing you. I’m being sustained for the love I keep — sinking deeper with the time, with my memories of you — the kind I’ve kept neither those light nor dark hours could reach.

Now more than ever, it’s become all so clear – how it has finally dawned that your final resting place is inside my heart.

Happy Birthday, my dearest one.

***

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lovely brief September tale

Sunny charm. Vibrant smile. Wonderful presence. It took me a li’l while to really appreciate them all. You may not look like the ideal prince a girl falls for. But what a guy.

I’ve long forgotten how a man could be capable of treating me with pure designs of friendship, with tenderness, and a gentle comprehension of what I truly am. For so long I’ve gotten used to the usual opposite gender’s conceit, sluggish mean spirits and shady intents.

It seems this Scandinavian paradise is granting me more than just a view of its celestial backdrops.

Same age, same situation — yet we came from different worlds. You easily surrender to the radiance of a single moment. The light of the sun comes across whichever path you walk through. You can surround yourself with equally amiable acquaintances you’ll sincerely consider and embrace as family in a matter of days. That much faith in life and in people is something I quite lack or may have lost somewhere in my past.

You said you’re perplexed by the fact I’ve been using my camera at each chance, leaving no occasion for interaction with you and the rest of our mates. I smile and mutter some lame reason and ask for pardon, only to excuse myself a few seconds after because I’m constantly on the run for opportunities to take in the vistas, the sounds and sights of the surroundings and its natives at our every destination.

Well, I’m back to my reality now. In my hand is the tiny paper where you scribbled your name and number, recalling that moment when you told me to find you on that social media page. And I did. It surprised me to find the rushly-taken snapshot of us displayed on your timeline. Privately, I managed to explain myself to you – my behaviour during the trip. You said “no worries.” You also said you wish for me to come to New Jersey so you can show me around your city. Then we’ll do New York, Philly, and Boston.

And I thought to myself OMG… What would I say? “Let me think about it” was my response. Although deep down I already knew: It’s never going to happen.

In the few instances we were able to hold a conversation, you seemed to grasp the kind of nature I keep that the good soul in you has been trying to understand.

I wonder how long it’ll take before you realize how utterly broken I am. Will you be able to carry on looking at me with those kind blue eyes and undertake to scoop me up with your warm benevolent ways?

In the end, I guess you will never know how you will forever be a beautiful part of this whole experience. An exquisite cherished thought in the serene realm of this September tale.

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My most favorite from Lionel Richie became a song I lovingly dedicate in memory of my father. His birthday is coming this October.

Norway vacation (5)

Vacation pictures again — ad nauseum, I know i know. But I’m not in the mood to write and I have to store my vacation photos somewhere so bear with me. 🙂

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Ferry rides and cruises are a must when traveling around Norway to enjoy its scenery
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I don’t know about them but it becomes chilly every now and then.
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that’s leftover ice from winter on top of the mountain

 

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outside Oslo City Hall
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the biggest stave church in Norway with the cemetery in front
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Okay, so I got fond of taking selfies I confess.
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the prettiest policewomen patrolling around Oslo city centre

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Btw, Norwegians like to eat fish which is quite fine with me.

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their desserts were to die for.