Loving you (maybe a prose but never a poem – 5)

He lays in bed in peaceful sleep…

She carefully settles herself beside him,

so as not to disrupt the calm he rightfully needs,

and softly presses her lips on his shoulder

embedding the secret of a lingering love

through a promise she has yet to break.


He’s probably miles away in his dream now

together with the gentle waves

of every sea he has relished,

the sun in its descent

in its surrender to the dark,

amid echoes uttering verses

from the most remarkable minds he has known.

The color and depth of his thoughts

would kiss her in moments of wakefulness

assuring her of the presence she yearns for

inside a world she’s come to embrace.


Beyond comparison with anyone else

she continues to cherish him

with his meaningful freeways, skies and metaphors.

The beauty of words keeps its wrap around them

even though they both knew

they’d never find their home

against space and time.

-geena, July 2016


Blogger Insight and Circumstance

I hope for peace with my co-bloggers all the time.

Nevertheless, an “expal” might have gotten pissed off owing to my observation from some recent period of a particular propensity, leading to the blogger hitting back with a snide remark that I must be seeking desperately for love and attention. My only response was “Whoa…” (insert an eye roll to boot).

But then I’ve seen many a female blogger with my status get attacked in the same vein by others who never took the time to know those women through their blog posts.

Still, shouldn’t one ponder on the following questions before dispensing judgment to someone like me who has been open about her circumstances and life stories in this ethernet we populate?

  • Would I go public as to how broken and flawed I am as a human being if my purpose had been to attract the opposite sex?
  • In spite of my being deemed sweet, can anybody stand up and allege that I have initiated a connection beyond mere blog friendship?
  • Notwithstanding having received emails from a few amiable readers, did I ever give anyone encouragement to cultivate more than plain camaraderie with me?
  • Think about it: How can WP citizens imagine of fanciful relationships blossoming when each and every one of us is –now don’t be offended, please– practically disclosing in our respective blogs (oft unawarely) how much of a loser we are?

The blogworld has been my escape from the blistering events that had taken place in my most recent years: It has turned into an alternate world for me. Alright alright, I also admit to not having a life these days. And neither do most of you. 🙂

girl3A month before, I even set up a dummy blog that would have the central purpose of Liking posts and commenting on the newly-found blogs I wish to follow — in as much as I wouldn’t want to unintentionally end up inviting any more new visitors to this site. You can find its avatar on the right side.

No denying I have held dear a few “buddies” — three or four remarkable characters maybe — within my blogging years. Alas, my affection, not to mention my sense of loyalty could be imprisoning — which renders me oblivious of other worthy bloggers. I had gotten attached to some people’s blogs. I had expressed warmth and admiration to a selected few. I won’t deny I had wished I were one of their most esteemed WPress associates, too. That hardly merits a misinterpretation though, does it?

I might have flirted in the past with my first two email buddies. Ok, I can be a flirt and have been so, especially in my younger days: It could have extended over my online persona spontaneously. Such audacity has probably been fueled by the fact I am so far away from all of you. So so far away.

And the flirting has lain dormant for quite some time.

I’ve a need to engage a Muse to be able to write something romantic, true. A few poems had been written with specific bloggers in mind. One of them a highly popular blogger“boy” from the Bronx; Another was the fantastic MrPoppins who happens to be my former black buddy, and who actually feels more like a younger brother to me. Both have long departed from our sphere.

Seeing that the heavens had forgotten to bless me with scholastic smarts, I wish to continue hanging around the cerebral blogs of good writers. I confess to my ongoing quest for bloggers who possess the finest intellect and wisdom to foster my personal growth as a writer.

Having said that, this blog is basically a memoir, not a gazette. If I had the time to work up an educational piece, I’d love to do so. In the meantime, my heart, my soul, and my background tales are this site’s focal essence. Just to be able to write is my preoccupation and foremost goal.

I haven’t yet pasted the chronicles of my romantic history which I have wanted for so long to do across these pages; what with my apprehensions as to being misunderstood in the aftermath — considering my passionate nature has been a consistent player throughout my life.

Let’s be grounded by the reality everything that presents itself here is supposed to stay in this virtual world; In this realm which prevails separately from our physical world.

Capping things off: my Stats has long stopped showing signs of movement. It only means no one reads my blog anymore. I guess the main boon is it’s safe for me now to write about sex.

Yehey. 🙂




The song “It’s Impossible” has the lovely original lyrics that tell the sun to leave the sky and ask whether the ocean could keep from rushing to the shore. Its beautiful Spanish version “Somos Novios” below by Andrea Bocelli and Christina Aguilera became my favorite as well.  

“And tomorrow… Should you ask me for the world, somehow I’d get it.
I would sell my very soul, and not regret it. For to live without your love, it’s just impossible.”

The Trouble With Me, I Guess

I’ve written before of how some people were able to hammer down the walls I had built. Show me a little kindness; show me a little consideration – and you can keep my heart for as long as you want.

So instances of broken trusts, or cruel words, or repeated disregard for my feelings can grow thorns onto a rose — for my mind has come to hold you in reverence. I’m aware as well it’s just a matter of time before the coldest fog between us sets in. The glass walls, which this time are unbreakable, eventually slide up around me and there will be no words left, other than a look that says you can’t hurt me now.

Yes, I have been called cold-hearted more than once.

Loyalty and dedication are virtues that don’t serve merely as superficial words for me. I flinch thinking of the moments I had used the word “friend” to regard a few people I held dear in my past. It could take some time to disentangle myself due to the degree of my attachment, I confess. The connection might renew at a distant future – although things cannot be the same as they were before.

Accuse me of being sentimental, of being a fool, of being someone with a flair for drama, whatever. Just don’t make me surrender to something that cannot be part of my nature. We are from different worlds, it seems.

And do not speak of a faithfulness that you’ve professed to have been carrying – unless you can surpass mine.


Been hanging around You Tube this weekend listening to my favorite songs from way back. Was I glad to have found this gospel-like rendition of George Benson’s “Unchained Melody.” I fell for it the first time I heard it in my late teens. I can’t believe it took me this long – almost 25 years – to search for the song and listen to it again. It remains as the best version ever.

I plan to include in every post my favorite songs from now on since they play a major role in my happiness.

My Version of Brother Sun, Sister Moon

I want so much to believe my sense of humour has been elevated a notch or two by my long-time association with the official comedian of our family; my brother – who is a couple of years younger than me. However, there’s a bigger probability I am deluding myself. You see, he’s got this I’ll-make-you-laugh-until-you-pee-in-your-underwear brand of wit. It’s a talent I could kill for. Glib and gregarious, my brother can easily become the darling of any party. People enjoy having him around. A natural comic that he is, he can deliver a barrage of punch lines, sometimes with an accompanying pantomime that can turn a mundane matter into something hysterical. All I have to do is giggle endlessly. Or laugh out real hard until my jaw literally hurts, or I start getting tears in my eyes.

Most men are humorous, quite true. That is the principal reason I like hanging around with them. They almost always make me laugh and I get happier in the aftermath. Not to mention, they are lighter to deal with; in contrast to the heaviness I feel due to pettiness I sometimes encounter in my dealings with women. I have met several men who could be way out zany. Still, the number one funny guy on my list turns out to be this dear brother of mine – who’s got the engaging ability to come up swiftly with hilarious similes and crazy analogies about anything or anyone.

He’d insist, every so often, that our sister’s Chinese-looking young son is secretly the last Emperor of China. He’d lovingly remind us to be careful everywhere, and be even more and more extra careful; or else, we might fall into the swimming pfool (yeah it rhymes. Still, it’s plain silly, right? :-)). He will animatedly narrate to anyone who’s willing to listen, how he witnessed our mother jumped down a mere two steps from the top of an 18-flight stairs right after she convinced herself she’d seen a ghost in her bedroom. He tends to exaggerate, I’m sure, but that’s how he invariably becomes wackier.

This could be my brother's soul mate
This could be my brother’s soul mate

There was this phase, during our juvenile era, when he got crazy over pigeons and doves. Yes, you got that right – pigeons plus doves. I honestly couldn’t tell which is which. They are lovely, delightful birds all the same. Unlike girls, most adolescent boys don’t go gaga over the opposite gender yet at that age. They get busy with other more – I suppose – worthwhile (?) concerns. Even if we’re talking about, you know, pigeons. Or doves. All breeds of them – of sundry colours – I could have already laid eyes on in my teen-age years – thanks to my dear brother who collected and nurtured them aggregately in average-sized bird houses he built on the roof of our house. If Tarzan had his famous shout while up on a tree, my brother had his crazy loud clap, while up on the roof, to attract the attention of his flying pets. I also remember how he and his pals would bike their way twice a week to the nearest province and, upon destination, release the pigeons or doves they were carrying – mainly for the thrill of betting which one would find their way back home first. Incredible. In the early evening, he’d take some time to count them all and make sure his “babies” were safe and sound. My brother, needless to say, smelled of (pungent) dove 24/7 in all those years.

sis-broI simply want to home in on the positive, wonderful recollections I still preserve regarding my brother as I look back on my life these days. Things have been different. In the decades that went by, squabbles and complexities got in the way; partisanship divided us all family members. We don’t see each other often anymore the way we used to. Yet I still cherish my memories of the little brother I once had…from a long time ago when we were still little children. The little brother who looked up to me as his big sister. The one who constantly played and ran with me, and followed me everywhere I went. My baby brother, with whom I shared a P2.00 tall glass of delicious pineapple juice from our favorite community store to drink – after every afternoon that we finished biking around the neighborhood. My partner in crime (according to my parents) to boot, in picking up and taking home baby kittens that had been mercilessly thrown or left on the streets. The same little brother who’d come to me, during our grade school days, crying like a baby after his classmates had bullied him – which would incite me to hunt for and bully his culpable classmates in return (They shouldn’t have messed with my brother, ok? :-)).

Never the bookish, soulful type, my brother shares little in common with me. He and I are actually worlds apart in character. I’d like to believe my brother’s personality gleams with incandescence like the sun…while mine glows softly like the moon. Yet we’ve always had fun whenever we get together. Because when we do; he kids around, cracks jokes and executes his innate device for comedy – to show off perhaps or to benefit everyone in need of a laugh. I, together with the other members of our family, chuckle hard and get highly entertained. Every time. That has basically been the pleasurable equation of our blood alliance as of late – which suits both of us just fine. Just endearingly fine.

I Had A Deep Crush On A Girl Yet I’ve Never Been Gay

This singular experience remains as one of the most unexpected happenings in my life that defies explanation. Because if there was anything in me that would remain unquestionable, it could only be my delicate heart that embodies hard-core femininity.

lesbianIt was in an all-girl Catholic convent school where I spent my secondary education, which meant the presence of lesbians was a given – albeit there had been only a few in our school at the time. To spice things up due to our drab existence of not having boys around, some girls would even fake their sexuality and couple up with another girl just to “be different” or be talked about, or to experience what it’s like. Other than my innocent curiosity on how genuine girl to girl romantic unions express their ardent feelings for each other, I wasn’t interested. I’ve gotten along well with members of the third sex my whole life –they’re interesting and fun to hang around with – yet I’ve unequivocally preferred swooning for the virile gender.

In high school, the tougher your moniker sounds, the cooler and more popular you get. My friends playfully jumbled the letters of my name and had thought of calling me “Majo” or “Jomar” – until we finally settled with the nickname “Ojie.”

I was in third-year high school. She was called Tesong. Short for her full name Theresa Ong (Not to worry, thousands and thousands here possess such name).

It all began when the two of us played lovers in a classroom theatrical project. A mini-movie. Rehearsals and the actual shooting of the drama required her and me looking deeply in each others’ eyes, doing some sundry sweet motions – minus the usual intimate contact. Kissing not included, thank God.

The girl is not gay. But for unknowable reasons, her moves are not ultra feminine. That could explain why she played the Romeo, and I, the Juliet in the love drama. She has got masculine aura. Or at least that was what I had come to perceive. I did feel it – although I couldn’t explain it. No, it was not sexual at all. I was only 14 years of age. I wouldn’t even conceive of touching lips with her. Nor hold her hand. Unimaginable.

She had shoulder-length shiny hair she was always fond of smoothing with her hairbrush each break-time. An average-looking girl – who was nice and smart – with a complexion slightly darker than mine, she was well-liked by everyone, too. What I found most compelling about her was her gaze. Her somewhat chinky eyes – caused by her Chinese descent – had this ability to pierce through the very insides of one’s soul. My soul, for that matter. She could give an intense look that would go right through my heart and my core making me ask myself in the aftermath, “What was that?”

Repeated photo shoots to promote our minuscule movie served as the germination and perpetuation of my, er, secret sensations. From then on, I got tongue-tied whenever she’d come near me, made all the more convoluted by my pounding heartbeat. I kept on thinking, “No, no. This can’t be possible.” I possess too much of an effeminate heart to fall for my kind. Proof of which: my lengthy list of male crushes – photos of guys, both local and international, with killer looks and handsome faces that graced the cover of my writing notebooks and bedroom walls.

I couldn’t tell if she sensed how I felt about her. How could I let her know – or embrace what I’d been feeling when I was infallible of the fact I am so not gay? It became a difficult period instead because my deep infatuation for her was bringing me external discomfort and slight inner mayhem. Nonetheless, there was no uncertainty as to the young lady chromosomes that run through my body. I kept my silence without telling a soul at school and at home.

My uneasiness lasted for the whole school year. When I reached my 4th year, we weren’t classmates anymore. How I thanked the heavens above.

There are things in life we just can’t explain.

I met her accidentally inside a restaurant several years after our high school graduation. We were already in our early 20s. I was with a boyfriend then and she was about to have lunch with a bunch of her male colleagues. Still possessing of that shiny smooth hair and penetrating gaze, she seemed to have changed. Like she became more feminine. She even looked quite demure and giddy in the company of her debonair workmates. She truly was a girl after all. We had a little talk – then said goodbye. It had been my total closure. And I was glad.



The End of a Friendship

flowerWe pledged of everlasting friendship and promised nothing could get between us. Contented was I in the shelter of our affinity for years that I’ve learned to trust the word “forever” once more. Don’t we crave for that word to provide a shade of permanence in our transient existence?

My best friend’s name was Ralph. The friendship began when he cautioned me against going out with one of his students – which obstinately took me some time to heed. Both of the same age; both private, hardworking people – Ralph and I found ourselves getting along better and better as colleagues. The camaraderie that transpired between us turned into a stronger bond. It’s been easy. Some of the best friends I’ve had in the past were male, gay or not. Oh, I forgot to mention: Ralph is secretly not straight. Although whispers have been passing around the academy for some time, I already knew about it the moment I first laid eyes on him. His voice and his movements had been telling. We never got to traipse on the delicate subject of his true gender in all the years we’ve been close pals. I have a feeling it had been a heavy ordeal for him. It could have been the reason he sought counselling in the past. It could be the reason, too, why he once tried to slit his wrist. These were events in his life he managed to share to me without unveiling definitive explanations. It didn’t matter anyway. The solidity and security I gained for having a friend like him were enough.

And so through the years, Ralph and I, together with the few buddies we’ve taken in to form as a group, revelled in each others’ company. Great times abounded.

Enter “Z”. My boss brought him to my room one morning and asked me to do what I can for him. This new student of mine happens to be handsome, well-built, sophisticated and smart. But so were the other students who came before him in our academy. Nothing extra special to my eyes really.

Now I’ve come face to face with the guy most of my younger co-teachers have a crush on. He had been staying in the academy for two months before he was handed to me as my new student. I’d also heard he has been juggling 3 casual girlfriends simultaneously. Repulsive – in my opinion. No doubt this is the kind of guy who holds a free license to siege ladies’ hearts. The kind of guy who’s confident about everything in himself. Well, except for his language skills.

“Teacher, I badly need to improve my English. Please help me.” Those were his exact words to me. A plea enough to spark the teacher in me. Words I need to hear so I could eagerly flex my best teaching muscles. An expression galvanizing my kind who thinks of no hindrance the minute a student expresses complete sincerity in learning the language.

In the succeeding six months, I focused on elevating Z’s skills. I took pains in constructing pedagogical blueprints on how to make things easier yet effective for him. His faulty memory caused by years of social drinking was our opponent. So we both worked harder against it. Relentless and determined, he’d follow everything I ask him to do. Homework, massive doses of reading, oral and written drills he would do diligently. I was pleased. We’d both glow with pride for every flawless sentence he could deliver.

What I didn’t expect was I’d eventually come to like him both as a student and a person. It’s not just about the good looks. He’s got depth than most of the pretty boys I’ve laid eyes on. He’s an artist – a metallic sculptor to be precise. Focused and insightful. A brave spirit with no limits. Watching the lone wolf in him from afar is mesmerizing. There’s also something about his deep, strong voice that stirs me. And his laugh…I love his laugh that can waft through the hallway when he is in a great mood. It made me delight in trying to be funny so as to elicit laughter from him in our every class – before we get down to the business of hard studying. Whenever we get tired from all the English books and drills, we’d resort to telling each other our stories and worries. This student Z has indeed inched his way into my heart like magic.

My boss once attempted a more important student replace him in our schedule – jettisoning him to a much younger and prettier teacher. I felt rotten. But Z did all he could to come back as my student. He might have surmised I was his best hope for his English ends. You could nonetheless imagine how happy I was to welcome him back.

Please don’t get me wrong. I’ve learned to observe my boundaries. I am not foolish. I might have crossed the line once in the past. Or twice. It was something I vowed never to do again. Not this time.

“Don’t forget to do the exercises on the book. I’ll check them tomorrow.” I reminded him one busy morning.

“Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“Oops, sorry. I’ll check them on Monday.”

Silence. He looked at me and slowly said with a slight smile.

“So…where are we going to meet tomorrow?”

Very tempting, I have to admit. “If you’ve got extra time this weekend, flip through the extra exercises at the end of the book. Do them as well.” I calmly remarked, calcifying my gaze on the papers on my desk.

I saw from the corner of my eyes how the smile faded from his lips. I was amused and felt victorious deep inside.

Six months into our progress, changes were made in his class schedule. Suddenly he found himself sitting face to face with another instructor – aside from me. It was Ralph. At first I said in alacrity, “Great, my friend, let’s join forces to help the guy.”

“I don’t like your favourite baby. Too sure of himself.” Ralph would sort of assure and tease me. I’ve confided to him how Z has become my “baby” student, even though I harbour no romantic interest in the guy whatsoever. I swear.

Well, here’s the piecemeal twist of event: Z must have found my best friend funny, too – as I would hear both of them constantly laughing in their classroom in the days that followed. Gone are the days when I was the only one who could cheer him up at school. Z’s laughter would echo and waft through the hall, transforming the echoes into tiny arrows that struck through my heart. Worse, as time went by, he would tell Ralph “stuff” he couldn’t reveal to me because, you know, I am a woman. Man to man they are. Z has no idea his new best teacher is gay.

It was lunchtime. I was checking some test papers when I glanced up and saw Ralph leaning on the door, his arms folded on his chest. “You haven’t talked to me the whole morning.” True. I have been evading his presence. I haven’t felt like being chummy with him these days. “I’ve been busy.” was all I managed to say. We went out for lunch and engaged in some small talk. A cold resentment building within me. Secretly.

It got harder and harder for me as the days went by. Me jealous, perhaps? I have no idea how to spell out my answer to that.

One day during break time, Ralph came to my room to share a story he already narrated to Z, gleefully relating how the latter found it highly engrossing. Not sure if he’s trying to prove something, I could feel the green-eyed monster crawling its way to me again. The bell rang. He wrapped up his story. As he started to walk away, I couldn’t contain myself anymore and blurted out, “Good, I hope the two of you live happily ever after.”

No way could I take back my words. An unsettling chill boded for some five seconds. Then he turned to me and said, “What did you say?” Discerning the danger through the sound of his voice, I averted my gaze so as not to meet the glare in his eyes. Then he started screaming at me. I dared not answer back. The other teachers got petrified – seeing and hearing our most mild-mannered male teacher lost his cool. He kept shouting at me while I kept silent. Real life accounts of ladies getting battered as a consequence of an altercation with someone like Ralph crept into my mind. The head teacher arrived and ushered him away from my room.

Knowing I was in the wrong, I apologized after a few hours. He accepted. In the two days that ensued, we got on as if nothing happened. The problem was, I still couldn’t take Ralph and Z getting closer. I still could hear their laughs, and sense their pending closeness. So I resumed ignoring and avoiding my friend again. Ralph must have gotten it; finally resigning to let the growing distance between us plant its ground. He must have liked Z that much too, as he circumvented and remained passive throughout this thorny matter bedeveling us. The death knell for our friendship kept flashing for weeks.

Finally, I asked Z to leave my class and look for another teacher. The conversation that followed wasn’t a pleasant one, yet we ended up peacefully saying goodbye to each other. Me – in tears. Then I marched into the office and implored my two bosses to allow me a two-month vacation. No reason given. They refused, but I was adamant. I didn’t attend school in the succeeding days, citing sleeping troubles which had long been afflicting me anyway. My bosses gave in and assented to my leave. Without pay, of course.

Emotions in tatters, I took a break from it all. I figured I’d come back when Z has gone back to his homeland – which I did exactly after two months. It was the only way for me, in spite of the staggering fact I put my job on the line.

It’s a decision I never came to regret.

This is a story that took place some two years ago. Ralph and I currently have a mere working relationship – and that’s all. We couldn’t go back to what we once were. We both understood the crack in our bond was beyond repair.

There goes another narrative I have put behind me. It’s now a closed leaf from the pages of my yesterdays. You always think you’ve learned your lesson well and everything has already fallen into places. Then all of a sudden, an episode will grip your heart and erode your peace and sense of order. It’s an episode I refuse to analyze, justify, and dwell on.

Up until this time when I’ve decided to write it down here.

Nature always pays for a brave fight. So does a human soul that grows most in the darkest hours preceding dawn. Sometimes she pays in strengthened moral muscle, sometimes in deepened spiritual insight, sometimes in a broadening mellowing, sweetening of the fibres of character – but she always pays. – W. G. Jordan

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.


November Babe Musings (Random Ruminations About Blogging and A Nondescript Existence)

Make no mistake. This seems to be the best time of my life, although nothing earth-shaking or exciting has been happening. I go to work on weekdays every morning. Go home at around 6pm. Read, eat, sleep, study, write. Very simple and quiet. It makes me wonder: how come I’m loving every minute of my present peaceful existence? Maybe I was meant to lead a run-of-the-mill life after all. To go through an average routine day in and day out. The kind I resisted in my younger years. I thought then fulfillment means seeking out what other people have. Heavy romance, material stuff, full schedule, night-outs with friends and flames. I thought having more people that constantly surround, recognize and validate me would make me feel better. That included working hard to keep my marriage afloat in order to maintain a stable family life. Yet during those periods when I was struggling to have it all, I was not happy and I felt miserable.

I could have grown plain tired of them all.

Or maybe, this certain “maturity” has given me a new appreciation for the things that truly matter.

603509_366843926718096_1450682356_n[1]Funny, falling in love with an illusion has become more appealing to me. A trick of the light so distant it’s beyond anyone’s grasp. If it breaks my heart, I figure, there will be fewer complications. Lesser damage, I suppose. And I get to go through crap which is unlike the ones I experienced in my past.

And maybe too, I am not making much sense at all.

There seems to be some paradox that exist within me these days. One undeniable paradox I’ve got to deal at this point: even though I seem to have finally found my balance, guilt creeps in everytime thoughts of someone dear to me – whose life is fast slipping away – come to mind. Everything is going well, yet the person who has been instrumental to my current equanimity will be leaving me for good anytime soon. An inescapable reality that at times leaves me in a bind. Complete utopia continues to elude me.

This blogging thing also feels like there’s a whole new world in here which I may never get to understand. I simply want to be myself and be able to express everything. As in everything that’s on my mind. But I’m afraid that’s not always possible. I have to keep on reminding myself there will always be people who won’t feel comfortable with my honesty and some of the things I’ve got to say. It might have been a principal reason why I’ve been passive in the two years this blog has been in existence. This medium I never intended for some particular ends. Certainly not to become popular, do business, start a romance, widen my network, or harbor any hidden agenda. As I’ve repeatedly said before, I just wanted to put my f%*#ing thoughts down.

But I’d hate to be misunderstood. Clicking Like and commenting on other blogs should be practised with more caution I guess. I like reading so much though – ditto for appreciating good prose and the writer’s corresponding prowess. You see, I take pleasure in reading – a thousand times more than writing itself.

Because of time constraints, I admit to regularly following only around three to four bloggers. I’m not the kind of person who needs an array of people to cheer me up. If something in my life works well, I tend to stick with it until the end of time. Same goes for food, jobs, friendships, hobbies, relationships, etc. The fewer the choices, the better for me. Why am I always guilt-stricken when I receive a Like from a co-blogger? For the reason that my present state of affairs can’t allow me to reciprocate or accommodate them all. Shame on me. I do hope to add more blogs in my Follow list as soon as more elements in my lifestyle permit me to.

There remain quite a few things I wish to write here. I’ve chickened out for some time because I’ve come to feel more shy. The fact that I am no angel, committed heavy mistakes in my past, and my life hasn’t been that phenomenal, I worried about what my fellow bloggers might think. It’s a cop out I know. I need to do what I’ve set out to do.

I remain in awe of this blogging world we hope to inhabit for eternity. But it seems both my heart and mind have a lot to learn still.

The woman you see and know here and whose words you read on the pages of this site is no different from the woman that I am at my side of the globe. If ever you find the fancy to offer a handshake, my sole request could only be: Do it warmly; make it every bit as true as the loyalty and friendship I’m willing to extend – in all sincerity. I won’t ask or need anything else from you, my fellow bloggers.

Just please don’t let me settle for less.


A Letter To My Son (This Life’s Sweetest Gift)


In all honesty, I thought I was going to die while laboring in that maternity hospital twenty years ago. Braving pain has never been one of my virtues. I was told in my younger years that giving birth would have me screaming for mercy to all the saints up in heaven. Well, how right they were. Nothing could be further from the truth. But then, during those fateful moments when I was on the verge of bringing you out into this world, Life was also about to bestow upon me its sweetest gift.

I am certainly not a paragon of an outstanding mother. One of the chief purposes of this blog is for me to come clean about being just another average living soul who goes through life with no immunity to life mishaps and who keeps on committing monumental mistakes along the way. A broken soul with deep flaws who conceals emotional scars in order to move on gracefully. A single mother who’s got perpetual misgivings over her parental skills. Someone who has had shortcomings too disconcerting to disclose here.

I never had much chance to narrate my life stories to you. But I’m sure you already know me very well. We’ve been through a lot. There are no more indispensable secrets left to be told. You’re the only person I’ve allowed to see me crumble when confounded by job intricacies or business problems that threaten to annihilate our livelihood. There’s been more than a few occasions when you find me with nary an ounce of emotional strength to cut the Gordian Knot on pressing matters. Not to mention the agonizing affairs of the heart that has had your mother trudging in the dark. Oh how I wish there remain certain things I let unknown to my son.

Surprisingly, you’ve turned out to be a magnanimous person. Your unassuming manners, your ingenuous way in dealing with life, the way you handle crisis with better equanimity have all rendered me proud and in awe of you. People have told me they just couldn’t find a mean bone in your body. Time and again I get concerned by your innocent grasp of this literally mischievous world we live in, fearing you might get taken for a ride. With absolute certainty, I profess that you are a far better human being than I could ever be. What made me deserve this much felicity for having you as my child?

Your mother has not been the religious type for several years now yet you managed to find your way, cultivating and maintaining a healthier relationship with God far more than I have. You even told me half in jest long ago you had wanted to become a priest, which got me responding with apprehension “No no.. You’ve got to get married and give me grandchildren! I desperately look forward to seeing my grandchildren with you.”

A husband I can do without. You already discerned that about your mom. You also never had a real father figure as you were growing up. It has been only you and me all these years, without another male figure majorly factoring in our lives. I am happy you seem to have turned out fine. Very much fine in fact. You’ve also heard people keep on asking me ‘why not give marriage another chance?’ There had been times when I asked myself ‘why couldn’t things be just ideally right? Is it them or is it me really?’ The answer doesn’t matter anymore. A flagrant truth that took some time for me to face, I am not wife material after all. Taking into account my highly sensitive nature as well, tending to and loving a man who ends up not meeting the crucial touchstones just isn’t worth it. I find myself repeatedly on the losing side. Relationships entail hard work. It’s something I’d rather not devote my energy and heart to given the not so abundant time I have left. Please do not think though your mom has lost faith in the beauty of earnest love or relationships.

I guess you’d want to see me happy in love again. Through the years, you’ve witnessed my ups and downs in the name of romantic love. Romantic love is beautiful. Quite true. I want you to have that for good with the right girl someday. I’ve a feeling you’ll do far better in this department than I did because of your much more beautiful character. You simply deserve to garner the highest splendors of life.

You might not know this but I had wanted to give motherhood another chance long before reaching my 40th birthday some years ago. I seriously considered the notion of having another child for the more important reason of giving you a brother or a sister. I worry that you’ll be alone when I’m gone. After serious consideration though, it dawned on me that that would mean complications to both our lives. You would have to help me look after your younger sibling who’s got a different father. Not a good idea. I couldn’t imagine putting you through such a circumstance. Besides, I wouldn’t want us to lose our prospects to take things a lot easier in our futures to come. No need to deny that. And you seem to be alright with the setup “it’s just you and me, kid’ I’m relieved.

Sometimes I wonder how we’ve reached this far and how things miraculously turned out okay for the two of us. We’ve made it through somehow. God has been really good.

Do you know the very best part of my day? Hearing your key unlock the door and seeing you quietly entering the house as I welcome you into my arms, thankful you’ve come home to me safe and sound.

Though our constant togetherness exasperates both of us at times, we’ve acted more like a team. On the whole, our simple life has engendered a certain kind of equilibrium that I hope has worked to your advantage too.

Our relationship is far from tumultuous although not without critical imperfections. I had wanted you to be different from your father and me. What a huge blunder on my part. Please let me explain.. Stuff that metaphorically crippled your parents for life is something I hadn’t wanted to pass on to you. The reason which could only be my desire to see you living a life a hundred times better than the one I have had. Conflicts ensued between us as a consequence. A weak cause and battle I must have lost even from the very start. It goes without saying there are things inherent in life that can never be altered.

The times when I felt your pain because I had hurt your feelings, I still remember. You shed tears you couldn’t hold back anymore. You love me that much I know. Let me ask for your forgiveness this time for all the anguish I had brought you. What you may not know is your pain caused me the harshest of heartaches too, for I’ve no desire whatsoever to lodge any disharmony between us. I wish I could go back in time to reverse my offenses and undo the hurt.

A long stretch of the future is still ahead for you. Many things are bound to happen in your tomorrows. One hard lesson we’ve got to carve in our minds and souls – there can be no sure thing on this planet. Everything is destined to evolve. Even our strong bond can be headed for a surprising transformation in years to come. Nothing is certain. It isn’t much different from the oversight of not choosing a better father for you. I honestly thought at that time ‘what could immensely go wrong?’

Such a fool was I then for not knowing any better.

But for now, I’m fully blessed to have you as the main person in my life. My emotional fulcrum.. and the truest love of my whole existence. Life without you is just unimaginable.

The stars will burn bright for up to millions of years, but no words can ever measure up to how much I want to hold you dear to my heart. And if there’s such a thing as forever, your presence is all I need to see me through.

Thank you for bearing with me.. Thank you for the joy of being your mom.

Thank you so much for the love you have given me.


July Babe Rhetoric (Coming Up Against a Brick Wall)

The rains have kept on coming. The rains that have never failed to mesmerize me seem to be taking up residence on my side of the globe. Still, these are the raindrops that hold promise to heal and cleanse the afflictions of my soul.

As usual, I can’t let go of this month without unloading here some stuff I’ve been lugging around. Hence, my July Babe Musings, or rather my July Babe Rhetoric.

I erased another of my oldest post again after finding out there’s one who managed to excavate the oldest remaining entry that features a beach photo with my totally unmade up face, together with my so-so bucket list. It isn’t a good idea. Deleting post archives I mean. But I got self-conscious considering that my writing efforts then had been quite minimal too. In all honesty, I get this urge every now and then to eradicate all of my prior posts.

It’s getting uncomfortable to have to watch what I say here. There’s a big difference between knowing who your readers could be and writing with faceless unidentified readers in the back of your mind. Because there are days when I simply want to blurt “Oh f*#k!” instead of “Oh great!”

Yes Scarlet, it gets tiring to be the proverbial good girl all your life.

Perhaps it’s time for a confession once again. When I try to ponder and see things more clearly, I can’t help but realize how many areas in my life are actually unmanageable. Or aren’t working well. There’s been a leak on the ceiling again, my teenee apartment badly needs some spring cleaning, I’ve neglected applying eye cream for weeks now, the mirror keeps reminding me how time can ravage all things corporeal, I don’t visit my ailing father that often, I can’t spend quality time with my child as often as I want to, etc. Sometimes it makes me wonder if I’ve been spreading myself too thin. And have I practically let the blogosphere eat away a sizable chunk of my time? Aaw, that’s excruciating to answer in light of the fact this special sphere has served me well as a welcome, intermittent release from my reality.

So what do I do?

Well, this is how I sail my ship to escape getting sucked into an abyss of the giant whirlpool. For the most part, I refuse to acknowledge the things that might assist on pulling me down. I mean matters that are beyond my control I do my best not to dwell on. It could have been a key element to my survival. It’s good that my job and other things mundane have been keeping me grounded for quite some time now. They’ve become a crucial force that shoves me to continue putting my one foot in front of the other.

Should I therefore strengthen the tenets that are meant to be held dear? I am not sure. The thing is, I’m just as uncertain and apprehensive of the present and the future as everybody else. I’ve still no possession of any magic formula for keeping afloat. Even with all the things I’ve learned, there are days when all I ever want is to curl up in bed, close my eyes, and sleep with the rays in the light of day.

People around me have been wondering if I’ve been keeping them away at arm’s length. It could have been a misconception on their part or they might be right to a certain point. Maybe I’m simply trying to home in on the things left that I want to do with my life. My time on this planet is getting shorter. I’m not a very sociable person as well. I tend to feel lonely in a large group. I thrive better in smaller groups. But the few people who managed to get close I have clutched dearly inside me. Sometimes to a fault.

My thoughts can’t help but fall hostage to my emotions. Passion has this power to consume my whole being, with a dash of drama magnifying on its own tailing behind. How many times have I released my heart out into the wild only for it to seek the path of least resistance to unmitigated rupture? How many times have I tempted fate by giving this heart away? What do I do when mellow sensibility refuses to go hand in hand with a reckless spirit? Call me quixotic, call me impetuous. I could have been misconstrued and deemed impractical. Or illogical even. Needless to say, I could act only within the vicinities where my affections reside. Never with an ax to grind.

People take for granted the opportunity to be able to float in the air of freedom, where everything feels light. A respectable degree of liberty from the leash of sentimental bonds can be soothing. I have always longed for that. Oftentimes I simply want to take on the spirit and essence of the quiet. Nothing to ruffle the calm.. in between states of mind..

But just when I think I’m ready to leap and swim my way in the sea of serenity, something will come up from behind to snatch me from my stance. Do they know I have been waiting for this shot in tranquility for a long time?

My autonomous veneer has served as a smokescreen for my bashful soul. What people don’t know about me is I crumble easily.., and in silence.., coz I’m such a baby when it comes to pain. Venturing into the meadows of uncertainty could as well only tighten the tethers that bind me to heartache. How can I possibly take back any scintilla of power that gets hurled out the window after my feelings have compelled me to follow their commands? How can I extricate myself sooner from the shackles of wretched emotions?

How can I trust love again and again when most of what I’ve learned of it has only ever hurt me?” A rhetorical question that brings forth a cemented wisdom from one of my most favorite bloggers. He has always known how his sometimes unruly mind can generate words of beauty like sprinkles from the sky. His every sparkling word I yearn to catch with my bare hands. My brain which at times is in danger of short circuiting when I try to grasp out-of-this-world rhetoric rolling down the pages of his site. Nevertheless, he renders me breathless.. Or I just literally fall off my chair. Every time. In a league of his own, he could be one of the best kept secrets within the confines of WP. I hope he never gets to be Freshly Pressed. Because I don’t want to have to jostle my way to a crowd just to click Like on his post or make a comment. I know, I know. That’s a bit selfish on my part. But a touch of exclusivity has never lost its appeal to me.

And then, there is this other fellow.. This one who brightens me up with his grace, pragmatic intelligence and wit. I wonder if I’ve become a bundle of contradiction here once again. But oh, how I lie in glory with the feeling at times..

What do I do when I’m currently mooning over someone who also happens to be breaking my heart?

Go with the flow of inspiration I was once told.


To my beloved Muse, You who helped me carve out my own truth. For you who could see past the secrets of my soul. In ether or on earth, my thoughts can only fly out to where you are..