you make me want to write
about love, and
that,
alone,
makes you a
dangerous
thing
– Irally Cariaso
Everything about him was poetic. not in the sense that he wrote down beautiful words but in the sense that he was the beautiful words. the way he moved captivated me and held my attention like his life depended on my focus being completely on him or else he would slip out of existence. the way he spoke struck anger into my soul. the way he breathed filled me with a profound and explainable sadness and longing. he looked like hell but at the same time he looked like the closest thing to heaven I could have ever imagined. he was sloppy words scribbled onto a pale sheet of paper by hands shaking from a lack of sleep and too much caffeine at 2:14 am on a Tuesday. he was the most beautiful thing to have ever come into my life and having my heart shattered into a million pieces by him was devastating but it left me breathless. – Becca Collier
We revel on endless discussions over the beauty love brings to our beings; the luxury of more than enough words to epitomize the feeling. Everything sweet sweet sweet.
It’s why people like you and me have since been hurting. We think we have it that we may be able to give to others in a breeze; we can’t be more wrong. The brokenness could be severe, or the wound way deep.
We get uncomfortable upon awareness of strands that might soon string us. Anything longer than two weeks? My my. And no, no conditions please.
The vision is worth it, isn’t it? But who gets to know? Not me. What do I know about life and love. I’ve had four decades to show how I’ve erred on such areas repeatedly.
We’ll always be here nonetheless. A lifetime is spread wide to describe something that’s constantly out of reach. Here in this cloistered sphere where we hide,
where we connect continents into the shape of a heart; where we dream up characters we can romance and lose and resurrect; where we write beautiful long dearest letters that are subconsciously meant for ourselves. Words instead of love… for the difference is sometimes imperceptible. It’s easier adopting the lingo of a yearning soul.
Interpretations can be addicting; It’s what we do to combat the emptiness of our ways,
against the mirror which keeps reflecting the man or woman who cannot teach or reteach themselves the true meaning of love.
Pretty unexpected of me to say this, yes. Somehow it’ll dawn it’s not quite surprising; we knew all along but wouldn’t risk making it apparent to others.
Maybe we’ve run into some possibility from time to time; a someone we can imagine watching rainbows with for the rest of our years. We then get excited; until corners of dissatisfactions begin pulling us aside once more. Deep in our hearts we already know: No imperfect stranger is really welcome. Not to a solitary place within that’s long been guarded. The mark is in the palm of our hands — nobody is ever good enough. We deem ourselves that impeccable.
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.
A day for tinted roses, soft words, thoughtful prose, and tender songs. Most of them I still find either lovely or silly cute.
From across a window with glows of tiny moonbeams infusing my home, an air of sweetness has honored one faint white line.
I fancy the language of gentleness within my own heart — that my blog has, in sooth, become a true love of mine.
*
Most Favorite Love Song When I Was A Young Girl
An apathetic fraction of me asserts romance novels and songs like this must be held accountable for womenkind’s desolation from then till now. But it’s Valentine’s day and, as always, this memoir must hold true to my every remembrance.
I recall quite a sunshine across a vibrant sky whenever I hear this song. Oh so so young I was – around eleven years of age – and dreamy… singing while unbelievably convinced by forevers and of undying love. 🙂
– geena, feb2016
a beautiful lake in Jungfrau, Switzerland; photo taken by me in 2014
So the weary traveler, tired of passing through,
Stops to get his bearings, and stays on to wait for you,
Because nobody can break out from the digestive process of this feeling our whole lives. Certainly not me.
Destitute in spirit, I’ve given out my love and care in unlikely places where they’ve been needed and I’ve let the warmth of that knowledge enfold me.
But I’ve also wandered over emotional fires where I’ve soon begged for raindrops to fall onto my face. I’ve no want for anything murky, punishing, unequal nor untrue anymore.
I’ve to unravel this part of me that isolates such uncertainty. This part of me that fumbles across a barrenness that barely retrieves my understanding.
Who is this woman, and how has she grown past her wounds?
All I see is the girl whose face is turned upwards with arms outspread wide waiting for the flames of sky to claim her.
Wild in affection. Deep in love. My heart. My soul. This paradise.
A cliché. A song with the same title she even deems fairly unappealing. But the title, the line “what I did for love” speaks true of her past.
She used to be the young woman who had dreamed there was a kind of love worth dying for. The young maiden who, as a child, hadn’t felt the mandatory loving atmosphere at home that she tried to find it from men who might have perceived, or not, the pleading tone underneath “Can you put me foremost in your heart?” But she’s probably one more of the countless women wanting of the right amount of self-esteem nearly all their lives. A woman true to form who’s unable to apprehend the ground around her.
“How dare he hurt me this much. I’ll never speak to him again.” Next thing she knows, her feet could only lead her to where her heart is. Scenes from a movie where after a knock on the door the man opens it to find himself face to face with his woman—not too long after a quarrel—in despair and in complete surrender: That’s her.
But for dreamers like her, true love simply remains beyond reach.
“I’ve come to know the bitter taste of being with a man who could only crush my soul.”
*
In a dream, I’m slowly walking through a fog. My eyes catch the view of a young woman, not too far away, quietly crying. The fog thins out as I get closer – only to reveal that the young woman is me from a long time ago.
A most difficult sight for me to hold onto; I begin to speak, “Don’t let your heart take on this inconsiderable load. There’ll come a day when you can’t even remember how and why you felt this strong. Please. Value your heart more.”
She looks back hard at me and all I see is the face of a young woman consumed by passion that spurns suppression coming from her temperate mind. She isn’t dumb not to comprehend the wisdom of what she’s just heard. Still, she commences taking a step away from me so she can be on her way – to the arms of the man who has been the core of all those tears.
In my last attempt to compel her to sensibility I seize her arm to stop her. “It isn’t worth it. Not for any man who’s causing you this much pain.”
She, of course, struggles to break free from me and walks away.
*
Sometimes I ponder if at this stage in my life I am no different at all from the girl I used to be. A frightening notion. Petrifyingly shameful, to be precise. At a period when the gates of love are in need of the right warrants. At a period when serenity is the sine qua non the sky must bring to me.
There are truths that will in time become as clear as sea.
During my early blog reading days, I came across a few ladies who had been writing love poetry — in their forties and onward. Bemused and amused, I thought no way could it happen to me. But time moves on and perspectives change. Well, it’s still the month of February and I don’t want to miss this chance of being able to compose something that’s so close to what I may be comprised of: All feelings, a silly heart, and not much else.
**********
Tale of the drifter, the loner… of someone who has yet to write her life certainties — barreling along an emptiness which fuels her boldness.
What future can she find in your own dreams? She’s been a prisoner for some time, shackled by a guilt pieced from her own blood.
Another lifetime can take you and her to another world, and reasons nor rhyme would flow in haste.
But love springs on her own terms, with ideals as delicate as of a nun taking her vow.
It can’t be love if there has been no pledge of faithfulness; It can’t be love if a promise of forever isn’t whispered by both hearts.
But both have become pawns from across the margins of time.
When the moon has called her back to you on a quiet evening, she begins to lace a bond that will make it all worth remembering. And you take her by the hand, you enfold her in a careful embrace, while feeling the night through the gentle demise of your own affections.
One beautiful headstrong woman; Three exceptional men who want her.
Her name – Bathsheba Everdene. Why Thomas Hardy named her heroine as such is beyond me. Furthermore, he describes her in this manner:
A girl with peculiar vernal charm; An Elizabethan in brain and a Mary Stuart in spirit.
In modern terms, he’d probably describe her, too, as having spunk and oomph.
Now let’s get to the men who locked horns for Bathsheba’s love:
Gabriel Oak – a farmer and shepherd, penniless nonetheless; “A young man of sound judgment, easy motions, proper dress, and general good character”; In other words: the good guy.
Sergeant Francis Troy – the playboy soldier; Handsome and exciting; the kind girls swoon for. “He could be one thing and seem another. For instance, he could speak of love and think of dinner at the same time.” Spelled out with better clarity – the bad guy.
Mr. Boldwood – another farmer, though more well-to-do and respected; A man whose constitution is somewhere between good and evil. Beware: he can get really weird in the name of love. To put it more bluntly – a stalker and looney in one.
Romantic chaos and true love which all took place in the beautiful rural area of Weatherbury
The Story:
Bathsheba, a poor, pretty girl suddenly inherited her uncle’s farm and started proving to everyone a female honcho can be competent in the business of agriculture. She employed her former suitor, Gabriel Oak, in the process as her right hand: The man whose simple love and devotion toward her was unparalleled.
By reason of a careless flirtation, she also caught the attention and affections of a rich farmer, the stoic Mr. Boldwood. He became obsessed with her and pursued her relentlessly. But in the middle of it all, head-spinning romance overpowered her good senses after her encounter with the new guy in town, the dashing Sergeant FrancisTroy – who had had an intermittent relationship with another woman of lesser means. The name of Bathsheba’s indigent rival: Fanny Robin.
Our heroine eventually married the cunning playboy soldier. Fanny died while secretly bearing Troy’s child. The sergeant, heartbroken by the death of his true love, disappeared and was presumed dead. Boldwood rekindled his hopes on ending up with Bathsheba. But Troy, out of dire straits, reappeared – more than a year later – to claim his right on his wife and her finances. Boldwood fatally shot Troy and was sentenced to life imprisonment. Bathsheba became a true widow then and finally realized it was Gabriel she couldn’t live without. She vowed to live happily ever after with him.
So there.
No spectacular plot twists nor thick story lines, are there? I’ve no problem, though, with the ending where Gabriel wins the girl. He finally deserves his cake after all. 🙂
Yet this book happens to be my most favourite classic so far because, for one, Thomas Hardy was strikingly Promethean in his expressions – way superb for a 19th century wordsmith. Take a look –
As Bathsheba starts falling into the hands of ladies’ man Troy:
Capitulation – that was the purport of the simple reply, guarded as it was – capitulation; unknown to herself. Never did a fragile tailless sentence convey a more perfect meaning. The careless sergeant smiled within himself, and probably too the devil smiled from a loophole in Tophet – for the moment was the turning point of a career. Her tone and mien signified beyond mistake that the seed which was to lift the foundation had taken root in the chink: the remainder was a mere question of time and natural changes.
On Boldwood’s unrequited love for Bathsheba:
She had been the very lung of his hope. He had felt the symmetry of his existence to be slowly getting distorted in the direction of an ideal passion. No mother existed to absorb his devotion, no sister for his tenderness, no idle ties for sense. He became surcharged with the compound which was genuine lover’s love.
If an emotion possessed him at all, it ruled him; a feeling not mastering him was entirely latent. Stagnant or rapid, it was never slow. He was always hit mortally, or he was missed.
Moreover, Thomas Hardy could dig deep into genuine human nature and psyche, as evidenced by the majority of his novels. To illustrate (using this novel) –
There is a loquacity that tells nothing, which was Bathsheba’s; and there is a silence which says much: that was Gabriel’s.
On Bathsheba’s torment over her feelings for Troy:
Bathsheba loved Troy in the way that only self-reliant women love when they abandon their self-reliance. When a strong woman recklessly throws away her strength she is worse than a weak woman who has never had any strength to throw away.
‘Loving is misery for women always. I shall never forgive God for making me a woman. I don’t know what I’m doing since this miserable ache of my heart has weighted and worn upon me so. Oh, I love him to very distraction and misery and agony.’ – Bathsheba
And lastly, the summation of the romantic relationship between Bathsheba and Gabriel:
This good fellowship – camaraderie usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love, which is stronger than death.
Hmm…Ideal and well said, I suppose. 🙂
Reading this classic by Mr. Hardy was worth every bit of my time.
the romance genre. The one I liked the most was derived admittedly from “
Bohemian Sentiments 