Love Isn’t Always On Time and Things I Wish I Had Known

Caution to probable male readers: This is not for the faint of heart. I had flicked off a few of my blog buddies, one by one, just to be able to write posts like this. But then, I suddenly found myself earning a new set of dude pals because I just couldn’t help myself from clicking Like on your impressive blog posts. Now I may have another batch to flick away – soon. 😀


Nobody in my childhood and teen years had hammered to my awareness the value of enriching the mind. I was raised in a household that glorified good looks more than cerebral strength. Same as to the necessity in complying with societal norms; Everyone should get married, have children, try to live happily ever after.

In the recent past, almost everybody never gets tired aiming these questions at me: “You aren’t seeing anyone anymore? Do you realize how much you’re missing out on not having a man?”

If the inquisitor is a female, it’s tempting to bounce back with: “You know, you’re just too dull to cultivate any hobbies instead of immersing yourself with the crap your man throws your way.”

If it’s a man, it would be lovely to imagine myself blurting out: “@s$h*l*.”

But I try to manage with a smile. Sometimes my counter goes like “Eh, they’re all the same” — although it may prompt me to run for my life afterwards. 🙂  My safer candid reply has come down to, “If only it was that easy to hook up with anyone for hooking-up’s sake.” 

Look, I’ve been through all that – young love, sweet romances, affairs, marriage, matrimonial dissolution, dating, younger men, etc. They entirely sum up to an unfortunate truth: I wasted too much of my precious time on men.

Don’t get me wrong. I do like men. No, to be precise, I love men. They’re fabulous friends, buddies, helpers, acquaintances, entertainers, co-workers, bosses, business partners, etc. I am grateful for having them around.

And I still get crushes: I blush helplessly in front of a ridiculously handsome, humorous, charming man; glance surreptitiously at the hottest-looking guy inside a 7-11 store; fall off my chair (out of admiration) reading well-crafted blog posts of interestingly (emphasis on the term interesting) intelligent men. I may be jaded, but I’m not dead.

In the actual romance department, though, it’s undeniable men are fantastic only during the early stages — best to enjoy them while they’re still into you, I mean. Subsequently, things inevitably turn downhill.

Before I forget, the words sharp and “very wise” have also been used to describe me.


The highest number of responses I garnered came from my “opus” — — which received mild criticism from one or two co-bloggers who told me I had been merely lashing out for all the romantic blows I took in the past. Partly true, I guess. Even so, my major issues remain: Why do women generally have to come out as the pathetic gender in the sphere of love? Why are they willing to swallow a massive nutty pile of bullshit from their partners just to duck the prospect of being alone, at least, for a while?

Unless you were fortunate to have ended up with the person The Gods of Heavens had matched you up with, sustaining a relationship would be a lifetime of struggle. Especially for the woman who’ll always be on the losing side by reason of her cultural status and emotional constitution. Why has jumping through hoops always been the woman’s task?

The principal cause of men misbehaving happens to be us, too. We women let them get away with unacceptable behaviour. Then we feel dreadful and disgraced for having allowed the mistreatment.

All around me I see only couples who simply go on enduring the company of their better halves for whatever reasons. They aren’t happy, either. A greater number are even tons unhappier than the unmarried ones. And there’s this thing I have noted as well: The inevitable crisis of growing old could tame some men and make them behave better, or finally results to them becoming improved, docile mates. Nevertheless, what kind of woman would be willing to wait that long?

Loneliness is likely the no-joke repercussion most single women can’t bear going through. As for me, I don’t feel the type of loneliness these women are straining to dodge. Honestly. Maybe I’m finer flying solo. Or perhaps, for mysterious reasons, it just doesn’t bother me. The conformists will, however, always have something unpleasant to say to my case and argument.

I watched an Oprah episode on man-woman issues ages ago that had one man asserting, “Most often (for us), it’s all about right timing.” The rest of the men in the audience nodded. It’s that simple. I wish I had known that in my much younger days. I wish all women knew that. So they wouldn’t have to shed all those tears and keep jumping through hoops which are undesirable corollaries to the “privilege” of staying as the other half of a couple.

To my mind, still, that man’s sentiment is a brown nutty pile of bullshit.


I couldn’t think of a better title for this post other than the the words “love isn’t always on time” from the lyrics of “Hold The Line,” my favorite from the band Toto. The song says it well: It’s never really about what the woman does to keep a man. Please get that, my fellow gals.

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.


August Babe Musings

Heavy rains have finally come to an end. Not exactly a fan of the sun, I’m relieved it has come up today to say hi to my land.

This past two weeks I lived through the most rain our city capital has seen in the last 20 years. You know that when it rains here, it jams. Automatically. That’s just the way it is. So you can imagine the staggering cost the recent non-stop monsoon has inflicted upon us.

What else could possibly be scary to me other than the massive flooding? Lightning bolts and thunderstorms. Especially when I’m outside walking on the street. Every flash that strikes makes me feel like it had missed me by just a few feet. Really. The Gods certainly have found a way to castigate me for my past misdemeanors.

Work had been cancelled last Tuesday due to the subsequent deluge. I decided to stay away from the TV to avoid the 24/7 play by play description of the calamity taking place which could possibly erode my spirits. Instead, I watched a couple of my favorite movies. “My Best Friend’s Wedding” is definitely one of the films I don’t mind watching again. Charmingly sappy and cute. “Spiderman 2” is another, what with (Kirsten Dunst) Mary Jane’s version of the runaway bride at the end of the movie, her face blissful in love as she races down the street in her long white gown, escaping from her wedding ceremony so she could surrender into the arms of her true love Spiderguy Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire). Now that’s what I call pretty romantic.

By the way, dear mister, long gazing out the window can be an enchantingly poetic scene I believe. And given the right blend, melodrama can be stunning.

So are lots of tight embraces and fervent kisses. Definitely sweet.

Ok, I’m probably all feelings with no choice but to revel with who and what I am. I am a woman, demmit.  🙂

That’s fancy talking here once more.

Sometimes I feel guilty of slamming words out in the ether only to wish I could take them back afterwards. Initially I figured they won’t probably stick anywhere because we are essentially in a vortex of virtual reality here. If there’s a hard truth I’ve learned in this cyber planet we share, it’s that whatever’s been written can only be taken for its face value. But who am I kidding?

Me and my silly mouth.. or rather my reckless fingers for having typed something rash can be a trouble in the making.

Under no circumstances am I trying to make things happen for profession of such silly nothings, believe me. My general reputation for reticence and passivity can attest to that. Sometimes, I am merely steeped in the sensation and beauty of the moment. I may sit giddily with my heart throbbing on my sleeves, my eyes probably twinkling brighter than the stars above.. Or I can forever be under a spell of a lovely, century-old locket I’m holding which has the power to transport me back in time.

bunch of dainty, nice smelling flowers left in our ladies’ room the other day

My dealings here have been quite limited I admit. It’s never been my style though to invite people into my life and then proceed to show them I hardly have time to accommodate them in my schedule. I certainly don’t get it when someone does that to me. It’s so easy to tell when the person does things with me half-heartedly.

So my resolution: I will only handle what I can afford to. No biting more than I can chew.

And I still hope that in the end, things get to round up as a blessing in the skies. I mean, blessing in disguise. (Sheesh, what made me say that?!)

Shucks! Reality sucks! 🙂
Perhaps I deserve some reprimand for spending too much time with the computer again. Darn #%@! I really do like it here. Nothing relaxes me better than surfing, opening other people’s sites and reading, until my eyes have had enough and my bed starts its siren call luring me to surrender to it. I guess I’d better do something else to wean myself away from my beloved netbook. Like take my cat out for a walk. Or visit my loquacious Aunt Ida who lives in the other side of the town. Or go out try drinking the night away with my beer-loving students.

Nah. I think I’ll simply settle with my cute feline friend that adores me come rain or shine.

C’mon, dear Kitty, let’s go out for a walk.


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..


Writers’ Take On Passion In Literature Of Modern Times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Father of My Son

This one I’ve been meaning to write for a long time for the benefit of my son who never knew much about his father. It’s been more than 10 years since we last saw him. I believe I owe my son this post. He’s 20 now and perhaps, if he’d come across this piece in the near future, he’d already have acquired more awareness to discern some of life’s complexities and thus be able to understand more or less what happened in our past.

My son and I never talked much about the man who was once a huge part of our lives. Vague and hazy memories are all he’s got. We reckon we’ve got more important things to do than talk about the man who extricated himself and took the easy way out by totally disappearing in our lives. Nonetheless, I believe he deserves to know some things about his Dad, and our history together as a couple.         

There have been more than fine memories I still keep of the one I married and loved for ten years. We met at work when I was still hacking it out in the accounting field of the international firm Data General Philippines. Quiet and reserved like me. Practical minded. Unassuming. Passionate and sweet. That’s my ex-husband, whose personality isn’t different from the shrinking violet that I am. And somewhere between our 20s and silly eccentricities, we fell in love. Once upon a time.

Apart from him, I’ve never been loved as much by any other man or received as much romantic ardor and affection. I remember the heady days when he’d call to ask me to meet him up so we could simply take a stroll around the neighborhood hand in hand.

He could cook and was the one who whipped up various dishes for our meals (I never liked cooking by the way), and he took care of me at certain times when I got sick.

I also remember during a particular lean time in our finances when we met out of the blue one morning outside my parent’s house. I told him I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet so I was feeling hungry. He proceeded to search for the last remaining coins inside his pockets to buy me pieces of bread that I could munch on from a nearby store. I believe the bread got tastier then because of that particular display of caring he had shown me.

We’d also hang around inside the mall until late at night when the movie clerks stationed outside would finally go home and we’d run and sneak inside the movie house, giggling all the way, to watch the movie for free.

Certainly a few memories I’ve treasured of our simple fun and sweetness as a twosome.

Every weekend, we would meet in his sister’s rest house located in a peaceful suburban village and spend the whole day basking in the glow of our love for each other.

Good times, good times..                  

Months of passionate trysts on end went by until one day I mysteriously got sick. It was aggregated by a high fever for a couple of days, some vomiting and just feeling terrible.

My sister asked me pointblank, “Are you pregnant?”

“Of course not!” was my quick and bewildered reply.  Honestly, that probability never entered my mind but I soon rushed to him and together we proceeded to the nearest maternity hospital for some test.

Result: Positive. OMG..

We had been careful and did our best to follow the calendar method. How could it have happened?  

We weren’t ready for anything like parenthood and responsibility yet. We weren’t even sure we were truly the Right Ones for each other.

In the end, we decided to have the baby and got married in a civil ceremony. The officer who performed the rites joked about my ex-husband’s cold hands after shaking hands with him. Only his brother and aunt had been present to serve as witnesses. Oh by the way, he belonged to another religion.

Looking back, difference in religion could have factored considerably in the demise of our marriage. I am a Catholic, though not a practicing one. His family had been generations-long members of the second most powerful religion in our country that has been considered quite clannish and tribal by many. They have repeatedly asked me to join their Church. All I managed to do was attend and sit out at some worship services and that was it. I guess you all know by now, I can’t possibly bring myself to do or join anything that doesn’t feel natural for me.

In the course of time, he managed to make one thing quite clear. His mother and siblings would always come first. My son and I could only come second. He reasoned they needed him more. I guess he inferred his immediate family was more of a sure thing in his twilight years than my son and I combined. He could have also realized I was capable of bringing up our child on my own after all. That fact apparently granted him the audacity to pursue his own goals that don’t include my son and me.

He worked in the Middle East intermittently as a contractual electrical engineer. But everything he earned went to his family, that is, his mom and siblings. I’ve always been capable of earning my own money so I didn’t ask for his share, though I got increasingly frustrated that he didn’t make any attempt to pitch in. How come there was no way for me to detect these ominous elements earlier in our relationship?

As time went by, our stark differences took a more profound shape as well. It’s like we each belonged to disparate worlds. Our dissimilarities in choice of leisure activities became more pronounced. He branded my tastes in TV programs, movies, reading and music as being uppity and was never able to relate much to the literary leanings I had had.

I guess he had wanted me to share in the glee with the things that gave him amusement. I tried but couldn’t be genuinely upbeat doing it. A huge stone of discontent had come to lodge in our relationship as it slowly dawned on both of us how different our preferences were in many ways.

There could have been recognition too on his part that I’m not that much of a wife material, the kind that he needed in his life. Perhaps I might have been the wife that made sense only on paper but not from day to day in its domestic essence.

To his credit, he had been faithful in the years we were together as husband and wife. I never had to confront with the perils of infidelity or grappled with a skirt-chasing husband during our union.

Before our marriage completely came unglued, we got to see less and less of him until he drifted away for good. There was not even a final farewell from him.

That was a little more than ten years ago, when my son was barely 10 years old.

My son’s idiosyncrasies and occasional flash of outburst now is sometimes reminiscent of the man I once loved. Whenever that happens, I can’t help but go “Oh, it’s his father alright” in my mind. A father’s blood will run eternally in his child’s veins.

This is my side of the story. My ex-husband’s side will never come to light because I have a feeling we’ll never see him again. Whatever reasons he might have had for his unconscionable deed of turning his back on his son carry no weight upon me anymore. Besides, we’ve fared just fine.

 Maybe he’s in a very far away land now or, for all I know, he may already be in another dimension… There’s a chance I will never get to know for sure and frankly, I’m fine with that.

And so is my son it seems.


Verses of Love For All the Wrong Reasons

I decided to post here the mini-poems I managed to come up with late last week hoping it would make up for my failure to write some prose this past weekend. Three different collection of verses, namby pamby still but nonetheless coming straight from my heart.


Life isn’t fair at times

whenever I start to think of him,

This heart that longs for him painfully

as both time and this world

have long since conspired

never for us to meet.

What good is there

to have found him now?

How will he know

the depth of my love

when there’s not even a chance

that I can gaze into his eyes..

Never will I be able to hold his hand

Never can I touch his face

Never will I be able to pull him close to me

so I can wrap my arms around him..

Life isn’t fair at times

when no other man will do..

Consuming my thoughts

and everything that I am

He owns my heart forevermore..



When love befalls you for all the wrong reasons

There’s no way to choose who your heart will ache for

And if fate would summon me to love him in another time,

By all means will I do so without asking why..  



Something in the rain

has touched my memory

a vision I must have dreamed

from the past.

It made me stop and stare

and then I lost him

Was he even really there?

Though I needed it the most

I must have been afraid of getting close,

So it seems my life has been spent

waiting for that love,

But when it comes

I tend to turn and walk away..


Music Babe Stuck in the 70s & the 80s

As its never-ending enthusiast, I believe music is the ultimate art that moves the world. A talent for making beautiful music could only be the works of blended cosmic events above. A wonder that somehow exists beyond my reach, artists of this kind are the most gifted and the luckiest beings to have graced our planet.  

I’d venture that what I am today has a lot to do with my love for this highest form of expression. A genuine BFF of mine during solitude, it has played a huge role in my life and mental felicity. It can also mirror the depth of my sentiments, a reflection of emotional sincerity and verisimilitude that flows from inside of me. Hearing a favorite song from my past can hurl me back to my younger years with nostalgic wistfulness that never fails to provide pure rapture.

The 70s and 80s were the golden era of music. Not that crazy about country and jazz though, my musical taste varied in different genres.

As a young girl in the latter part of the 70s, I’d hole myself up with either a hi-fi stereo cassette player or the radio listening to my favorite sounds of music, while my popular sister whom I shared the bedroom with hugged the telephone lines in our living room. Paul McCartney would croon me with his ballad “My Love”, or I’d listen to Keith Carradine strum the guitar and render his unforgettable “I’m Easy”..

It’s not my way to love you just when no one is looking

It’s not my way to take your hand when I’m not sure        


I can’t put bars on my insides

My love is something I can’t hide

It still hurts when I recall the times I’ve tried..

–          “I’m  Easy” by Keith Carradine, 1976

One of the best mellow rock love song I’ve ever listened to begins with “ Love em and leave em / Give them the air/ Hurt and deceive them/ Say you don’t care.”  As a young girl who couldn’t easily assimilate the vocalizations of most English songs, I had scrambled to all the magazine stands searching for the songbook that contained its whole lyrics. Penned and sang by a band from Vancouver, the song didn’t get as big as it should have been in the US because it was released during the disco era. Stonebolt’s “I Will Still Love You” which manifests of inexplicable pure, unconditional romantic love also professes of undying devotion beyond logic and reasons from here to eternity. Beautiful.

Funny how reality often can’t match the splendor of love portrayed in some songs.

And there was this time when I tuned in to 99.5 RT, the only station here then that played American and British pop songs, the whole day for several weeks waiting for the DJ to play Benny Mardones’ cult hit “Into The Night”. It graced the Billboards in the early 80s only to come back to the charts a decade later to the delight of its fans once more (including myself of course).

In the 60s, my taste could only go as far as The Beatles and a few memorable classics. I believe the inclusion of synthesizers, harmonizers and other groundbreaking electronic sound enhancers at the start of the 1970s made a whole lot of difference to the sound of pop music.

My father introduced me to some musical great artists when one night he brought home long playing albums of The Carpenters, Santana, and Dionne Warwick, who originally sang most of the compositions of the Burt Bacharach/Hal David tandem. From that time on, I got hooked. “Do You Know The Way To San Jose?”,“ I Say A Little Prayer”, and “April Fools” were just some of my all-time faves that got me singing and humming before going to my class every morning in highschool.

By the way, I don’t sing very well. That’s a given. But I had my share of entertaining in another form in my younger years. Together with my siblings, I, in all my painful shyness, and sometimes in near tears yet armed with unspeakable bravado, provided entertainment per my mother’s nudge at every clan parties and gatherings by performing dance numbers. Preceded by numerous practice, my brother, sister and I would synchronize our moves to the grooving beat of Kool and The Gang’s “Get Down On It”, “Back In Love Again” by TLD, Billy Ocean’s “Caribbean Queen” and many others.

These days all three of us would laugh whenever we reminisce on what we call our Burn Baby Burn (Disco Inferno) era.

In hindsight, those times gave me a wonderful appreciation for disco music and the art of dancing, which I still carry up to these days. Growing up, my son has gotten used to seeing his mom dance whenever she hears a favorite dance tune.

As Casey Kasem’s baby during the late 1970s up to the late 1980s, Sunday afternoons had me glued to the radio anticipating the position of my favorite songs within the Top 40. Musical greats I had delighted in during those eras included The Eagles, David Gates & Bread, Elton John, Hall & Oates, Wham with George Michael, Ray Parker & Radio, etc. and yes, I was a fan of Madonna earlier in her career. Blondie with Deborah Harry, aside from their trip to the light fantastic rock tunes, had me desiring to copy her foxy fashion sense as well.

My favorites had also included one hit wonders like My Sharona by The Knack, Relax by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, Baby Come Back by Players, Keep On Lovin You by REO Speedwagon, etc. All deliriously worth listening to.

I felt kind of smug and cool for being up-to-date at that time when my country wasn’t as exposed to American and British music as it is now.

Surrounded by a profusion of these delightful rhythms and haunting melodies, I continue to bask on this no-fail panacea that certainly transcends time spans. Wasn’t it only yesterday when Andy Gibb slowly rocked his way into my heart singing “I Just Want To Be Your Everything? ”

Enrapturing my heart and soul combined, some songs I had imagined were written and meant just for me. To serenade me with their endearing melodies and the timeless beauty of their words. Indeed the finest luxury for my sentient spirit.

Music and me, no doubt, will stay together, till infinity do us part..


So the weary traveler

Tired of passing through

Stops to gain his bearings

And stays on to wait for you


When the moon disappears forever

And the sun shines electric blue

And the mountains and trees tumble into the sea

To rest there for eternity                    

No matter what you do

I will still love you..

–         I Will Still Love You” by Stonebolt, 1978


The First Of Its Kind Here

For this particular post, the first of its kind here which I had to write and finish in a span of three hours (whew, that was hard!), I’d like to thank John of John’s Consciousness who has always been kind to me and supportive of my writing endeavors. His writing ability happens to be one of the very best I’ve ever laid eyes on. He’s such an inspiration. What a guy!


First Boyfriend: As a freshman in university, I vividly recall sitting on the front in one of my classes, having a conversation with a classmate, while waiting for our professor to arrive (she did not). I heard whispers at the back some few feet away so I looked behind me and consequently saw four guys and a girl at the rear door talking, looking in my direction. The girl who happened to be the prettiest in our class started walking towards me. She sat down and asked if her friend could approach and introduce himself to me. I said, “Okay..”  A few minutes later, a cute, lean guy in stylish jeans and shirt who I’d never seen before (he was apparently my classmate too) courageously and in full view of the whole class sat next to me and began his introductions. I thought that was sweet of him. From then on, he started walking with me through the corridors and waited for me after my classes. We were “on” for about eight months before I broke up with him. Not a genuine relationship I admit. He had been real nice but I was so young then and very idealistic when it came to young love. I guess I gave him a hard time. Poor guy (thinking about it now).

First Person I Kissed: Well, it depends. My college boyfriend gave me a sudden “stolen” kiss on the cheek while we were hanging out in the school grounds one evening. And I kind of freaked out and got upset. I was 17. A kiss in whatever form was already a big deal for girls like me during those times. Silly me. Oh really Poor Guy..

My first real passionate kiss was at the age of 20 with a co-worker boyfriend in my first job. Inside his car, under the rain..

First Job: I was a fresh graduate of BS Accounting somewhere in the middle of the 1980s. One of our major newspapers today “The Philippine Daily Inquirer” was still in its pioneering stage. My uncle begged his former boss to take me in which led to my joining the daily newspaper’s administrative department. But I was such a dork during the first few months I really tested my boss’ patience with my lack of experience and ineptitude at work.

First Pay/What Did I Buy: I remember offering my first whole salary to my Dad. It was actually my Mom’s suggestion. To show him my gratefulness for everything he had done for me. I can’t remember now if he accepted it. But the gesture definitely made him happy.

First CD I Recall Buying: I bought two 45s simultaneously at a record store when I was still a gradeschooler. The first one was a song titled “Never Gonna Fall In Love Again” from guess who? John Travolta! The very first record I took fancy in after I saw him in the song’s promo ad on TV. He was still in his “Welcome Back Kotter” days and before “Saturday Night Fever” happened to him. I don’t like the song anymore though. It sounds corny to me now. The other one was Elton John’s love ballad “We All Fall In Love Sometimes.”, which I still like up to this day.

What Age Was I When I Moved From My Parent’s Home: During our late teens, my sister and I temporarily stayed in a boarding house so it would just be walking distance to our schools in the heart of the city’s university belt. Of course I finally moved out of my parent’s house when I got married so my ex-husband and I could try to work things out by getting away from our respective in-laws. 🙂

First Holiday Abroad: I’ve always been afraid of riding on an airplane. Yikes. But I finally managed to do it for the very first time six years ago when my son and I went to Hongkong. It was Christmas. Winter season. Beautiful city. Those were among the best days of my life.

Valentine Season Ponderings of Single Women Like Me

I hate to put out another sappy piece here but Valentine’s Day is coming around the corner and that gives me fair enough reason to write about love and men-my most favorite topics- once more. Yipee.

Please take note that I’m still resolute in granting my weary heart a sabbatical, which means I’ve no plan to put it on the line yet. Be that as it may, I find no reasons not to be happy. Life has been good recently and it still is.

To be honest, I’m not totally loveless on this special day. Aside from my son, there’s one in particular who’s gonna be so happy to see me and spend time with me. My cat. As soon as I get home from work, she’ll start following me around, making unintelligible sounds equivalent to saying she missed me the whole day, and then proceed to show me her undying devotion in her own feline ways. For sure, we’ll be having dinner together sharing a can of sardines afterwards. No kidding. Hey, it’s not that bad. I do love my cat. And some sardines can be tasty and delicious.

You know I put up this blog so I could start to chronicle my life’s narrative. The question is, am I ready to narrate to my dear readers my love stories of epic dimensions? (ho-ho, I’m exaggerating, of course) Nah. Maybe not yet. In the near future perhaps. But here’s the deal. Whatever you’ll learn about me and my past romantic misdemeanors, just promise you won’t report me to the nearest Police Love Station. Ok?

There’s one thing you should know about our race. We are widely known for indulging in the extravagance of our feelings and emotions. Crimes of passion are not extraordinary occurrences here. Only in this land can you hear of mortals actually willing to die for love, or surrender in all foolishness in the name of unmitigated, relentless ardor. How we revel in its sensations, never lacking in PDAs or ingenious ways to demonstrate our supposed infinite (?) affection for each other.  I have to admit that we sometimes find western movies on love lacking in dramatic embellishments. They’re a little flat and laid-back, in our honest opinion (sorry..). Our romantic films in comparison are intense, high-strung, oftentimes tempestuous, laced with intricate angles that twist and turn. That’s how we normally favor all things romantical here.

Freddie Mercury of Queen sang about this crazy little thing called love, remember?   

And there are times too when I liken this whole notion of love to an inconceivable dream. You try to reach for the stars and in certain magical moments, you feel as though they’re already within your grasp. Just as you’re about to touch one, you plummet back to earth and crash down explosively in unfathomable fashion. It’s as if we aren’t meant to mingle with the brightest in heavens, after all..

Alright, alright.. Before I lower the curtains on this entry, I’ll confess to keeping someone somewhere in the outskirts of my heart for this particular Valentine. Not so much on the romantic sphere though. But I consider this person special to me because he inspires me in a good sense with his gracious manners, erudite mind, elegant writing style and flawless grammar. Don’t dare ask me who he is or I’ll turn tail and flee. Comprende?

Happy Valentine Season, dear readers!