We Don’t Know How To Love

Yes. Our kind.

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.

And so on and on we keep going. On and on and on.

***

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Nobody Does It Better

My previous posts have expressed of my long-time aspiration to draft a romantic saga and I’m kind of banking on the pleasure I’d gain during the process. Penning fervent briefer tales (just for the heck of it) seems easier, though, and more fun; maybe it’s a project for me worth undertaking in the future.

Expounding on the technicalities of the carnal acts would be interesting and challenging for sure. How else would I be able to grow paragraphs from lines I came up with such as this:

At first their kisses had been tender, then they turned hard and fierce, but what surprised her was how he trembled when the moment began erasing limits that could prevent them from exploring one another.

Or this one:

…her soft but intense moans have stirred him to violate her further with his punishing tongue; the lust of the dark night later succumbing to their terrifying acts of love.

My favorite tagalog films I can count using my one hand; four of them belonging towuthering-heights-poster06 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. 🙂

hihintayin
My most favorite tagalog  film: “Hihintayin Kita Sa Langit”

My second favorite was inspired by Harold Robbins’ “79 Park Avenue”, a novel I had read and enjoyed immensely in high school; my third unforgettable film titled “Karma” was probably an original that told of an enduring devotion between two souls, spanning different generations through –hold your breath– reincarnation. Either the man or the woman would die due to murder committed by a third party yet both would cross another time to find and love each other again.

Our race has been known for indulging in the shindigs of feelings and emotions (I can say the same for Indians and Koreans if you ever have seen their lovey-dovey productions). It explains why crimes of passion aren’t extraordinary occurrences here. A filipino romantic film grabs you by the neck from across a tempestuous scene or is right through laced of twists and turns. Frankly, we find western movies on love somewhat lacking, not to mention a little flat and laid-back (sorry…). American love stories are “underdone” rather than “overdone”, a former blogpal had put succinctly. I remember my excitement prior to watching the high-grossing “Love Story” and thinking afterwards “That’s it? How boh-ring!” Although I was delighted in recognizing “The Notebook” and “The Thorn Birds” came close to our standards of an ardent flick.

Unfortunately, we go overboard with the hysterics, especially in recent times, and it rationalizes my current apathy for Philippine movies. They aren’t the way they used to be. Too much crying and yelling – I’ve no idea why. All I know is getting a load of such cinematic frenzy even as a form of diversion won’t be good for my essence.

Anyway, if my fiction writing plan ever turns into fruition, plenty of scenarios will inevitably spring from my own experiences. We’ll see.

I Just Want to Read and Write (2)

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wohow… How indescribably Oh.

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

shake the sky

 

This One’s For You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Let me watch you go with the sun in my eyes

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

Ode To A Beautiful Writer

My thoughts rise with the night

and you are the secret glow within

from where the light of these words flow

your sensibilities, your solitariness

the scars in your heart,

raw, ruthless, lingering

like the breath of a storm

that eases no tide against

the expanse of slumber, sorrow, or hope.

 

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

but then, no sky is bereft of its beautiful lightning

even the stars have become more captivating

when shining above the metaphor of your passions.

 

Still, I would want nothing

more than to see you heal,

lose the impulse that leads to your fall in spirit

as your sentiments and stories grow incandescent

when you walk between the streets of love and pain.

                 *********

– geena, january 2016

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Prepositions Plus Further English Matters That Cause My Downfall

You may have no idea how I end up getting buried under the weight of my wrong grammatical turns and past lexical errors.

Cranking out a blog post and doling out comments on co-bloggers’ sites can give me trauma when after pressing the Send button, I discover, to my terror, either a grammatical blunder or a spectral misuse of an English term. Hardly a way is there to take things back so the accompanying mark of shame could only follow me for years to come.

My attempts to work a few good expressions into my composition tend to backfire, moreover, with disconcerting regularity — as my adventurous nature continues to soldier on to my spirit for bold writing. You gotta understand, I’m a wanna-be writer.

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A previous blog pal’s sophisticated implementation had switched on my fascination for phrasal verbs, yet to this day I keep blanking out on their apt usage. He once wrote: “Play on, my friend.” Well, that one definitely made me scratch my head.

And please don’t start me with idioms: “Why keep flogging a dead horse?” (Seriously, why would anyone want to do that…to a lifeless horse?).

Nor should you remind me of the innumerable cases of redundancy in my blog posts which I’ve yet to find both time and expertise to mend.

When writing, I get in a bind inevitably as to my choice of prepositions. Let me give you a few examples: Should it be —prep6

on a street or in a street

on the beach or at the beach

angry at or angry with

at WordPress or on WordPress or in WordPress?

Then there are the prepositions I have tried to work into my compositions until I am literally blue in the face:

across, upon, along, beyond, amid

I believe they stylishly elevate your sentences by a few notches. Take an illustration:

A smile spread across her face.” — more tasteful compared to the prep “over,” don’t you agree?

Her reputation fell in value amid suspicion of her chicanery and promiscuity.” Amen.

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Perhaps I’d better enumerate my additional issues with the English language that keep consigning me into a vague degree of semi-literacy:

  • The use of would and could still boggles me the same way a nude dude should. (Hey, I simply aimed for some rhyme there)
  • Past perfect has always been painful for me. Because my past had never been perfect in the first place.
  • Relatives can indeed be a pain in the #%$. Don’t nod your head — I’m talking about relative clause and relative pronouns here.

An ESL teacher that I am for a neighboring Asian country, imagine my toil and the bunches of knots on my students’ foreheads the minute I spell out to them grammar jargons such as subjunctive, modals, infinitive, and gerund. Ouch.

I remember somebody once said to me, “Let’s chill out!” To which I replied, “Come again?” Yeah, like I’m supposed to be hip in catching all cool expressions.

I’d hate to admit there’s more to bring up with regards to my punctuation, idiomatic and vernacular boo-boos 😦 .  Maybe in the end, we could all agree it’d be best if I just scoot off to a remote island in Southern China and learn Cantonese instead.

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I am a poor, poor (old) girl. Nevertheless, I love singing along to this wonderful song “Rich Girl” by one of my fave artists of the 1980s — the duo of Daryll Hall & John Oates, who also happens to be the top act of the said decade. C’mon, sing this with me.

Reasons, Aims, and Bunkers (of this blog)

It was my son who set up this blog – this blog which would constitute the testaments of my being, both present and bygone. It was my hope my son would read its contents down the road so he’d come to know better the woman who had raised him, warts and all. Now that a fresh horizon has spread wide before him, it seems neither time nor interest on his part is going to allow that to happen. Thus, the stardusts from this side of my heaven are all mine to catch. This blog could only serve me — I might as well run wild and free in it. It’s a never-ending pleasure marshaling my thoughts, my feelings, my history, and seeing them crafted in words thereafter.

*****

I am not your typical blogger. For more than a month late last year, this blog went underground because I kept hopping over to a popular site to comment regularly for fun. Yet I felt uncomfortable for the attention my blog might attract – from just anyone. Yes my favorite bloggers’ stories and perspectives thrill me; belonging to a community, however, is another thing — I came to realize ages ago — as it hinders my aim for freedom of expression here.

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What’s the difference between you and me? Chances are, I know you more than you know me. The touchstone for my commentaries I made in your site could be a lot sounder — because I did read the huge mound of stuff you had earlier sent off to the ether.

One or two of my most recent commenters, neither of whom had even bothered to read my pieces, tried to cut me down by shoving me into a category they seem to look down on. There was sudden movement on my Stats (around six hits from probably different viewers) for one day. I will never know what else they could have said against me on their blogs. It’s something I have no plan to dwell on.

I stand by my every conviction — now and forever. I have held out these views even before I had chanced upon any of your blogs. It’s never been about anyone in this blogosphere. It’s no secret and no shame on my part admitting the things I write circle around me.

And neither your raves nor sympathy has ever been obliged. That had been made clear by me repeatedly. In as much as no smokescreen will be necessary — I have long grown tired of the people who can’t accept me for who I am, for what I am.

*****

I am no angel. For all I know, I may still be paying for my sins of yesteryears. Life could, furthermore, be penalizing me for feeling deeply.

I have less and less to lose as time goes by. The two most important people in my life have already slipped away. But I choose to keep staring at my fears and griefs in the eye, sans the succor of precarious diversions or any substance that only offers ephemeral ease. In the same strand I’ve no intention of losing my grip on the remaining good branches left. That’s how I deal with my personal storms. That’s how I value my life and myself.

The zero hour will soon find me and pummel me to the ground. Until then I remain as the kind I’ve always been known for.

As one of the last men standing.

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I am for aye a fervid fan of Burt Bacharach’s beautiful melodies. One of my favorites, April Fools, makes me muse over my affection for writing and this blog. This blog which I had considered giving up in many a recent time — but that the sentimental fool in me just wouldn’t let go.

It’s a song that begins with the words “In an April dream…

…little did we know, where the road would lead.

Here we are, a million miles away from the past, traveling so fast now…

No need to be afraid. True love has found us now.”