Transitions

Cookies in the mail II

2006-12-20T11:38:00.000-08:00

Dipped in milk for 6 to 10 seconds, this butter sandwich filled with semi-sweet fudge cookie is heaven to my midnight palate.

I came home last Monday to find an unexpected package at my doorstep. It didn't say where it originated. I couldn't distinguish the handwriting plus my maiden name was spelled wrong. I eagerly opened it, and there encased in the exactly measured cardboard box - an item wrapped in Christmas paper. Before I could even rip the wrap off, I noticed a picture taped on top of this mystery gift. Without any greeting or appending card, this symbolic signature came immediately familiar to me.

My monkey still knows how to be centered around his flower's aroma.... and palate.

I would...

2006-11-23T13:17:00.000-08:00

... fly ten thousand miles
In the pouring rain
Just to see your face
I'd bare my soul to a total stranger
Just to say your name
And I'm not ashamed

Just to love you into every morning
I would change my name
And run away

I won't do it for money
I won't do it for pride
I won't do it to please somebody else
If it don't feel right

But I'll do it for you
And at least I'll try
I don't need any other reason
Than I feel it deep inside

I'll Do It For Love

I would write your name across the sky
So the world could see
What you mean to me
I'd sing songs at the top of my voice
In an empty room
Just to dance with you

And to love you into every morning
I'll leave the world behind
And I'll slow down time

I won't do it for money
I won't do it for pride
I won't do it to please somebody else
If it don't feel right
But I'll do it for you
And at least I'll try
I don't need any other reason
Than I feel it deep inside

I'll Do It For Love

What I do for love can take us anywhere at all

- Hall & Oates

One family, a solid institution

2006-09-09T07:52:00.000-07:00

Broken family. This is typical cliche' among Filipinos. When parents decide to go separate ways (for varied reasons and conformed decisions), as a consequence their offsprings are confronted by the judgmental society of mostly conservative and double-standard groups or individuals as being "kawawa" (pitiful) or a product of a broken family.

I once dog-eyed and almost slapped a clerk at the DSWD (Department of Social Welfare and Development) office - while applying for some bullshit bureaucratic travel requirement for minor children - after this obvious ignoramus had blatantly referred to my daughter as kawawa. While this stupid process was going on, this woman asked questions pertaining to our family status, and ensuingly the reasons for mine and Ramon's (Paula's dad) marital separation. I retorted that it was not her business to know, but certainly in her interest to be a busybody, for sure!

I have repeated this tale many a different time to clearly make a point. Our children are not, and have never been a product of a broken family, and most certainly NOT pitiful. Although our marriage has been annulled (the legal process of separation that I personally and absolutely abhor because of inconsistency and hypocrisy), Ramon and I no longer husband and wife, we still carry the title of parents to our kids, thus our family remains and will always be.

For one thing, Monching and I have been separated now for 13 years. But estranged we are not. Throughout the years, Paula and her older brother Rael have been maintained conscientiously by us both. Even with opposing views and subjective opinions of family and friends, with their corny but understandable eternal hope - for the children's sake'- of a reconciliation, Monching and I stood fast in our commitment to love and care and continuously be there for our children while acknowledging our now separate lives and individual pursuits. Now extended with a daughter-in-law and two happy, healthy, and beautiful grandchildren, Monching and I flourish again, not just as content parents; this time as proud grandparents.

Family is defined by the American Heritage dictionary as: a. a fundamental social group in society typically consisting of one or two parents and their children; b. two or more people who share goals and values, have long term commitments to one another who usually reside in one dwelling. While the Filipino society may no longer consider our family as an institution following the dissolution of our marriage, indifferent to its dogmatic beliefs, the Rafael-Narciso family has created its own institution with our own set of rules, custom, practice, relationship, and behavioral pattern of importance in the lives of those who understand, accept, and love each and every one of us.

Recently, we made people smile as we shared the happiness of being together.

Now that's cliche!

Love Undefined

2006-05-30T00:11:00.000-07:00

I could see myself reveling in the rapture of this thing called love. The romantic in me would always find justifications and meanings to the call of a man’s affection and affectations. When he mouths those 3 precious words, I begin to melt. I turn into thin liquid, I lose my solid existence. But it doesn’t have to be that way. I don’t want to evaporate – which would render me atmospheric and therefore lose love’s presence. This thing called love truly exists. Or how else can we explain the narratives and never-ending use of it as the story’s nucleus?

For many years now, I have fallen in love. A gazillion times. I have lost them loves, too. In simplistic and exasperating account, I repeatedly evaporate into the atmosphere of my subject(s) of affection and affectation. The habits I have acquired seemingly guide (the) men to go the other way and find solidity. Ad infinitum, I do not learn the right way of the compounding preservation of loving and keeping a man.

My awkward predisposition is to expect that love is permanent; that no strong wind or disaster can move its place in a person’s heart.

“Because you love me, I can still be who I am. You may be irritated and dislike the behavior, but you still love me! How could you not??? If you didn’t, then you did not truly define love’s meaning,” my monologue presents.

How absurd and backwards can I really get?

By now I should know how to keep love in my heart. I wonder why despite my prophetic babble, I concurrently question its existence and bearings. Is it because I expect it to change its course, or differ from how strong or weak it was in the beginning? Must I measure its value and true meaning because I have never truly kept one alive?

Loving IS testy. I find the idea challenging and sometimes undefined. I also get trapped in my own fear of losing it. My anxieties have dictated the failed affairs of the heart, and no chemical solution(s) formulate a positive reaction.

A rule comes to mind: Don’t question it, and instead live and accept it. Regardless of how many times he tells me or not tell me, it needs to be established that it is there living in our world. Forget the rules and inclinations to want it perpetually, or even working day by day to enliven it. Just live it.

I simply need to relax, focus on the many features and the high quality these same elements combine in the natural science of my life. The universe or that of mine consists of limitless and sparing chemistry more than just love, utterly still…

Undefined.

A girl so distinct

2006-05-12T20:58:00.000-07:00

This is Paula. She is one unique child.

Paula was born in the kingdom of Brunei Darussalam; a small country hardly heard of especially in this part of the world, except to a few who recognize its ruler, the Sultan of Brunei - once richest in the world (and still contending). Yet, Paula does not and could/would not claim citizenship of that land.

She was born with perfect and contoured eyebrows anon to the beholders from the the moment I had spewed her out of my body - so discernible that the medical team thought they were creases or perhaps smudges from what primal matter that accompany the just delivered infant. Her head was dark with hair covering her entire scalp, and her skin russet. Now At 14, she still bears these features, more prominent to boot.

Paula is fondly referred by family as simply, "Pochay". The nickname was coined by her dad, Ramon who, like any other father, thought that she had a particularity. From where Pochay was appellated, nobody knows.

At 6 months old when we started weaning Paula with solid foods , it was not the jar babyfood Gerber oftentimes babies are conveniently fed that she appealed to. She liked the mashed and blended natural foods I prepared for her. They were beans, broccoli, chicken meat, rice, tomatoes, potatoes, and unusually enough, liver. Yep. She liked liver. And she still does.

Paula is nine years younger to her brother, but she has always followed his bearings. She seems to think she is his clone. She is not your typical girl who likes dresses and fanciful articles, instead she opts for t-shirts, long shorts, jeans, and her favorite Vans slipon shoes. She doesn't accessorize herself with jewelry or other paraphernalia, but has bought herself an electric guitar. She now owns two, the recent one a gift from a new friend. She continues to teach herself how to pluck, strum, and slide the instrument with her fingers, and has a song or two she has so far mastered. Alt rock songs: Green Day - her favorite band - songs.

Paula also takes her academics seriously, and has consistently maintained her 'A' mark. She does her homeworks in between watching the Filipino Channel's soap operas and snacking on her favorite sweet kernel corn. Oftentimes I would come home and find her still working on her Algebra, managing to solve the mathematical problems while watching the protagonist on the 'teleserye' (tv series) crying her heart out, and a bowl of corn alongside.

Puberty didn't convert her playfulness and fondness for toys. She has an eclectic collection of novelty items. Sometimes when I am taking a restful loll in my bedroom, she would nonchalantly come in wielding her Jedi light saber at me, while some days she would decide to dig into her collectibles, for instance assemble her eccentric and anomalous hats. She does not fail to remind everyone around her that she is a singular soul in her evolving adolescent self.

I could relentlessly characterize Paula for the daughter she is to me, the sister, the granddaughter, aunt, niece, cousin, friend to others in her life, but simply she is truly a paragon of distinctiveness and existence.

Hello and Goodbye

2006-04-12T22:45:00.000-07:00

I was 13 years old when I first heard Sergio Mendes & Brazil '66.
This song came to mind...

We wandered through the summertime

And drifted into fall;

We never thought of winter at all.

How foolishly we tossed away

The buttercups, the time

Who'd have thought

We'd have no more songs to sing,

Hills to climb?

We summered in each other's arms

And slumbered in the glow;

We never heard the whisper of snow.

But summer's not forevermore,

No matter how we try

The trouble with hello is… goodbye

Changes Again

2006-04-09T10:47:00.000-07:00

It's not the new year yet the need for changes and resolutions seem to break through clouds of my mind. I am gladdened by these intentions but the question of whether I could accomplish, lest carry them out one by one prevails. Come to think of it, the previous week passed with already new formations in my realm; I am again back on chemical alterations to relax my unquiet mind.

I think I need a better paying job. Filing my income tax returns last Thursday resulted in a desirable refund that would help pay for existing debts, and maybe even plane tickets to Manila. But after that money is spent, I will return to a paycheck to paycheck maintenance. I am not getting any younger and after 4 years of high school, Paula will have to go to college. She has aspirations and I have dreams for her. It would only be fair and essential to make those dreams come true.

I need to get my ass out of the perpetual boredom and excuses to be happy. On my own. Needing people, especially significant others to render me satisfaction and pleasure only put me in desperation and virtual expectations. I really should BE happy solely, and soulfully as my own heart and mind dictate. I am wonderfully blessed with the creativity and amusement of ideas and objects abound enough to unblock my kindred desires. It is just a matter of persistently pursuing them.

I think I should stop here for now. I am starting to get overwhelmed again. And besides, my neighbors downstairs are making groaning sounds that are interrupting to my clean, or rather, clear thoughts... And they don't have dogs, yet the barking continues...

Wish me luck!

Waiting for roses

2006-02-09T15:59:00.000-08:00

I only went to the grocery store to get the ingredients for dinner that night. The meat section is way at the back and so the categorized aisles had to be skirted before I could get to frozen chicken. I was focused but suddenly, there before my very eyes, a whole section of chocolates wrapped in red foil, encased in red boxes, shaped and molded as hearts, and yes, roses... all red of them. I was distracted. I was reminded that Valentines season has begun.

This episode was 2 weeks ago, and next week lovers, married or otherwise, and every one (or two) else who comply to this tradition will celebrate Valentines Day, if not, at least to acknowledge it.

My take on Valentines Day is conducive. I like the fact that love subjects people around the world to be appreciative of their beloved. But for a few years now, I really have not been celebrating, or better put, stroked with the representations of Valentines - be it hearts, candy, chocolates, and yes, roses. I reacted to the amiss bequest artlessly. And just as I said, it's all conducive. Conditions and circumstances motivated the absence of this event in my life. Thus, the air of romance pretty much dissipated around my aura.

Transition wise, I have become quite the liberal in terms of connections and coupling with another. My adjustment to this forethought would put me on even keel with my emotional wellbeing. I really didn't want to be heartbroken consistently. Romance was put on hold. Love could not be in the air, at least not in my aura. I became a casual acquaintance, and if there was to be more than a quick connection, I would be a nice woman-friend.

Recently, though this thing we label romance has started pinching me on my side just as my mother used to do to me as a kid when I would be a naughty girl and be up to something. I reacted to this pinch with a sudden twitch, a little ticklish and an inexact wariness. But I also felt the excitement as the beating of my heart palpitated sending signals to different parts of my texture. The butterflies fluttered and my head saw animations. It has become almost delirious! Could it really be happening that I am once again enchanted with this thing called 'love'?

The roses I see are in different colors, some budding, others blooming. The petals are silken, soft and sensitive to the feel of a cheek and the tip of my nose as I lean close to smell the rose's mellow and calming scent. The stems are exfoliated of their thorns to prevent the pricking of my fingers. I carefully bunch them together to preserve their life encasing the roses in my crystal vase of keeping.

Thus, my reveries have returned, and my aura becomes brilliant and lucid once again.

When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been too long
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winterfar
beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed that
with the sun's love
in the spring
becomes the rose.
- Betty Midler's, The Rose

Yesteryear

2005-12-31T09:31:00.000-08:00

No metaphors this time…

Today is 2005’s last day. As soon as consciousness came to me, the instinctive look at the time of day stretched my cognizant self. It is still morning. I am without others (which don’t happen all the time). Paula spent the night at Auntie Luz’s house, and I have to say I am somewhat glad to be in solitude to compose my thoughts and put them here. This article will be about people, places, happenings, and most of all, the year in my personal perspective as enumerated throughout the past twelve months of 2005.

Welcome to my panoramic view of two thousand and five.

January was the month my son Rael, daughter Paula, and I moved in our modest apartment. The day after Rael’s arrival from the Philippines, the three of us already instinctively packed what belongings we have and transferred ourselves to a bare dwelling that would soon be our sanctuary and place of comfort. It wasn’t too long and without the care and support of relatives that we found our home with the necessary furniture, supplies and some moderate accessories. Second hand stuff were not only acceptable, they were incomparable. I knew then that my apartment was going to be eclectic! As the three of us adjusted to our surroundings and the progress of jobs and school – in Paula’s case – life, I knew, would take its full course, and with optimism I heard myself say, “Everything’s gonna be alright”.

It was the same month that Mark decided he would visit me here in San Jose, California. He was passing through having attended his grandfather’s funeral in Freport, Illinois. And his usual impulsive behavior dictated that he comes to see me. The reunion was a mixture of confusion and sentimentality as we faced our separation, conjugally.

Steve was going to have a birthday in February and a coincidental business trip to Anchorage. I still clung on to Steve for the warm emotional support he’s always given me, and the idea of a meeting was exciting and we both had presumed, fulfilling. Only it wasn’t. As soon as I had set foot on Anchorage, he shared that he was having troubles on the home front. In short, the whole rendezvous was downcast. February as it turned out would be the start of our journey towards the surface as we leave the rock.

In March, I found myself working in the Activity Department of a Nursing home. The job came to me without my looking for one because I thought I had already gotten myself two jobs: a tutor in a private Tutorial School and as a Bridal consultant in a Bridal Shop. Not long after I acquired these two jobs, I had met with a fantastic person who would soon be my immediate supervisor if I chose to take on the Activity personnel job. Intuitively, I felt this was going to work better than juggling two jobs that offered me no weekends off. So in March 13, 2005, I have officially become the Assistant Activity Director, and no longer was I a tutor and a bridal consultant.

I couldn’t think of anything very significant in April, but in May we had a ton of birthdays in my vast extended family. Rael was the more significant person for me to celebrate one’s life and he turned 23 on the 27th of May. Paula and I shopped for gifts and bought him the add-ons and supplies for his Sony Playstation PSP. Twenty three years after I gave birth to this boy, and now a husband to Johna and daddy to Arkin and Serrah, Rael still received toy presents from his Mother.

June in California started to get hot and dry, and colorful. As the weather added more tan to my skin, flowers were also in a full blast of color. There were roses in every yard I’ve seen. My apartment too was getting more orderly and animated with the additional assortments I have incorporated in it. It was this month when people that used to be strangers became increasingly significant and relevant. I was getting more acquainted with the faces of staff and residents in the nursing home I work at. Angie, a long-lost friend from high school who I have not seen nor communicated in more than 20 years, happens to live in Daly City, and needless we reunited through phone conversations. (I would later meet up with her). Concluding, this hump month of the year came and went.

My mother arrived in July. She would be here for the entire summer season. I want to think now that she wasn’t here just for the frugal garage sales where you can get china for a quarter to a dollar and other knick-knacks that one really doesn’t need, but also to spend time with me, Rael, Paula. Guia stayed in our apartment; she cooked, tendered us the household support while watching The Filipino Channel on cable during the day. Paula’s school ended this month, too, and left her 7th grade behind.

I became 41 on the 8th of August of this year. Mark and I met in Seattle a few days before my birthday, and having decided prior that we would celebrate “something” there. I ended up parasailing with him and screaming my lungs, vocal cords, and tonsils out while 100 ft up the air as tears welled my eyes. Thanks, to Mark; I took on the flight of fright. Happy Birthday to me!

September was truly special as this month marked the birth of a new angel in my family. Serrah Japson-Rafael was born on the 13th. I have become grandmother x 2. Never have I felt more pride least of all to be called a grandmother. Paula also celebrated life as she turned 14 on the 29th. She, I predict, would be a classy, demure, observant, and discerning lady in years to come. Life is fast evolving around her, yet her discipline and composure give her power over this life.

In October, I began to face emotional struggles again. My anxiety and equanimity overpowered my set routine. I have been in this sink hole before and I felt that my legs were tired to kick towards the surface. It was truly a perturbing time as I confronted my demons. My gratitude goes to close friends who helped me during this period.

I have officially become a California resident in November. This realization hadn’t been more pragmatic ever since my transfer to this city more than a year ago now.

Ah, December… the annual pilgrimage to the malls began as people scurried and frantically shopped (at) the last minute for Christmas gifts. ‘Tis the season to be jolly, and for tradition’s sake as well as to share with my young ones’ jubilance I was merry. For all the whole year’s almost dry weather, on this month, the week before Christmas the skies broke into tears sobbing its heart out and wailing at the top of its lungs (didn’t I say “no metaphors”?).

The year ended and the new one begins, stormy weather et al.

A salutation to 2006!

On Golden Grass

2005-11-29T18:16:00.000-08:00

Today I have officially become a California resident.

Exactly 13 months ago, my '93 Ford Explorer skidded its tires on the hot, paved freeways of this state governed by the Austrian immigrant. Governor Arnold ("I yam da one with da speech impediment") exemplifies the immigration of folks here. Seems to me this multicultural, multilingual, highly ethnic, techno rising, blue-skied south Bay Area of California is formed and functioned by a vast array of immigrants - some new or recent, and others pioneering and neighboring. Without any calculated timeline or projections as to where life would eventually find me, I took upon the act of driving from Alaska hauling precious and necessary belongings in my rig to, I guess, settle here in San Jose, or geographically more precise, in Santa Clara county. Thus, I too can be labeled immigrant.

For over a year since my migration here, I have been fickle and uncompromising - both at the same time. I held on to my AK license plates just for the symbolic meaning it bestowed on my life - backwards and the past. I still called Alaska my home. I still called me Alaskan. Over the course of this period, I challenged hope and regained it. My trembling thoughts and wavering decisions to pursue a lost relationship in marriage ending in divorce came and went... then came and went again. My once prince who woke me up from a long, weary sleep in the Philippines, eventually taking me to his kingdom of the Last Frontier continued to occupy a fairy tale. I continued to dream of a wonderful time and life in Alaska and believed that snow is cold yet pure, that wounds left scars yet healed and smoothed, and that life with my prince could positively be ambitious yet rewarding. This vicious cycle of my restlessness and corrupted faith rendered me unhappy, uninspired, and unmotivated to embrace and kiss the California soil.

Throughout the period of this so-called transition in California I teetered and tottered without the realization of the real meaning of my migration. Adjustments, modifications in accommodations, job placements/ displacements and progressions, and all physical forms of transition digressed my real focus on life. My life. I knew that continuance had to be established, therefore obligations or responsibilities were utmost important and administered. My kids and I had to eat and sleep. The play came later. To them. I, on the other hand had not really started.

In short, I waited on those California plates. I waited on an ID card. I simply wasn't ready to be resident of this Golden State where the green grasses turn a golden color during the dry season.

Until now.

I finally looked up to the sky and washed my face in the warmth of this California sun. I saw a beautiful park less than a mile from where I live - for the first time - and found it refreshing, green and calming. For even the man-made lake is alluring to the senses that I transiently forgot the comparison to my memorable Lake Eyak in Cordova. Today also had me spending the entire day with my daughter as we ran errands and ate lunch at a favorite salad bar, then came back home with all missions accomplished, and further rewarded our long day with each a mamon (that sweet and really soft spongey cake!) and mango juice...

Today I seemed convinced and decided that I AM here and should BE here. I have a cute 2-bedroom apartment that is modest and eclectic in its accessories. I also hold a passion-filled job that cater to the hearts of our old, crippled, medically challenged, and wonderful patients (whom we call residents). I have met interesting people and leveled up to friendship with a few great ones. Paula is a straight A student with a 4.0 average who in her puberty is starting to accomplish her own goals and talking of universities in this state or nearby as part of her life structuring routes. There are parks all over, best yet Yosemite is 4 hours away on the road. The freeways are wide, although still titanic and arduous to me, nevertheless linking and conclusive to one's direction.

Last but not least, my automobile runs and hums in perfect harmony as it takes me places, freeways, parks, and horizons where California's blazing sun then bows to retire for another day.

And this time, I have the right plates in place.

Sweet summer sweat
Some dance to remember
Some dance to forget
- Hotel California by The Eagles

Hello?

2005-10-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

An assigned wake-up call came 10 minutes late. It was a pretentious alarm for the sleeper was awake and waiting for the wake-up call, and, as promised, ring-ring the phone did ring.

The telephone is a miraculous invention. If asked to choose between television and Bell's invention, I'd go for the latter - any day. Being able to hear a familiar voice from a different time zone, in real time is the ultimate orgasm of technology. Like the air conditioner, the phone is now labeled necessary appliance although the want supercedes the need for it. This equipment has come a long way, too, since the time of its invention. Smart people, women posing as phonesex-pals, telemarketers, lobbyists, campaigners, etc etc all benefit from this ear and mouth piece. They now come in different shapes, colors, and sizes; they're either corded or cordless; you can choose from a variety of features such as caller-id, three-way conference, call-waiting, voicemail, answering machine, redials, flash, tone or pulse dialing; and if you are the fun-spirited type you'd opt for a Mickey Mouse phone, or a Harley-Davidson phone, or a Planters phone, and - believe it or not - even a Dean Martin phone!

Higher technology has also introduced pc-to-pc, mobile-to-pc, pc-to-mobile, pc-to-phone, phone-to-pc as penny-pinching flipside to the costly long distance phone call. This not only save your hard earned pennies, but the computer or the IM program will also allow the caller to choose options like video conferencing and the like. You will need to have of course, a computer equipped with a mic and headphone and a decent internet connection, i.e. broadband/dsl or cable. Armed with some know-how on basic internet, a measure of avid interest and willingness to venture into the high-tech-but-user-friendly, you are set and ready for cyberphone megacosm.

Gotta go. My phone rings.

Grandmother defined

2005-09-13T22:47:00.000-07:00

Pronunciation key: (grndmthr, grn-), n. the mother of one's father or mother; a female ancestor.

Synonymously, the mother personalized here is a.k.a. Lalah Mommi. To be precise: Marian - being the mother of (big brother) Arkin's and (newborn babygirl) Serrah's father, Rael. Accordingly, my ancestry has officially begun and is now recorded.

I first became a grandmother 3 years ago. Arkin came into my life with animation or a surreal existence that was hard to fathom. I just couldn't believe the reality of his entity in my world when I thought I was still becoming of life myself. It was plain simple to conclude that I was just too young to be a grandma. But despite this bewilderment there also remains the fact that I gave life to a son during that time when I still had some of my wisdom teeth and baby fat. Hence, analogous to being a young and inexperienced mother to Rael 23 years ago, I am now, at 41 years of age, a budding and optimistically a promising or blossoming grandmother to Arkin and - just recently on the 13th Sept, 2005 – to newcomer Baby Serrah Rafael.
Grandmother can be becoming. Age alone does not define this salutation and neither does genealogy. This monumental designation to my quintessence is marked by the sunrises of my dawns when the existence of my grandchildren precedes all the possible rousing factors of my usual mornings. To exemplify this simile, their breaths would smell a million times better than my customary brewing coffee.

Cultural Day

2005-09-01T02:18:00.000-07:00

On August 18, 2005, our Nursing Home became vivid, not that it never has been, but that day we dressed up, danced, ate, and enjoyed the company of our young and old, crippled and ambulatory, yet all the same warming to our hearts, our residents and staff of White Blossom Care Center, San Jose, California.

Activity Department

Wonderfully erratic

2005-08-31T23:51:00.000-07:00

I now live in the state of California. It will be a year come October since my move here from Alaska, yet my license plate still bears my (old) state. Why I haven't changed it? I have been procrastinating not to mention the sentimentality it holds. I have yet to be pulled over by a CHiP or a passing/waiting cop-in-car that I have to explain or lie that I've just been here for a month having driven all the way from Alaska and vacationing with relatives. Regardless, I should really register for a CA plate soon as my first anniversary is approaching.

I now realize I should've been diligent and assiduous about journaling the many episodes and adventures, whether climactic or dull, ever since my arrival here. Although there were the often memorable occurences significant to the day to day transpirations, my state of being had been perfunctory many a time. This transition wasn't an easy one yet the overwhelming support from close-at-hand relatives came convenient and rewarding. Shifting from a room in one of these relatives' home to a 2-bedroom 2nd floor apartment I now share with my daughter Paula is one of the attainments I've since begot. The oftentimes driving flukes contributory to my half-baked sense of direction burned my fuel as well as my tires. Still I've taken routes and roads now learned and familiar. I also would've not been able to survive financially without the benefit of jobs, and a variety they were to me: from a cashier at a department store, to a bridal consultant, a part time tutor, and now an asst. activity director in a skilled nursing home. California sure is, hell... fast!

It is also HOT - climate-wise. Just today I was cursing at the dry heat as I drove back home from work. Without the use of my crippled car airconditioner, I damned the 5'oclock evening heat. I swore I've never realized in a long, long, time (exactly 4 years ever since my landing in Alaska) that the sun could be this fierce. My American friends would laugh at this retort reminding me that I originated from a tropical land. But I guess I have LTM (long term memory) loss that all I could remember was cold, fresh, snowy Alaska, and questioning myself why, oh, why I seem to be now pitted here in scorching California.

Yet tonight, I walked out to the backyard to smoke my cigarette; my feet bare they touched the warm grass. My senses stirred. Looking up I saw the stars. They blinked at me. I perceived a flying star and realized it was a transitting airliner. Smiling now to and at myself, I was sanguine. Around me was a garden with roses in bloom: red, white, peach. A fig tree seemed complacent behind the bench. And despite the bordering fence and the sight of surrounding associated structures, my hidden and distinctive remark was of life's sweet rewards.

There are many of those sweeteners. New things, places, people. Old things, places, people. On the phone with a 'historical' friend came fulfilling as that one corner in my heart was again acknowledged. He'll never leave that place. We were happy to chat briefly, no strings attached except that of a rooted, viney friendship. One other telephonic conversation enlivened me as this very significant 'one' whose bio I once and still share called me, ornery yet thoughtful just the same to have sensed I needed even the simplicity of a quick phone call. At work today, a demented resident cum patient who habitually nags and seem perpetually snappish raises her hand to reach out, touch me and hold my hand. Touched, she did my heart.

The heat of California, the missed and sentimentality of my once-home whose warm beauty would never cease even the coldest of hearts, a distant friend who has left the rocks, and an erratic yet whimsical significant one.... my bare feet still touch the gravel of life. As the backyard of limitless space offer me symmetry and ornaments, I smile and thus remind myself that life can still be awe-inspiring.

Finding Inspiration

2005-08-17T01:15:00.000-07:00

Today I felt particularly bored and lifeless. The clock’s alarm set off at 6:45 AM. My body’s tocsin didn’t discharge for another half hour, until finally the bladder dictated so, and up languorously I ultimately got. The stale act of getting ready for the day begun - and concluded - and off I was. And because I was too slow to start my day, I was running late, hence I drove past Starbucks. Shit.

Less than an hour after arriving the workplace, I was already overcome by that sluggish, tiring certainty that would surely last a whole day, if not, an eternity. I need an excuse to get out of here, was my basal thought. Ahh… an errand!

“Kari, that karaoke machine is over at the other facility, and I made arrangements to collect that this morning,” was the fitted excuse.

Zoom my car and I went! Double-tall-soy latte here I come!!!

Sitting outside the apropos (coffee) shop, I languidly sipped my hot beverage. My mind wandered as my eyes did. Pulling the cellphone out of my purse, I called Victoria and shared with her my doldrums. As always her kind nature, she listened and offered helpful hints. She would like to see me write more. I argued that I am not as inspired as I used to be. Sunny California or at least what I’ve seen of it does not induce any fervor. I am bored with the city, was my retort. She then tells me to find inspiration in the mundane, familiar, and typical surrounding I am in. I want to bless her heart for having the stubborn faith in me.

So here I am starting my attempts to finding inspiration from the uninspiring place, thing, or event.

My emotions are sometimes inactive as I experience the highs and lows of the current changes I’m finding. Truthfully, there are the frequent, divergent, and miscellaneous representations of ideas, or simply put, inspirations. I would be besieged by people, places, encounters, objects, and timings, and easily could put pen into paper (or fingers onto keyboard). However, my passion seems to evade me nowadays. Listless I feel I’m becoming at times. I deviate from my artistic sense and resort to cable television. I have become the unadulterated TV aficionado devoid of sensitivity and the rapture of life and love.

I guess the right to write does not call for prerequisites. But expressiveness comes in verbiage through articulation, eloquence, and even redundancy. It helps, too, when the mind is focused. For how could one write in persuasiveness (to the reader and oneself) if the tendency is to roam and deviate from the atypical source of inspiration?

But inspiration comes within us.

Our own heart encourages us to reveal the colors we see and form in our reveries. Our spirit to sense what need to be experienced and relished dictates us. We only have to sit back and derive joy, or even sorrow, so we could be expressive and indicative of our adventures, thus record them for the purpose of sharing and inducing pensive attraction, if not admiration. We want to convince the thoughtful reader that we feel emotions as we write, or live. A painter does not create a masterpiece because the nude subject is flawless, but because he is induced by his own emotions. His spirit flows from his heart to the tip of his paintbrush and thus transferring his inspiration to canvas. And I guess I have enough juices in my spirit, or vise versa, to formulate a thought, an art, a literature, an expression, or/and an inspiration.

Victoria is right about finding inspiration. I don’t need to look any further or farther. I have it in me.

It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,
But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and
A song you hear though you shut your ears...

- Khalil Gibran

On leaving the rock...

2005-08-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

Like ocean drifters below the surface, all of us are swept along the great currents. Some seem powerless against even the lightest of eddies, virtual plankton at the mercy of events, emotions and circumstances. Others fight, dashing against the rush like a voracious billfish, powerful and flighty. Even the great whales, whose power and grace propel them steadily in whatever direction they choose, ride the global gyres in seasonal migrations across the seas.

Now I face changing currents. Like a river adjusting its flow to a new obstruction, my own life has reacted to dramatic events that will shape my future. I put many of those obstacles there and I have negotiated tracks through and around them. I will not stop, any more than a river will stop, even if it is dammed. Mine will not be a passive ride, however. Like a piscine predator I will dart into the current to snatch prizes that I need to keep myself whole. The infinite twists of the complex, asymmetrical synchrony will continue to push me from all sides, forcing a reaction simply to hold my place.

But I will not hold my place any more than the drifting plankton or the speedy billfish. I refuse to be the barnacle that settles into a permanent residence after a youth of riding the currents among the planktonic community. As an adult, the barnacle fastens itself to a rock and begins sifting passing morsels from the very community it was only recently a member of.

Perhaps it was fear of a barnacle-like existence that led me to my sweet ylang. Rather than living a vicarious life of spectating, I chose to leap into the current and swim. She too, detached from the safety and resignation of her rock to swim with me. Powerful currents pushed against us - we rode those currents and swam against them at times. Drifting and darting, we went places we wanted to go, avoided certain dangerous waters, and flirted inside the jaws of bigger fish hungry to make a meal of us.

Like life within the complex food chain of the sea, there were dangers lurking in the depths. By leaving our rocks we exposed ourselves. Each of us was attacked by our own predators. Both were wounded. We comforted each other for a time but ultimately our individual pain was our own to endure.

Now we have swam, hurting but healing, apart. This, I am convinced, is necessary. Although I've returned to the family I love, I'll not return to a sessile mode. Less of a spectator and more of a participant - that is the legacy I will seek. I will make mistakes and may be wounded again, but it will be in the company of my family. My regret over outcomes of my own past actions primarily or exclusively center around the hurt that I've caused to those who loved me, both within that family and outside it. Although I never intended malice, I know that I've left feelings of betrayal inside those I care most about. I hope and pray for forgiveness.

Now is the time for both of us to swim, kicking to keep our heads above the surface. Certainly things might have been different - that will always be true. Our time together has improved my own fitness and, I want to believe, that of my sweet ylang. I can see that she's cried. But I also know that she's learned. She is stronger than she knows. She is not at the mercy of the currents but fully capable of swimming free. Swim, girl.

Forty + 1

2005-08-10T02:40:00.000-07:00

Just remember, once you're over the hill you begin to pick up speed
- Charles Schulz

The simple formula sans the summation equates to the union of my elements, i.e. as body, emotions, thoughts, and sensations, that constitute my individuality and identity of my person.

Enough verbiage.

I could go on and on about my complete characterization - good and bad and everything else in between - but this time I will make it incomplex and unmistakable. And besides, even I am tiring of my dramatic and philosophic verses. What really define me and, probably, even differentiate me from the many other individuals turning toward the wrong side of forty, or more appropriately, midlife would have to be the generations in-between my being and actuality in our human world.

I turned forty-one on August 8, 2005.

Forty WAS the symbolic number. Just like a baby's completion of months as he turns a year old, or the regal debutante's 18 years, and even perhaps a boy's pinnacle to manhood as the numerical 21 in years is finally reached, 4-0 is highly significant. For me, that was last year. Between the last and this year, I didn't grow any taller, nor I become recognizably smarter. I didn't even grow any gray hair, bragging so. As a matter of fact, I physically feel even younger than I ever did in the past year. To surmise this understanding of my step up to the age-old (definition of) birthday resolves and comprisal, there really has no life-evolving, soul-searching change in my quintessence. Except for...

Arkin. Lola Minggay.

And all the rest of them that fit in the center of their generational parameter.

Jan Arkin Japson-Rafael holds the trophy for the youngest member of a generation I put myself in. Dominga "Lola Minggay" in the meantime carries the honor of being the Great-great-grandmother of Arkin. Between these two distinct genealogy and parentage, adding the beloved roots, seeds, flowers and fruits of our family tree, I honor myself.

I am defined and differentiated by my son, Rael, who bore his son Arkin. I am extant as Guia's first born daughter who is Dominga's first born herself. Except for my Lola Minggay, all the names mentioned are all eldest among siblings. Arkin, concurrently is going to be a "Kuya" or an elder brother next month. But that's another story to write.

This is the culmination of my birthday this year. I am who I am because of the people surrounding my composition. I not only acknowledge our unique faction, I salute each and every one of them. My architecture is raised by the monuments my Lola Minggay, Mamang Guia, Rael, and Arkin have blue-printed and constructed.

The design in each one of them is common. Arkin smiles the familiar beam on Lola's face as Mamang Guia passed on the aloofness experienced with Rael. And while the little one would still often stumble and trip on the cobblestone of his young paths, his grandma turning toward the other side of 40 may and could still trip on the old, or the new, haphazardly the straight and the flat, or the bumpy and jagged roads of her varicolored thoroughfare.

Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time

- Jean Paul Richter

My abstract explanations

2005-07-19T03:30:00.000-07:00

Half past midnight and I am searching for words. Bear with my nervousness for I feel like a novice writer subjected to my readers' critique. Here I go.

I made my latest commitment of regulating tasks that would basically keep me steadfast in my continuance. Simply put, I am going to do more than watch the Food Network: I will again share my thoughts with articulation.

I've asked myself many times over the many months that I've been stagnant the one question: Do I still know how to write? I was almost sure the ink that fueled the once poignant vein that ran through my acumen had dried up. And even as my mind wandered and pondered about all the available imagery that would simply entice and inspire me to be expressive enough to write, I had loafed and frittered away. Caring people who have kept track of my transcript and attestation through my blogs inquired and encouraged. I've replied with authentic reasons, all circumstantial to the eventful decision, thus relocation, therefore a transition. Resulting, my interest in arts and letters were tucked in the folds and layers of my overwhelming predicament and acumen. Casually, I preoccupied myself with excuses. I was plainly floating in obliviousness.

Somehow even-tempered and stable in my bearings now, I still feel the occasional shake and thunder of uncertainty. I am still nervous and anxious of days to come, yet unwavering in my dream of a solid, synonymous pursuit of living. There will continue the assorted comings and goings, traffic and bugging people, the subscription to cable network television, and my daily excuses. But I will also be determined. Hell has no fury for a writer scatterbrained.

All circumstances leading, for as long as my wits are able, and with enough battery power to sustain my laptop, I will write.

It is now half past 2 in the morning.

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow,
Don't stop, it'll soon be here,
It'll be, better than before,
Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone.
... don't you look back, don't you look back.
- Fleetwood Mac

Gone no more

2005-07-17T00:49:00.000-07:00

I need to get back!

I've missed myself penning down all the many encounters with strangers, those bewildering and original events only I have mindfully immersed my thoughts in. This short and unabashed manuscription will have to be the signifying "shove" of pen into paper, fingers on keyboard, blog on blogsite.

My gratitude goes to Victoria for even her seemingly amiss phone calls, the Reflections site - not to mention the intriguing photos with THE "Italian" - conjured me to do what I've loved (and lazied into) doing.

My blogs will be back. Borrowed quotes will re-emerge. Watch me tackle life once again.

Old soldiers never die; they just fade away.

I shall return.

- Gen. Douglas MacArthur

A familiar voice

2004-11-23T23:02:00.000-08:00

After a 400-mile drive with a few stops, we reached a destination – not our final. Another 200 or so more, one more point of stop. Then after that we would cross a border, travel more hundreds of miles, sail on a ferry, and another, and close to a thousand extended miles of road travel, just then our headed end of journey will conclude.

Six hours of non-bending and the inflexible upright sit behind the wheel, there was nothing more anticipating than the softness and comfort of a white-linen covered bed. A hot shower without a question came with desirability.

Settling on the left side of the queen bed, and by the nightstand where the phone sat, I longed to call someone. I ached to hear a voice on the other end. Excitedly I would talk.

Incessantly I would narrate the seemingly endless drive that came with the most exciting and exhilarating panorama of mountain ranges - of views far and up close; of cascading waterfalls and streaming rivers, brooks and creeks; of rounded and kidney-shaped lakes; of fallen and risen trees, mostly conifers; of even or crooked roads, and road signs that guide, point and calculate to make the arduous travel comprehensive and comprehendible. Then there would be the amazing and wondrous world of wildlife appearing from far and near. I would describe old gas stations, neon-lit motels, eccentric folks who smiled toothless and all- in between stops. These and many more sights, sounds, smell and feel.

I longed to hear a familiar voice whom I could eagerly and perpetually describe my experiences and adventures; he who has traveled this same journey before, yet willingly would invisibly smile from stretched mileage between us. He would listen because he, too, longed to hear a familiar voice.

A Leaf Falls

2004-09-23T00:21:00.000-07:00

Life's autumn past, I stand on winter's verge
- Wordsworth

No definition of a season's change is more dramatic than the shying away of leaves and trees. As the earth tires itself from enriching plant life, the soil pretends to lie dead in its slumber. No human eye can catch sight of the depleting vineyards of roots underground. Do they wilt and dry out turning the once fluid-filled veins into wrinkled clawlike forms, or have they reserved nutrient-filled sacs for the following 2 season's reappearance?

I study a broad leaf's yawning face as it readies itself to sleep. It appears peaceful yet, ready to die. The leaf's expression is melancholy as her disappearing sun-filled smile starts to mourn for its own permanent death. I watch as its eyes become invisible; they are replaced by lids of thin lines and light scratches.

The autumn leaf of red, orange, or gold is ironic in her majestic beauty and impending death. Could there really be beauty in dying?

A leaf always reborns. She resurrects from the very same soil, coming from her kindred roots. She becomes the undifferentiated offspring - the usually green colored foliage - who takes in light's energy. She captures the hearts of birds, while offers her goodness to nourish the living needs of even the tiniest of creatures. And in sync with those same ones around her, she joins in chorus singing and swaying to the conducting symphony of an imperial tree.

And just before they turned red and gold, the autumn leaves remind us that we were shaded from the blinding and unintentional burning sun of summer days. In harmony they once sang in glory while lovers made love under their gleeful watching and sheltering eyes.

Like love itself, a leaf dies only to resurrect again.

But I miss you most of all, my darling
When autumn leaves start to fall
-Roger Williams

Into Equidistant Age

2004-08-08T13:27:00.000-07:00

Like an approaching new year on its eve, I waited for the clock to strike twelve. I rested, although did not lay my head on a pillow. I sat upright on my couch, reclining a little and resting my legs on the coffee table. With glass in hand, I drank my second full serving of milk. I anticipated for its arrival. I felt the sentimental value of the 8th of August just as I always did year after year since my awareness of the world around me. It has always been, and will forever be, the historic day of my life.

When the clock finally hit midnight, I elated quietly. I shot fireworks in the firmament of my soul. I threw confetti in every room of my being. And humbly, I gave a toast to my exact four decades of existence. With a heart’s serenity, I prayed for thanks.

The tradition of celebrating another birth year had never been more noteworthy than this year. On this day, year 1964, my parents gave birth to their firstborn, thus naively assumed parenthood. My mother’s parents also experienced the undeniable joy -which I now grasp in remarkable and unfathomable awe – of becoming first-time grandparents. And the somewhat confused, but more delightful impression I made to newly titled aunts and uncles struck a pure innate feeling in the entire household. Suddenly, I took center stage, spotlight on me. A star was born!

Forty years polishing and maintaining the star, still somehow it had lost most of its glitter and shine. For how could it have prevented the tarnish caused by occasional neglect, and sometimes lack of supervision? Blemished with neutral, as well as colorful and dark experiences, it had lost its innocent transparency. The cracks, dents, and scratches on her surface have been caused by a muddle of rough hands, harsh reality, and careless measures or shortcomings.

My course through the vastness of the universe went awry. Not just once, but many a different time.

And yet, I rose up to the clouds to touch its softness and feel I did the sun’s warmth through its energizing rays. The deep blue ocean beckoned me to swim its surface; and sink I may have on stormy weather that brought strong and powerful tides, my limbs pulled, pushed, and kicked the heavy, thrashing current until my head was finally above water, taking in the breath of faith in life.

As I step out of the water, the sun settles below the earth; dusky skies beckon the night. I now begin my walk on the coarse and grainy, the warm and comforting

... sands of my transitional shores.

Being other than…

2004-08-07T03:56:00.000-07:00

the other woman.

Every contemporary woman at some advanced period in her life would have convinced herself and her friends that she will never wear the other woman’s shoes. A moral virtue has to be underlined. Normal decency has to be minded. No respectable woman, if she wants to remain regarded in society, would like to place herself in a highly questionable status – that of being the mistress.

By definition, a mistress can be many things. During the Regency period, or the English Regency, a mistress would be a woman in a position of high authority, control, or ownership, as the head of the household. Jane Austen’s Emma became mistress of the house following the death of her mother. A mistress is also defined as a woman with ultimate control over something: the mistress of her own mind. Old English periods gave this persona much grand reputation and power. A mistress may simply be the neutral counterpart to mister or master. But in modern times, the most manifested connotation to this title would have to be a woman with a licentious behavior pursuing a relationship with a married man.

I was once disapproving and condemning “the other woman.” No amount of influence, experience or knowledge was ever necessary for me to think otherwise. The idea of (anyone, me included) copulating with a married man abhorred me. There was no place in society for mistresses. This woman would be the destructible force behind the social unit we know as family. She was deceitful, selfish, and contemptible. She was simply… evil.

As time went by, my perspectives began to change. One other dictionary listing I didn’t mention above stir me in fragile conformity. With measure that indicates a profound, yet lyrical tone, I read this definition, or more appropriately, this designation, of a mistress: A woman regarded with love and devotion; she who has command over one's heart; a beloved object; a sweetheart [Poetic] -Clarendon.

Loving another woman’s man has never been a choice. Does anyone really believe that one chooses to love? The profoundness that we label as “love” comes in many forms. In grammatical sense, love is both a noun and a verb. Love is an emotion so fervent and sometimes even potent. In the same way, love is the act of bestowing, giving, connecting, and caring.

This love I feel for him lets me experience the joys of being a woman.
Loving him gives me realization of my triumphs as a woman – Ylang2.

Why then can we not place ourselves in the other woman’s shoes when the virtue and sincerity of loving, and (having) an idyllic essence of this profound fervor be real?

Other than being the other woman, I would rather be the woman loving him.

From Whimsical to Erratic

2004-07-26T23:33:00.000-07:00

Wow!
What a long break, huh? A very dear friend of mine (who's a very disciplined blogger) never fails to query my blogging status. My monkey-babe - almost always the subject of my journaling and poems - tries to motivate me to keep my writings regular. I keep 3 journals and an assortment of pens and pencils at elbows. Ideas, thoughts, and love affairs of the mind are always attributable to put one entry after another. Still, I let a month and a half pass. In that period, a long line-up of events, scenarios, vacations, sexcapades, depressions, awakenings, resolutions, dahdahdah, etcetera should have been narrated and recounted. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. What can I say except I am guilty as a muted writer.

Here are some wanderings, wonderings, and musings...

- On board Alaska Airlines en route San Jose, CA, we made a stop in Portland. This was 6:30 in the morning when we skidded the runway. Ninety nine percent of the passengers from Anchorage had this stop as their final destination, while the remaining one per cent (myself, my daughter, and another Alaskan-dressed passenger) were roused from sleep. I thought I was dreaming when I noticed a different brand of commercial flyers come onboard. Whiffing an assortment of aromas from after-shave, hairsprays, brand perfumes, to softener on starched shirts, I soon realized we were in the company of metrosexual people! For the first time in a very long time, I could see a man's upper lip and chin. Women wore dark wool skirts and nice leather high heels. The person across had a Palm, a cellphone w/cam, his IBM notebook, and a portable DVD player - all hooked on him. He smelled of Armani, too. Soon enough, Paula and I knew we had left The Last Frontier and were on our way to Urbanite planet.

- While my daughter decided to get the jester hat, I chose a Bob Marley bonnet from this colorful shop at Pier 39, San Francisco Wharf.

Our touristy exploits on that fateful Thursday served our purpose of seeing and feeling a little bit of San Francisco. We missed on the Alcatraz, but at least we saw Aunt Wilhelmina's Windmill (sheesh).

Credit to this eventful excursion went to my eccentric Uncle "Unc" Tony.   But, hey, I walked about a yard of the Golden Gate and even posed for a picture!

- 'GS' - Abbreviation for Garage Sales. My Aunt Luz's house is a museum of other-people's-old-stuff. This woman who makes a good living managing a nursing home spends her Saturday mornings at strangers' garages and yards. I was even gifted with a microwave from a GS purchase. She has a chestful of treasures in her heart (not to mention her storeroom).

- I went overboard inside a Victoria Secret store and spent 500 dollars worth of underwear and lingerie that I'd wear for a good 5 minutes before any of it is peeled off my body. Thank credit card companies and a paying hubby.

- Wonderfully, my monkey and I climbed the summit of pleasure. This third time round was better than the last. We just keep getting better.   I taught him a new word in Filipino in exchange for the impetus to be bare and beautiful (of which) he's given me. Fuschia now has a new meaning in my personal life.

- I sat on both sides of my teeter-totter; one after the other, and back. My emotions lost its balance as I went up, then slid down, and later rose up again. The fulcrum that balanced this see-saw maintained the weight of temperament through his love, tenderness and affection.   I only love him even more.

Life has been good despite the periodic looming clouds. Love abounds.

Whatever happens, nothing's ever going to be the same,

Now you'll find me here at last,

Your love's released me from the past,

My heart and soul have always remembered your name

- Sweet Reunion by Kenny Loggins

Metaphoric hymns of love

2004-06-20T00:49:00.000-07:00

From the bottomless pit I fell into 3 months ago since I met him, I now find my spirit and crumbled body rising. Floating up to the surface of this deep sea of accepting love, my face is soaked with ocean-waters; tears of joy and sorrow – a duet that now forms permanence in my universe.

I am convinced that his affirming words opened the dam gates of my overflowing chest filled with the saved and hoarded sinless love we both put there. This love now flows freely down the once dry soil of lost valleys; and lost they are no more.

For as long as I live I will wonder in shrilling amazement how at that moment he was able to hear my heart’s exact words as its pounding throbbed on the surface of his hard chest. With the faithfulness only a true beloved would know in his thoughts and feelings, he answered ‘yes’ to my heart’s unspoken question: “Will you love me for always?”

At the risk of sounding too corny, this song played on my mind as I typed the last word of the above paragraph. Sing a hymn of love with me.

Always by Atlantic Starr

Girl you are to me
All that a woman should be
And I dedicate my life to you always

A love like yours is rare
It must have been sent from up above
And I know you'll stay this way for always

And we both know, that our love will grow
And forever it will be you and me
Hey...
Ooh you're like the sun
Chasing all of the rain away
When you come around you bring brighter days
You're the perfect one
For me and you forever will be
And I will love you so for always

Come with me my sweet
Let's go make a family
And they will bring us joy for always

Oh boy I love you so
I can't find enough ways to let you know
But you can be sure our love's for always

Who you are

2004-06-06T03:12:00.000-07:00

I have expressed my love many times and in so many ways; there shouldn't be any doubt about my feelings. The greatest gift of love I can offer a person - a man, in this case - would be high regard and respect. This comes as true love because it truly is about acceptance. It is my accepting of the nature and circumstances of HIS life - his family life - that has proven me of this genuine, deeply heartfelt feelings and valued respect I have for him. At the same time, it is his acceptance and understanding of my emotions and ideals (in this case, not to ruin or cause any problematic situation for him) which define his respect for me. Because he recognizes that I will not jeopardize his life by intruding on his marriage and family, he is giving me credit as an understanding and an intelligent person. He also gives me honor in letting me keep my dignity intact by realizing that I can, will, and most of all, do, love him without the conditions of any (false) hopes except the hope of remaining in his heart forever - in which case, he says I will.

I love you. I don't know how to explain it, but I know I do. It is not simply a deepset infatuation wherein I think of you constantly, fantasize about you, dream of being with you, feel you, smell you, make love with you, and rejoice with you. It is one true love where I wish for your success and happiness. It is love because your anxieties have become my anxieties. It is unconditional love because no matter how engrossed my fantasies are of you being mine, I consciously accept the reality that there is only one woman for you, forever, and it is your wife. This reality contributes to the other sorrows in my living world. However I know and feel that as sorrows come, so do joys. The happiness I get from knowing and loving you surmounts all my sorrows. Let me thank you for being alive. I know I have become and am already a part of your life.

In the movie, "Adaptation" Donald Kaufmann is telling his twin brother, Charlie, about this girl he fell in love with in high school. He is speaking of the time he expressed this love for and to her, and how it made him so happy he will never forget how this love felt. After listening to Donald, Charles reveals that he knew of this and even knew the fact that the girl spoke ill of him (Donald), ridiculing his love and him as a whole. Donald reacts to his brother with these words: "So? I don't care. That was her business." And then he says, "You are who you love, and not what loves you."

I hold these words very precious and close to my heart that it's now a mantra.
YOU ARE WHO YOU LOVE and NOT WHAT LOVES YOU

Anchorage Nites

2004-06-04T02:51:00.000-07:00

It is windy. The chilling weather continuously burns the lobes of my ears. My hair fly out like sparks over my head as we walk back to the car where it is parked. Gusts of freezing blows meet us. You are ahead of me as I feel the need for warmth, and wished you could blanket me now with your body. The rush of blood travels under my skin as the powerful cold wind tries to numb us.

I watch you. I look at you as you unlock the rental car, take my bag, and once again lead the way. You are tall and lanky, yet with no hint of awkwardness. You emit a cool refinement in your gait and body movements. My mind begins to wonder about other ways you could show your gracefulness. I will find out soon, I hope with nervous anticipation. I shiver at the thought. I feel the tingling again.

The tingling sensation has become so regular every time I think of him. Lately, my imagination has soared so high and so frequently that I am usually lost in thoughts and actions. I have become clumsy as my concentration to do the daily tasks is now fuzzy. I daydream constantly, and beat myself up for sometimes losing grips on reality. Yet the dreams come so deliciously anytime during the day that I cannot simply shrug them off. I savor those wicked and vivid imaginations. I reach heights of pleasure fantasizing about being the muse of this handsomely living man; of him taking me into his arms and nourishing me with his warmth and affection, with his thirst and his flowing rivers of kept desires. I want to subdue his eager quest for pleasure by letting him execute my windswept needs. I want to exchange body fluids with him as our heated bodies collide with climactic intensities while our mouths lock with adamant urgency to explore, taste, bite, and drink from each other. Then as the energy from our physical exertion begins to wane, we collapse, momentarily easing away from each other’s grip to breathe and exhale the air of love and lust we have just consumed. We rest in each other’s embrace and let the surrounding aura of warm love and friendship hover us until we are again ready to attend to our mutual ardor and overdue hunger.

Leaving the car in its parking spot, we then cross the road and line to walk against the old and some renovated buildings in this downtown business district. A rectangular opening reveals a side entrance to our final destination. We did not have to go to the front entrance and walk the lobby of the hotel as this alternate entryway exposed. You, however, still look cautiously as I give you space and keep myself at bay. I don’t want to compromise your presence by having your acquaintances and fellow conference attendees spot you with an unrecognized woman. Even as the elevator door begins to open, I continue to worry about being startled by a common face. But we soon reach your floor, and in a swift moment, we are safe in the privacy of your hotel room.

(to be continued)

In each other's arms

2004-06-01T11:58:00.000-07:00

He wrote this piece and emailed it to me. On his subject line he indicated this was inspired by my Ladies' Night photo.

As I watched you from across the room, I shook my head in amazement. My mind wandered back to earlier in the evening, as we got ready for our night out. As usual, you tried several outfits, and variations of the look you'd finally settled on. Although the party was casual, you'd chosen to dress tight - a close-hugging black dress with a tempting neckline, showing the delicious inner surfaces of the breasts I'd kissed and caressed. The clingy middle hugged your flat tummy, higlighting the sexy flare of your feminine hips. Your lean, muscular thighs showed through narrow skirt, and your calves and graceful feet were displayed in sheer hose.

Now I observed as you approached, and were approached, by gentlemen and ladies. Some, of course, were old acquaintances - this was a party hosted by mutual friends. Your eyes sparkled and your easy smile dominated. I saw you toss back your head to laugh as you interacted with your conversation partners. You listened intently as they spoke. Your animated reactions were endearing.

I, of course, was absently engaged in my own conversations. We'd agreed to split up for at least the first hour - a fun little game we'd played before, to see what kind of action we could find, if we wanted it, on our own. We both knew how the evening would end - us in each other's arms - though it was not clear if we'd be at your place or mine. It was also not known who would attempt to end the game first, by approaching the other with a clever line or insightful observation - a mock hit on a pretend stranger. Although I'd successfully negotiated several conversations myself, I kept finding my
eyes wandering toward the last spot I'd seen you, to find you and watch you work the crowd. You were truly in your element. This was a classy yet casual affair, a suite of large rooms brimming with successful, interesting people. The setting was tasteful, the food and drinks generous, and the company good. Before the first half hour was up, however, I was wishing we hadn't chosen this game, tonight. There were plenty of pretty women in the crowd, including small groups of young ones without other escorts, and
energetic, friendly guys that were clearly here to enjoy the evening. But I found myself wanting you. I seriously considered ending our game early, approaching you and beginning a conversation. I knew you would comply, if I did, and stay nearby for the remainder of the evening. The thought made me smile.

Your easy style and relaxed manner, however, signalled that you were enjoying yourself. No, I told myself, I'll wait the agreed-upon 60 minutes. Within 10 minutes after that, though, I intended to break my "silence" and reclaim my date. You would be mine again.

My attention turned back to the discussion in the small circle of people I was standing among - a conversation of politics, and how what was happening with the President's foreign policy mirrored the misguided antics of the senior staff at our own company. I agreed with the sentiment that the decisionmakers in both cases were relying more on wishful thinking and powerlust than on hard facts and reliable intelligence. But while I couldn't divulge what I really knew about the corporate maneuvering that was underway, I did offer that unlike the national political debacle of a flawed military excursion, if our corporate operation was ultimately successful, many of us in the room would benefit directly, as would our customers and clients. This observation triggered a toast - agreement with the statement, and a wish for fulfilment of the prophesy.

Ten minutes later, I was discussing campsites in the mountains of western Wyoming with a young lady who had found herself here, a long way from home, but happy to be among people of influence and taste. Again my eyes strayed to find you. You weren't where I'd last seen you - you were nowhere in sight. Back to my conversation about the Teton backcountry.

As I turned toward the bar a few minutes later, I was startled by the sexy whisper of your Filipino accent in my left ear: "I'm looking for some rock-hard abs to rub my belly-button against. Can you help me?" Without turning to look, I smiled. Silently you'd stalked me. Your playful suggestion created a delicious image in my mind. I savored it briefly before spinning to confront you, a naughty little grin on your pretty face. Your eyes still sparkled.

"Innie or outie?" I asked, referring to the navel you'd just mentioned.

"Take me home now, and I'll show you", you answered.

I checked my watch - we'd arrived only 57 minutes ago. With a smile and a wink, you put your arm through mine, and we headed for the front door...

Cookies in the mail

2004-05-22T22:13:00.000-07:00

Dip and keep 6-10 seconds in cold milk while daydreaming.
Pull it out (of the milk), then rest the dipped part on your tongue.
Let the buttered cookie with chocolate filling melt as you savor the decadent yet cheap Keebler sandwich cookie.
Enjoy...

“Check your po box,” his last entry of today says, before I signed off.

Late Monday night, during my topsy-turvy emotional stroll in my worry garden, I wrote “Lost Heaven” and published it here. Tuesday morning while engaged on one-to-one, I told my friend-slash-lover to check my new entry. He did. After about 3 minutes of idle time for me, he messaged me his quick comment. Without quoting him (some things I don’t like to remember), as swift as his disheartened comment the door slammed and he was …. Pooof…… gone - out of my real-time AIM chat. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day - a display of niggle, I correctly assumed – as he deviated from our habitual locking of thoughts and keys through our ever reliable way of connection and relation.

Two days of dialogue exchange reminiscent of a lover’s spat in a soap opera were disconcerting and bewildering to two people who once shared a sexual agenda. We resolved the friction nonetheless. “I freaked out… I’m glad we’re still on track, babe” he wrote in his email.

Needless to say, lovers, friends, confidants, and soul searchers, back as we are.

I did what I was told; went to the post office and found a parcel waiting for me to claim. I waited ‘til I got home to open the impractical box my item(s) were cased as I yanked and twisted the cardboard just to get it to tear. I finally uncluttered my mailed objects through wrappings of old newspapers like some precious and fragile possessions, only to find yet the sweetest, most thoughtful aide-memoire - not in written form or fancy souvenir - only a thinking loved one would give me. My lover, who is 500 miles far-away, bought, wrapped, and paid the 6-dollar-something postage stamp only to send me my favorite snack of all – E.L. Fudges!

Original
Butter Flavored
Sandwich Cookies with Fudge Creme Filling
E.L.Fudge® Eating is Believing®

Lost Heaven

2004-05-18T11:29:00.000-07:00

I feel I have lost the capacity to write the verses that not too long ago would just be spewed out of my breath. For about three months now, I have floated, raised up in the air to smell, take in deep fresh breaths of optimism and faith. Something magical lifted me up. Love sent me to the heavens.

The seventh heaven. Can it get any higher? This is where I ought to stay; this place I wish to belong. The gladness of being completely inspired and moved by genuine, human love gets so incomprehensible that most of the time we doubt its existence. It inhabits every human being. Yet a lot of us are wary of accepting it. And why shouldn’t we be? Is it maybe because the moment we found our true love we realize that a more fortunate being has a claim to it, guards it, and is the sole keeper of his heart?

I wish I could just pick love as I would pick a number - a favorite one. Some people say we choose who we love. Do we really? I chose. And chose. And chose. But was I ever successful in keeping my all-time favorite number? Finally, I chose not to choose. I didn’t wait. I just sat there watching the world go by, minding my own business and living the predictable life and period I placed myself in.

Then one day it suddenly fell on my lap. Without searching, and without a list of numbers to select, my favorite number showed up.

I started my travel upwards to the skies. Exactly three months ago my heart rose with wings that carried me up, first to the hills of excitement, then easily soaring the mountains of newfound bliss. As I reached these refreshing peaks of pleasure, I felt as whole again as I respired his scent of love and undivided attention. The bright blue skies were so overwhelming he offered me the shade of his awning to comfort and protect my sensitized feelings. Until one day, the rays of the iniquitous sun took my sight as well as my breath away…

Now I feel like I am starting to fall; back to the solid ground I have been standing on three months ago. The sack of heavy defeat falls on my back and I need to carry it. As I travel back to earth, I accept the significant burden. And as hard as I try to raise myself up to the posture of pride and dignity, this weight bears me down, my head bowing, my eyes watching the ground underneath the once blue skies now turned grey. Tears swell up my desolate eyes as streams fall down the ground below like heavy rainfall from a miserable storm.

Not too long ago I reached the 7th heaven where I rested and floated on cloud nine. There I felt his love for a moment; was gladdened by it and renewed by its unsurpassed emotion. But once again, I descended, felled with a heavy thump. With sack on my back, I walk defeated, failed and with lost hope, I am alone and without love.

Mine to keep

2004-04-30T23:37:00.000-07:00

The Kindergarten teacher gives me her aunt's phone number. "Call Wanda," she says. "She has a couch that she is willing to give you. It's still in good condition."

Today, I was given my apartment key. With the help of two handy guy-friends, I hauled the first furniture to enter this new abode. We had a hard time getting the couch through the door (as always the case), but after minutes of tugging, pushing, pulling, and finally shoving, the sofa finally made its place. I could have sworn my couch gave a sigh of relief as much as I did. But I was smiling. I still am.

My couch. I like the sound of that. My apartment. My lock and key. Suddenly I feel wealthy. I just inherited the most valuable gift I could give myself. My independence.

In reality I know that my struggles will still continue. But at the same time, I believe challenges will be positively overwhelming. Life will not present itself on a silver platter; nevertheless it will be served to me. I will take its abundance and sift through the fine discerning cloth to separate negative impurities, throwing them in the air, while preserving the more treasured affirmative concours.

With key in hand, I unlock the door leading to my new life. As I enter the beige and sturdy door of salutation, a whiff of fresh air invigorates my soul. I awake; I come alive as I pass through a new hospitable home. Again, in transition, I breathe that faith in...

Such a cozy room, the windows are illuminated
By the evening sunshine through them,
Fiery gems for (you) me, only for me...
- Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

The keeper of my heart

2004-04-25T23:14:00.000-07:00

My friend and I like to talk about everything. The exclusivity of the topic of sex is a completely different area in our relationship. Of course our sexual relationship is not only nonstandard, it is also classified. After all, we don’t always have it habitually or routinely as much as we would like to, but it is what it is and we’re succumbed to this actuality. With awareness of our own independent lives, we settle in our world of friendship and the wisdom of knowing that in the end we don’t belong to each other. Our insight is parallel, yet our individual existence remains clear of each other. Tragic, but true.

We also confront the subject of love even more significant than sex. He tells me he’ll stay with me until love finds me again. I respond to have found love. He adds that this love should be from a man who will be mine for keeps. And as long as this keeper hasn’t found me, my lover will be with me – in mind and spirit.

It is tragic. Romantics shouldn’t be hearing, let alone, uttering these ominous words. But we are realists in the sense that we know this consummation will meet its end; when exactly, I don’t know. I only know what he makes me. I know I am growing in our silent nearness. My flower now blooms in what used to be a barren land in my heart. My earth is moist and rich again, and soon I know more colorful flora will grow. With new seeds of hope, the petals of charity will once again appear from the blooms of faith; my faith. It is in the thirst for inspiration that will give way to the keeper of my heart. As far as I know he has my heart. He has it wholly, fully, and cleanly without impurities and toxicity. Only he shall have this for as soon as the guardian claimed ownership of it, I am most convinced its virtue will be corrupted by sins of jealousy, selfishness and possessiveness. My love affair with this soulful man is not without sin; as a matter of fact, in moralistic concerns, it is labeled sinful. However, I am not guilty of the sins of jealousy which would give way to deceitful ways to make him mine for good. I steer clear of the possessiveness. I don’t claim to own his loyalty, but rather I have his restricted love and affection.

He and I are not free to keep each other, yet we poignantly express freedom with our bodies, heart and mind. And in our pleasure, we give and receive not only the desires of our fueling hearts, but also the pain and suffering of frustrations and despair.

In the garden of pleasure, I am his flower and he is my bee.

Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn
that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,
but it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.
for to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,
and to the flower a bee is a messenger of love,
and to both, bee and flower,
the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.
- Kahlil Gibran

Pot of gold

2004-04-23T17:36:00.000-07:00

The 3-bedroom apartment is bare. It is very decent in architecture. For its modern features, the kitchen nook is my favorite part. The first time I entered this soon-to-be abode, I smiled; I shut my eyes for a few seconds, and there it was: HOME.

Like a newborn baby skin's scent, the air that surrounds my present life is innocent, yet fragrant. As muddled as circumstances may appear to be, my resolve to take the new sequence of life’s continuity is well thought-out. Colors may be amiss, but the rainbow that hides beneath the fogs of hope will point me to the pot of gold. I shall reach the end of the hidden rainbow. The treasure will be waiting for me to keep, and make use of. It is my reward for my affirmative attitude, and for the once struggled frays with my own self. I now find myself almost reaching the pinnacle of liberty to free my own trapped spirits from what used to be an unending loop of shoddy endeavors.

I am a rock. I am an island.
- Simon & Garfunkel

Lost at the sea of thoughts

2004-04-21T03:35:00.000-07:00

This sea breeze refreshes me as it fans out all the impurities of my semblance. He is the blue ocean of my dreams. I sail with him in endless waters without charts; for we cannot outline our journeys to our world's endless horizons...

He was gone for exactly a week. I couldn't believe the effect this had on me. Talk about missing a friend... this almost confirms I am so lost without him. Strangely enough, we do not even belong to each other to miss the physical presence of one another. He is my partner in crime, my confidant, my priest and confessor all-in-one. He is the big guy I can allow myself to fall because he would without a doubt catch me. With no reservation I can commit my sadness and tears and not be taken as vulnerable and pitiful. He is my awesome friend, the guy whose aura can beat the most beautiful of sunny days in Alaska. He is the only person who has ever called me from sea where I allowed my thoughts to wander; and wonder I did about the smile on his face as he pressed the mobile phone against his ear and cheek. Was the boat moving in rapid waves of the deep or shallow waters? Did he feel the salted scent of the seawind on his face and bare arms while standing on the vessel's bow? And was he smiling, his eyes twinkling in gaiety while listening to my jovial banter?

Yes, I believe he was all of the above, for certainly I know what he made me feel. And enduringly what he does to me is...

he makes me smile.

Speak to us of giving

2004-04-17T23:16:00.000-07:00

The lady janitor who has made this job her career of 20 years hands me an old brass lamp. "It is old and needs a new bulb, but otherwise it still works," she says to me, with a thoughtful smile.

When you are at a time in your life the plague of pessimism starts to spread around your universe, you are at this place, sinking in a bottomless pit. You continue falling while you wait for your ultimate death as you crash on the hard, callous surface of the earth.

Then out of the dark blue hole, arms reach out grabbing and catching you. Hearts reveal themselves, alive with so much beat, as you find yourself following the rhythms. You are amazed that you seek solace and welcome the generosity of these unexpected visitors.

The dawn of optimism breaks the day and however malignant the disease of negativity had earlier infected your soul during your fall, you begin to rise; you look up to see the light peeking out of the well and smile as you climb out of your dark blurry grave.

Where I live the population numbers to 2,000. As you do your daily chores around this small community of simple folk, you come across familiar faces. Sometimes you forget names, and even faces. But the smile or the courteous greeting is always recognizable. This humble fishing locale surprisingly hosts a full line of resources to assist, volunteer, and offer charity. This is a collective lending hand. Classes are defined but not prejudiced. This small band of towsnfolk have formed volunteer help groups to assist the elderly, the youth, the impoverished and indigents, those with handicaps and disability - whether physical or mental, the social-underclass, the victims of varied abuses, children, wives, tagless dogs and lost cats, injured crows and seagulls, and most recently, me.

All of a sudden I find myself a victim of unconditional generosity. I am besieged by offers of the many forms of help - whether they be material or emotional. I am overwhelmed by people's atypical desire to donate their personal (and once valuable) effects as soon as the note on the memo board says I am in need. I am brought to tears not because of pity for myself, but of humanity's ability for compassion. And as uncomfortable I have been at first, I must remember and understand that I shall accept with open-arms the goodness of humankind, and to show acceptance of their gift with a simple, uncomplicated gratitude, and an uncompromising smile.

Even though I've always given mankind the benefit of doubt, many a bad experience gave way to cynicism and cold-heartedness. Once more I find myself believing the purity of the human entity. Another path comes my way. As I begin this new passage my heart is once again fed and my body is energized. I trudge my transitional road once more, bearing a smile at the meeting eyes of the unblemished, naked, and unmitigated giver-being.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward...
There are those who give and know not pain in giving...
Nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue.
And you receivers... assume no weight of gratitude,
lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.
Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings.
- Kahlil Gibran

Eve's curse

2004-04-11T23:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I blame my parents for making me a girl instead of a boy. When I was growing up I loved playing with boys. I even fistfought with some of the shitheads whenever they told me I was a slow runner, or chanted "you are ugly" repeatedly. My mother was warned by one teacher about my behavior because she worried I was a tomboy. "She's too pretty to be a boy," this teacher commented.

Tomboy was regarded as lesbian in our society. Sure I was a tomboy. I ran with the boys, played ball, immitated their walk, kicked their asses, and once, even spat at an antagonizer. This empowerment over my gender and the other class lasted until I graduated from elementary school. My male comrades were both sad and happy to bid farewell as we went our separate ways into higher schools.

Then my body started to surprise me. Two lumps started appearing on my chest. I knew what they were but I didn't want them. I tried to hide (them); I couldn't, though. Day by day they grew. I was disgusted at the transformation, and cursed out loud everytime they get bumped on doors, walls, things that stood upright, including careless stupid people. I became aware, and then I realized that these booby traps were damn sensitive.

As puberty slapped my tomboyish persona, my mother decided to buy me a bra. The constriction this piece of garment cum armor made me gasp for air. I constantly tugged and itched. Although it protected the fragility of my growing hills, I was disappointed about how the 'constrictor' made them even more prominent, after all I thought the bra was to obscure the breasts.

Boys started growing, too. Along with the change in voice and appearance of hair on their face and body, their personality seemed to be converting. Some of them even paid me attention, and I could have sworn one of the bastards even touched my tits under pretense that it was an accidental bump.

Thirteen years after my parents introduced me to the world, I became a woman.

Forty years later, I am still the feisty tomboy who wouldn't let a boy overstep me. My temperament has caused me mistakes and failures, but at the same time gave me successes. Men came and went. We played, we fought, we confided, and we separated. Growing up a tomboy while emulating boys' actions has made me accessible as a peer to them. I could relate with men and understand their needs and desires of women, especially, but once I am the woman they want to divulge those wants and needs, I no longer could carry on the fellowship. My relationships with men beyond friendship seem to be a pattern of meltdowns.

Mimicking the childhood game of tag, I continue to run and avoid being tagged, only to be caught eventually and run some more. Only this time I chase to tag, corner him, and finally make him 'it'.

Monkey Business

2004-04-10T01:02:00.000-07:00

My mother said while growing up I was a real picky eater. I also reacted to seafood, especially shrimp. At one point I was fed beef and pig's liver cooked in different ways- at least once a day - because I needed the extra iron due to my anemia. But the one thing clear on my mind was how much I loved eating bananas with my Asian rice meal. Now in those days, I didn't know bananas came in different varieties; big and fat, long and large, short and stumpy, small and skinny, sweet, bland, yellow flesh, white flesh. Where I originated, every backyard had at least one banana tree. Local people even cook bananas! Not just for desserts, but as a main dish, too!

But me, I like 'em raw.

Where I now live I only get the "American" bananas. Whether or not they're imported from some hot, tropical island, who knows. I buy them at the store for a dollar and some cents per pound. Compared to the bananas I grew up eating, these GI bananas are smooth, long, perfectly curved like a half moon, and deliciously sweet. I spend a great deal of time picking the best looking bunch whenever I'm doing my rounds at the store.

I recently met my monkey. I adore him. He is ape-like because he has a hairy face (although the rest of his body isn't furry at all). He is like the gentle orang-utan who makes me smile and laugh everytime I needed to cheer up. He has long, slender arms that reach around my body and grab me just like how a parent primate would hold his baby. My monkey also has the strength of a gorilla; he is strong, powerful, commanding, and aggressively sexy. And this adorable, mankey just loves to eat, you guessed it right, BANANAS!

Destiny has its way of showing people linkage. Imagine the significance of this favorite fruit. Of all tropical fruits, the genus Musa showed itself up again in my transitional colorful life totally unexpectedly. I met the lover of my dreams by accident, he became the bestest of my male friends. Although I found him on a website, he provided me an address to directly contact him, and it said "monkey" on it...

Swing in this tree
Oh I am bounce around so well
Branch to branch
limb to limb you see
all in a day's dream
I'm stuck
Like the other monkeys here
I am a humble monkey
- dave matthews band

Spring forward, fall back

2004-04-05T01:48:00.000-07:00

Today we switch our clocks an hour forward. Because it's spring, clocks spring forward, whereas in fall, clocks fall back. It is daylight saving time. Saving is used here as a verbal adjective to modify 'time' and to tell us more of its nature, which would be characterized by the activity of saving daylight. It is a daylight saving kind of time. To understand this better, think of book reading time.

This shifting gives people more use of the extended daylight. Others don't appreciate the alteration; simple complaints such as adjusting to a new sleep schedule and the inconvenience of fussing with timepieces. For most people, this is a mere nuisance, but people with sleep disorders find this transition very difficult.

I like change. Change is good, whether it is a permanent or a temporary undertaking. Usually it is brought about by some necessity, or resulting from losses or heartaches. People sometimes fail to realize that change is just another path; another road less travelled. We fall short in realizing that new schedules have to be outlined. Mornings are earlier as the sun peeks out of the mountains prematurely, only to hide lazily at dusk.

Like the 24 hour clock of time, our life is an evolution of circular comings and goings. And even as we age and transform to take on different roles, we remain the same timepiece that preserves its meter with dials and tunings. We wind ourselves to hear the tick-tock of every second, completing a minute, revolving into hours, and before we know it, another day has passed, and thus begins another cycle of time and life.

I embrace change for it reforms oneself and one's life. Circle life continually in its fullest, but take small steps at a time; seconds before minutes. Pause and take heed as you go through the world... my world of colorful and seasonal transitions...

Strange Season

2004-04-03T23:22:00.000-08:00

Spring started more than a week, yet since its arrival we've had ten inches of snow with temperatures that can certainly ruin my enthusiasm for the season's true colors. Heavy freezing rainfall followed suit turning that white blanket to muddy slush; and just as I was feeling hope for dry land, this time, little spheres of ice were sprinkled on us by the gods of the heavens. But like a prankster's joke, the brief shower of hail melted halfway towards its descent to our earth. More rain. Then sometime one midnight, I heard thunderous voices as whirlwinds began to circle and blow. The power of the winds were strong enough for me to feel the house shake. Then as the dawn broke the next day, a strange light hit my sleeping eyes. And there it was peeking through my satin curtains, spring sunshine early in the morning!

Spring is here
Why doesn't the breeze delight me
Stars appear
Why doesn't the night invite me
But maybe it's because nobody loves me
Spring is here i hear
Somebody told me spring is here
- Nina Simone

Sleep Deprivation

2004-04-03T00:04:00.000-08:00

I see no pictures in my clouded and tired mind. I’m exhausted, however fortunate that it’s been an easy day – TGIF. We dress casually on Fridays at work. Even more unfussy than the already laid-back wear in small city Cordova. We have a Spring Christmas party. We exchange white elephant gifts. I don’t know why it is named that, but I play along. This is my third year doing the obligatory work party, and I wish they’d organize something different and unique. This is getting really old. The salsa dip is lousy, too. I didn't know they put baby shrimps in them... Uugh.

My brain goes into a coma sometime this afternoon. And just when I am to translate a long letter – from English to another foreign language – poof, there goes my head! My left hand feels lifeless and I see my fingers trembling while tapping the keys. I try to focus again and find the spot where I’d left my last thoughts. I’m paralyzed up there. I give up… I better put my head down on the desk and steal some rest.

Sleep deprivation. I worry and envision my delicate future and that of my children’s. What lies ahead in my future is extremely vital. I plan ahead. I set my goals. But I don’t sleep at a decent time so I awake at 7:00 AM without remorse from last night's lack of planning. I should already be under the falling water in the shower cubicle.

The earth is pulling my eyelids down. If I don’t get my hands off this keyboard, I will drool on it while my head falls and my chin touches my chest. So here’s goodnight for now.

This day has ended.
- Kahlil Gibran

Happy Love

2004-04-01T17:18:00.000-08:00

You've never left that place in my heart. I feared , though, that you'd stray to a place where you couldn't feel me wanting you. Please don't. I need to feel you beside me.
- SB

Today I reunite with happiness and love. It may have only been a couple of days when I thought I had lost these two most sought after and rewarding of emotions, for it seemed like I have endured a lifetime of heartaches. He woos me to get me back in his arms. At 40 years old this puppy-love sensation is comparable to the blissful times of one's younger days; the poise I carry as the most popular girl in school, the excitement in receiving my very first 2-wheeled bike, the beaming pride of a full-pledged teenager as I celebrate my 13th birthday, and the tingling delight my captivated heart signals to every pore of my skin sending wild goose bumps every time I see my very first love.

He welcomes me like the colors of spring...

Your new blog entries are like the early sun as it peeks shyly from the edge of the earth at dawn. The sky is lightening and the world is beginning to stir again. Full daylight is once again on its way, and with it the warmth and comfort that we know it will bring. Welcome back. UMakeMeSmile. - SB

Once More

2004-04-01T01:42:00.000-08:00

Seems unlikely that one would be doing laundry at half past midnight, but that's what it is for me. The timing is perfect to lay all the clothes in the middle of the living room, flick a lampswitch, and feed the stereo with Nora Jones. Once again the house is mine. Yet again, my soul is mine.

The melancholy of the night is unsettling. Just when I am starting to understand the serenity of a place and favor it now for the bustling world I lived in, the recent sense of joy falters and my resilience to the surroundings wavers. It is a state of my mind as my heart dictates this somberness.

As swiftly as love enters my craving spirit, hastily it leaves me. Once more, I find myself alone.

And in healing, I will remember ...

Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night;
To know the pain of too much tenderness;
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstacy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart
And a song of praise upon your lips.
- Kahlil Gibran

Swan Songs

2004-03-30T03:38:00.000-08:00

My last narrative spoke about being consistent in keeping up with the regular log I have freshly started. I haven’t written here in the last 5 days or so. The last entry covered my interpretation of the value (of) CONSISTENCY, and here I am failing to pursue the concept. Arguably, I haven’t failed… yet. I have some good excuses for missing those days and failing to put my thoughts in; but it is pointless now to write and justify those skipped logs. Let’s move on to more important and (hopefully) engaging personal revelations.

The last few weeks have been so radically transforming for me. I not only met a new lover/friend (see previous archives) and renewed my faith in friendship, I also started seeing different aspects and the individualism of what make interconnecting relationships work.

For these last 3 years I have been on roller coaster rides and endless circular trips to the highs and lows of unknown destinations. My journeys to supposedly life goals had no plotted directions. Some moments I thought I knew what I was traversing; only I didn’t have a map to help me find these routes. I journeyed to, and returned from, nowhere.

Lately, a new individual has been the focus of my diversion. He is for the moment the effective influence behind the basic but equally important challenges of my day-to-day undertakings. He on the other hand conveys to me that I feed his 43 year-old embodiment the sense of worth and pride he's always hungered for. While he helps me envision things through his lucid sight, I commit to the task of offering my undivided attention to his emotional requirements. We compliment and complement one another. All of our known senses are stirred by the waves of our combined essence. Thus, I begin to open up to what will compound and heighten my pursuits in this stirring transition I am currently crossing.

Stumbling upon each other in an uncharacteristic manner was the cause and/of which the effects were summarized here. We began with ardent and quick email exchanges hinting mutual infatuation and interest. This was followed by considerable intense discussions, highly expressive in our now longer and prominent correspondences; the eloquent letters laid out brazen and emotional interaction even without the benefit of history. And at last, a fluky yet perfectly timed rendezvous of 2 broken days and nights in a given place was rewarded to us, wherein we tested the waters of our desires, and joyously succeeded in confirming the tacit but, understood, equally shared, extraordinary sense of awe, affection, and admiration.

And so the swan sings her song as she dies...

Fragrance of a flower

2004-03-25T09:45:00.000-08:00

A delicate scent lingers in my memory. An exotic fragrance from a tropical land. Warm sand with gentle surf line the shores of the islands in my dream. I am not alone, in this dream. A sensual creature, a warm and sharing lover, holds me. Together we explore, discover and create. We remain connected over miles of ocean, forest and mountain. Our grip is firm, yet gentle. We smile. And continue our lives.

From consistency to sick needs

2004-03-24T23:20:00.000-08:00

I try to make it a point to blog everyday. I really want to get into a real hobby, or habit – a good one at that – and be CONSISTENT. My significant word for today.

CONSISTENCY. Preferably, for me to use it as a noun than an adjective, it is defined as a harmonious uniformity, reliability, or agreement of successive results or events. A logical coherence to serve a principle or a purpose.

My lover slash friend and I talked about this today and how I wanted this characteristic applied to our unique and unconventional relationship. I told him I want consistency. He asked me of course what I meant by it. But while asking me that question, he had already assumed (or guessed) differently. He didn’t quite get the meaning of my wont, but I somehow expected it would be misinterpreted. Men easily assume and get sort of defensive (uh-oh I hope I don’t get crucified for saying this). Notably my new friend, an exemplar family man, in our early acquaintance had clearly told me of his firsthand priorities. Needless to say, I will never be the first choice - which to me is sensible and understandable. Regardless, I made him recognize the value of how his consistency would be gratifying to our relationship and to me. After all, I am his "special friend.” And so, our discussion about my needs ended amicably.

Let's be consistent. We do not fail in our regularities. Practice good habits. Need it end, break it to me; just don't evaporate into thin air.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

While most people won't nod at my unconventional ways, ultimately, it is still my call. To put myself in a situation, or a predicament such as this can only constitute heartbreak and a tragic end to the connection we would initially establish (and in this case - have already done so). So you ask, why do it, duh?

It is because I have needs. Selfish, impossible or otherwise, they are still legitimate needs. A person comments that I am traversing on a dangerous path. (Well, not exactly those words in effect, but along those lines.) She opines I want to embark on this assignation (again, not her precise words – but I like to play with my own) to fulfill my sick needs (these are her words now).

Sick or not (NOT, in my belief) I made damn sure I realized those needs. One can only fill her cup if she would want it filled. She would want it filled because she is thirsty. Doesn't that make sense? In simpler terms, if you have a need and you certainly know where and how to obtain it, I say, "Go get it!" Whether or not your methods are appropriate or questionably pure, the desires cannot be labeled ‘sick’. But that's another topic to discuss (maybe next time)

As far as I'm concerned, the politically (mentally?) incorrect phrase, "sick needs" ought to be rearticulated.

Call me sick but don’t call my needs sick…. after all, I only happen to be a living thing.

Of men and truffles

2004-03-24T00:04:00.000-08:00

My day started pretty good, and it kinda got stuck.. the pretty good part. Until now.

Why do men yell at their wives? Why do wives yell at their husbands? Why all the yelling in front of the kids? Are we blind? Or are we just so selfish, thoughtless, and abusive as human beings? Do we really have to resort to therapies and popping anti-depressants so we can take control of our emotions? Why are we so angry at the ones closest to us?

I understand the complex human being because I am one. I do like to think I take in life's lessons day by day, or at every situation that promotes heavy contemplating. And yes, we are human beings capable of making irrational arguments. We are all guilty of that. But we can't expect to be acting like loonies everytime we raise a point with a partner/spouse/parent... etc. At some point, one calms down and actually listens. As intelligent, educated mature people, we digest every word. We point out reasons instead of making excuses. At 40 years old you are no longer expected to pout and sulk and say, "fine! you hurt my feelings!" just because you ran out of arguments. Emotional blackmail is so low. Even for pitiful cute women. Women though actually get away with that antic! They do it to their sucker boyfriends because these such sweet and loving men or husbands just bleed everytime they see their poor beloved crying and so vulnerable.

However... a man is not normally known to make a face, although he is more popular to retort (after he's ran out of excuses) such as, "well fuck you... you don't even respect me!" Duhhhh! How friggin cheap! I can't say I've been there, done them shit, but I came to a point where I have ALMOST lost my entire faith in men....

Then from nowhere, without venturing, I met a man. He tells me he can be a dickhead everytime he hears me praise him. He wants me to believe that he is not the "great guy" I describe him to be. But I strongly disagree with him. I met this stranger out of the blue. He could have gotten away with lies that would make his chances actually better (in hooking up with sexy girls), but he had to be a man of honor. He had to be honest. Now how the hell can that be possible? If you want to get laid, you lie - especially if you're married. But how the heck can you turn a woman on if you told her you're married and that you loved your wife dearly? Tell me if that make sense or what?

I try to find answers to that one. Hmmm. Maybe that's the strategy. I don't think so, especially if you're a novice in the extra-marital dating scene. Maybe a dumb dickhead? NOT! He's got graduate degrees and freelances as a magazine writer. In other words (duhh) he is brilliant! Anyone would know that if you write, you are expressive. And if you are expressive, you pour your thoughts and knowledge into a piece so you can share that knowledge. Right?

Swish! Eliminate dumbdickhead. So what's left on our multiple choice question?

Under some weird leap of fate (pun intended) I hooked up with this guy. Mentally at first, later on progressing to a physical contact. I had to test the waters, my scientific hypothesis still in mind. I became more and more drawn to him, then "taken" - the word he actually used - by him. I couldn't help it. This is one of those decadent luxuries you simply cannot say 'NO' to. And boy, was he decadent! Talk about the truffles of men. I had to be the gourmand to try this sweet flavor, no matter what.

Which brings me back to where I started. Are men distinct from each other? Do they belong to the same species or alien form from Mars? Are they categorized according to age, status, upbringing, values, morality, etc? Are they in classifications under married, divorced, single, gigolo, unexperienced, desperately married, desperately single, frustrated, dickwad-husbands, hen-pecked husbands, suckers, mama's-boys, etc etc etc??? Who knows!

But, ahh, the mysteries of MEN kind.... I'm glad I'm a woman, but I'm not glad I have to figure men out. In the meantime... I only want to love them, and I know I can't live without them... therefore I will continue to live life as the contrast, cute, and vulnerable woman all put together...

pout, pout, sulk, sulk... :(

Of skies and you

2004-03-23T12:12:00.000-08:00

I wake up and I smell coffee beans. A mocha latte is alluring.

Why is it that one wakes up early on holidays and weekends but struggles on a working morning? Today looks like a lesser of a sunny day than the previous days. Clouds seem to appear gray; definitely an overcast sky.

The past pretty bright sunshiny (need I emphasize more?) two days were prolonged by overcast gray skies in this newfound place I'm in.

You sent me to that place of rainbows and songs; Of starry nights and warm bodies; Of shared laughter and spontaneous explorations; Of tensed meetings and simultaneous orgasms. Two nights of the quest for paradise lost was later found. Two minds meeting in limbo were sent back to where they came from. Two cold, shivering dusks 'til dawns were obscured by intense heat from our joined skins.

I went through the confusion between hot and cold, dark and bright, right and wrong, sunny and overcast, on those two short days and nights. I died and was born in your sweet limited love. I reached the tops of the tallest mountains as we trekked them together. Your body in mine, guiding me, holding me, tightly embracing me to keep me from falling. And as I reached those heights you didn't let go, but instead rejoiced in our prized goal. You hid in my cloak. Obediently, I draped you. As you passionately entered my dark world, I unabashedly sheltered you.

Two days of seeing the sun set at dusk, and hesitantly meeting each dawn, two lovers were formed. Two days of bright and overcast skies, a mysteriously beautiful friendship was born.

However gray the skies are today, as I imagine your blue-sky smile, my wonderment of life will not cease. Instead I come alive to confront each struggling day.

I will never forget the paths of our journeys.

Two days after

2004-03-22T20:46:00.000-08:00

My back feels a heavy load even as I lay on a comfortable bed. Could it have been the position I was in? Morning is cold as I scramble for my blanket. The person next to me continues to sleep in reckless abandon. I don't have to stop to think. I think of you. My back aches more. My limbs are dull. I lie down some more. Falling asleep last night while James Taylor's concert on DVD was a good idea. Boy, is he old. His bald head doesn't do justice to his sweet baby james face. But that voice is still mellow and soothing.

Remote controls in hand, I power the DVD player and TV. Ok, let me get pass the new songs. I know, I know, it isn't fair. The guy went on tour to promote his new songs, but hey, old hits are going to remain favorites. Even the audience agrees. Look at them middle aged folks. Couples, actually. As the camera crew studies the audience, I could tell this concert was meant for dating old couples reminiscing the good times... the 70s.

"I've seen fire and I've seen rain... I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end. I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend. But I always thought that I'd see you again. There's just a few things coming my way this time around..."

No shit.

So, where do I go from here? Nowhere. Live by the day. Focus on other things. No obsessions. Feel the ache for now. Pine if I have to. Cry if I need to. But bear with me. Don't cut me off. Not just yet. Let me enjoy the memories of the joy, and at the same time embrace the sorrows that come after.

As The Prophet spoke:
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
... When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. --- Kahlil Gibran

I'll remember those words. And my 150mg Zoloft everyday.

The morning after you

2004-03-22T00:55:00.000-08:00

Morning is bright, the sun stabs its rays through my curtains. Hungry, I go to my used kitchen. The children were just here, I say to myself. Hmmmm... there's eggs and dirty dishes.

But I make a stop at the mini AIWA. I have been ignoring this one for a while. It's the fucking computer, that's why. I don't have to spend my long fickle time looking for music. I just purchased Jackson Browne's very best album from my recent multi-purpose trip to Anchorage. The new inductee Rock and Roll Hall of Fame - Jackson Browne.

Two CD's of his greatest songs. I don't recognize some of them, I mused. I put CD no. 2 in. Running on Empty plays. I crank up the volume. Very nice... what a sexy voice.

Then ... I remember you.

I go back to my stomach's purpose. I see a piece of pizza on a tray that belongs to the toaster oven. I open the fridge door, well.... there's my bottle of Diet Lemon Coke that I bought from Wal-Mart. The friggin coke is not over yet, I smile to myself. It's come a long way. Coke and pizza, I am ready for breakfast.

But you just won't leave me alone.

Jackson Browne sings more songs. Then suddenly I hear him... "you've got to be somebody's baby...."

No shit.

I see you everywhere. I see every bit of you; each line on your face, every curve of your muscle. I feel you; the softness of your hair and how it contrasts with your muscular hard body. I smell you on myself. Your sweet breath lingers. I hear your breathing as you lay there. With me. With your head on my chest. You make raspy soft breathing sounds as you inhale, more alive as you exhale. I watch you sleep and I know I have fallen in my deepest pit. I tell your sleeping form that I adore you. I close my eyes to study my own feelings. I probably am just fucking desperate, I try to convince myself. But, no. That's not it. I could lie but not to myself.

I love this man, I finally confronted my worst enemy. Myself. I love this man. And it fucking hurts...

A Lover's Song

2004-03-21T21:24:00.000-08:00

Note: This poem can now be viewed on my other blog site

http://wildylang2.blogspot.com