Predictably Unpredictable that would be a proper tagline for me, though I heard myself described as Magic few times already both by my ex whom I was married for over twenty years and often said he has no grip on me and also by my current partner who calls me an Enigma from time to time saying I never fail to surprise him and there are so many facets in my personality that it is impossible to peg me down.

Free-spirited, that’s another thing most people who know me better say I am. Most of the relationships I had had failed because I cannot conform to the picture of someone they had in mind. They say I cannot be owned and tied down. When they think they had me, I proved them wrong by flying away. Elusive, gypsy, stubborn, independent and confident, I heard myself being described like that. Sometimes I agree, sometimes not. I find that being in a relationship doesn’t mean one has to be tied down, put in a box and owned. You don’t necessarily have to know the person inside out (besides I find it impossible to really know someone one hundred percent. People grow and people evolved. The person you knew ten years ago will not be the same person today) a little bit of mystery is good for the relationship anyway. It keeps the union fresh and exciting, don’t you think so?

My son once called me bohemian (whatever that means) and a MILF (to his friends my daughter said which surprised me because I have another idea of what a MILF is) I wonder how he will describe his father. My daughter, on the other hand, has countless descriptions of me, none of them ‘mother.’

What I think is: we are a lot of things to a lot of people, depending on who is viewing. In the end, it all comes down to perception. Most of it has nothing to do with who we really are and often the opposite of how we think of ourselves.

For now, I will stick to what I’ve said at the beginning of this post; predictably unpredictable will be the closest description of who I am at the moment so I decided it will be my tagline.


Maybe next time

Where to begin?

Today, (3:51) for the first time, I really start to consider a probable solution for my on-going problem. (Insomnia) I never even toy with the idea before, but months of not being able to sleep at night and being drawn to bed at dawn forced me to think the unthinkable.

As long as I can remember, I have this strange bond with the night. I could be dead tired working whole day, but when the sun goes down, I feel re-charged! Energetic! As if there is some electric current running through my body. I feel excited, euphoric, alive and almost happy!

When it gets dark, I feel so different, like I suddenly possess some extra senses and the other five are working much, much keener, sharper, stronger. It makes me restless. I want per se to move, to do something, to channel energy and whatever it is that is happening to me. I started taking long walks at an early age, later, it manifested in different strange ways and habits; like hanging around videokes, doing graveyard shifts, combing the whole areas for fiestas, outdoors parties for no matter how recluse or introvert I am, I cannot be confined. I hate discos and closed places. I need to be in the middle of the people in open areas, I need space!

What I did  when I was younger was organized get together in strange places in the middle of the night, like playing spirit of the glass in town cemetery, breaking in empty houses, sitting on the roof of some school building watching the moon, sleeping in churches, and spending nights in catastrophe areas. I remember when a whole subdivision collapsed due to some engineering faults, the place looks like some ghost town but to me it looks beautiful! I did everything in my power to be able to get in there even though the place was heavily guarded. We spent few nights there, me and a group of young kids. Till some few years ago I always surrounded myself with pretty, young people. I like them around me. I fed on their innocence, energy, enthusiasm and zest. They inspired me and heal my wandering soul in some ways.


When I get older and circumstances rendered me almost prisoner, I turned to books, and later in writing. I often let myself be locked in, in a library or museum. The time I spent there was one of the few happiest moments in my life. I felt like a kid in a candy/toy store.

When situations unable me to continue my odd nocturnal habits, I contented myself by redecorating my house or rearranging furniture in the middle of the night till dawn. Of course it wasn’t the same, but I’ve got to do something, anything. In worse cases, I sorted out my closet and watched old films. Very degrading.

Today, lying next to D. I think the unthinkable; what if I give in to inevitable? What if I taste blood? Before, I would not even consider it, I thought the idea would repulse me, but no, it was… tempting. I closed my eyes and imagine a warm blood sliding across my tongue through my throat, the thought is sort of inviting, exciting even. I could almost taste the fluid, and contrary to what I expected, it brought smile on my face.

I reached out and touched D.’s warm body, it felt good! I looked at his neck and felt the main artery underneath, it pulsed and throbbed  under my fingers, I thought… would I like the taste? Would it be liberating? Will I find my true calling? Could it ease my nerves? Can it cure my restlessness and insane wanderings?

I removed my hand from his neck reluctantly saying to myself: “Maybe next time. Maybe next time…”


Close, But No Cigar

Tell us about a time things came this close to working out… but didn’t. What happened next? Would you like the chance to try again, or are you happy with how things eventually worked out?

Way back in the year 2000, I’ve been to a place where there were only fifty houses and all of the inhabitants family; either by blood or by marriage. One had to walk four kilometres just to buy bread, but it was always a pleasant walk because we were accompanied by constant sounds of the nearby streams and the divine smells of coffee flowers; it was like a dream. A dream that lasted three months.

The thing I remember the most about the place was the rain. It always rain. Not the rain we or I normally know of. It was like there was typhoon every day. The people there laughed at me because for them it was normal. The place was between two mountains, hauling wind and torrent were nothing but a part of their daily existence.

That was also the time I considered to settle down and get married. My dream was to own a nipa hut by the creek surrounded with flowers, keep some pigs and chickens, have a baby boy who smells good and a husband who comes home in the evening from working in the mountains bearing a whole banana bunch and carrying a big bolo tied around his middle. Then he will look at me with undisguised desire in his eyes and you can fill in the blank. I did, still do from time to time. Silly I know but…

There was the perfect place, together with the perfect someone who made me realized that “peaceful” was/is good enough reason to consider tying down with someone. Close, but unfortunately no cigar. Our worlds are too far apart. It was heaven at that moment but reality is different. I went home and he stays.

I was for a time devastated. So much so that I wrote a book about it and a sequel on how I dream or want the story, our story to develop. In book two, I let go of myself; I poured my heart out, my desire, my longing onto the pages. Those dreams reside now in a shoe box inside the closet. Never seen by any other pair of eyes but mine.

Would I like the chance to try again? The answer is no. I have other priorities now, other goals, different desire.

Am I happy with how things eventually worked out? Yes and no. Yes because what I have now is quite similar but upgraded minus the pigs and chickens. It’s also peaceful. In fact, too much of it sometimes it drives me crazy. No, because the passion that was there in my previous life is missing and I’m a very passionate person; but I know in life we can impossibly have everything…



I always think there is too much stress placed on possessions.  They don’t bring happiness, not even comfort. Some of the most contended people I know live in  cottages no bigger than rich people’s garages, but they keep a good table and a glowing hearth; they have a good quantity of bedding and crockery, a patch of vegetables garden and a few hens, and it is as if they owned the earth; they seem to want for nothing more.  Once you start acquiring, the impulse becomes a habit. I should know… 



Lonely people tend, rather, to be lonely because they decline to bear the psychic costs of being around other humans. They are allergic to people. People affect them too strongly. ~ David Foster Wallace

I tend to believe this.  I, for one need at least days if not weeks, to recuperate after being with people. I feel they suck my energy. I can sense their troubles, sadness, and pain. Even in the streets, strangers who accidentally brush past me always leave something behind and I can feel it sticking on my skin, burrowing itself through my pores, ending up in my system keeping me awake whole night.

Lately it is getting much worse. I can hardly stand a visit from family members, even my own children exhaust me. I feel they are invading my privacy and crumbling my structure, messing up my otherwise settled day; I can’t wait for them to go away so I can lie in my bed under the sheets, trembling.

I wonder if there is someone out there who replays in their heads all the conversations that went on during encounters with people, analyzing every word of what has been said and looking for a better approach to improve the communications and connections, looking for hidden meaning and motives among them.

Or it is just me, being plain crazy…


images: d30nay5 & dolcecaramella


If I could have any author –living or dead – write my biography, who would I choose?

Hmmm… tricky. I would like to say the great Edgar Allan Poe or the Mighty Stephen King but despite of all the strange occurrences, hallucinatory personal experiences and numerous encounters with the unknown I still think they are the wrong writers to pen my life.

I briefly debated between Charlotte Brontë and Lesley Pearse and even considered Philippa Gregory for all the obvious reasons but in the end if there is someone who is going to write my Memoirs or (Auto)biography that would be no other than me.

I know myself and my story better than anyone else. Who could bring them to life more vivid and truer than the one who experience them personally? I alone know the horror, the difficulties, the joy and sorrow of what I’ve been through, I can recall them like no one else and I alone can give justice to those feelings which is (I believe) necessary to write those kinds of books to make it real and effective rather just an account of one’s personal life.

No, there will be no ghostwriter necessary for me.



She’d put up some sort of mental curtain and she had always thought it was strong but she didn’t know for sure. Certainly there were holes in it and if you look through them you run the risk of seeing things in purple haze. Beyond that you maybe don’t want to see. It’s better not to look, just as it is better not even to glance at yourself in the mirror…



“There is a place so pure and true, beyond your deep and restless thoughts you’ll find an imaginative longitude for dear shelter, completely lost in time… It’s made of love, of magic dreams, where you can be yourself and free… Where roses of white and scarlet bloom…tranquility, waves kissing shore… A place you’ll never want to leave, a place for dreamers to believe… So, spread the wings and let your soul fly up high and reach your castle in the sky…”

~ Oksana Rus

Spring Cleaning

Lately I’m beginning to rely more and more on my archives to find articles to post on my blog. I simply have no time to write new ones. Since the weather change for the better I find myself saddle with a lot of things to tackle on top of the daily routine and bits and pieces of my ordinary life.

Suddenly there is roof, gate, driveway and patio to wash; perennials to dig, move and divide, hedges and trees to trim, spent flowers and ornamental grasses  to cut, the pond needs cleaning so is the gutter and the garage needs some tidying up and organizing. Not to mention the house is ready for the annual spring cleaning and of course all those chores have to be done all over again for our country house which is a bit more daunting than doing the same for our house in the suburb because not only the house in the country is three times bigger, I have a real cottage garden there too as opposed to landscaped one we have here near the city. And anyone who has a cottage garden knows how hard it is to keep and maintain one. It seems easy for it has relax abandoned atmosphere but looks can be deceiving believe you me. And of course there is the vegetables garden as well…


Another thing is (now that the weather is good) I prefer working outside than sitting on the front of the computer. As if all those things that seemed important last winter don’t hold any significance anymore now that the sun is shining. All I want to do is go outside and explore, watch the things grow and listen to the birds singing. I even resume my daily afternoon walk after work. The day is getting longer and I have more time to roam and relax. In the weekend I find myself visiting garden centres again to look for new wonderful plants to add to my collection or just to walk around and observe. It’s nice to see all those possibilities one can have if one chooses to.

There is a lot of work to be done but I’m doing it with lightheartedness and enthusiasm. Spring is truly magical, full of life, hopes, inspirations and new horizons to explore. I can hardly wait for the flowers to bloom.


Another find

…from my archive. Don’t know from who it is or if I have written it myself. I just feel that it resonates so much with my feelings and thoughts…

I need somewhere quiet

And it’s so hard to find

With all the buzzing in my head

All the thoughts moving at the speed

Of light

Despite the darkness of my mood

I tried my empty room

But the shadows made it hard to relax

And the air was too still

So I tried outside

And finally managed to sit still

In silence

And sink

Into my thoughts

Without interuption

Or worry

About hiding my feelings

So no one could know


I let the wind play with my hair

Let the sun warm my skin

And I floated

Through time and space

Without moving a muscle

Memories washed over me

Like waves on the shores

And I didn’t have to fight them back

For once

Remembering everything

That I’ve so carefully blocked from myself

And just this once

I didn’t even mind

I was happy

And everything was okay

If only in the moments

When I was able to sit and sink

Within myself


I didn’t miss the constant pressure

Behind my eyes

That’s been there so long

I barely even notice it any more

Until it was gone

And then again when it returned

Reminding me of all the things

I have to miss and worry about

So much it gives me a headache

Except in those fleeting seconds

When I allow myself to sink

And just stop







Stop everything

And just be

To finally be still

To sit and sink

Into myself


image: favin


I always let myself be distracted by small details, the troubles that can fill any day, any week, if you let them. I neglect to sit back and enjoy the overall experience. I keep thinking that once this and that is repaired and this is solved and that is explained, then I can sit back and relax, savor the air, the scent of roses. As if life were a garment that had to have every minute wrinkle ironed out of it, that had to be perfectly smooth before it could be worn. Knowing that nothing is ever perfectly smooth…