No Guts, No Glory

I marvel sometimes with the self-confidence and (so-called) guts of some people.

Imagine this:

Your husband was working abroad, you got pregnant by another guy, instead of owning your mistakes you tried to hide them by pretending to be a victim of some witchcraft which making your belly swell out of proportion. When you can’t cover the obvious anymore you said you’ve been gang-raped with your sister as a mastermind. By the way, that sister lives abroad since time immemorial and never belong to any gang which area you are.

That sister answering the call of your mother (your ally and partner in crime) came home to help you (like always) but you spread ink-black rumors about her that when she showed up in your hiding place, the brainwashed voodoo master ran after her with a giant machete. How’s that? And another by the way: the voodoo master turned out to be the neighbor boy who was just a toddler when you were already a teenager.

When your five-year-old daughter tried to relate the truth to someone, you punished her by beating her up black and blue and shutting her mouth shut with the help of laundry nippers. You have a son too. But you shipped him off to your husband’s family after a fight which prompted you to put the baby (who was not even a year old) inside a travelling bag and zipped it close. Your reason? He’s not smart enough. Just like his father.

When your bastard innocent baby was born, you sold her to some couple you’ve never seen before right off from the hospital bed and forget all about her. Time to correct all the mistakes you’ve made.

You’ve done this by running off with the husband of your other sister and got pregnant again but nowhere to go. Where else but the house of your sister who is living abroad. She’s stupid and forgiving anyway. She will let you in. Before your new baby with your brother-in-law had her first birthday, you were eight months pregnant again. That second baby you deposited by the neighbors, a drug addict couple who can barely make the ends meet. What ideal parents for your baby girl whom you despise because how dare she to come in an untimely fashion. One problem sorted out.

Living in your sister’s house wasn’t enough. So grateful you are you sold the place without her knowing. And why not, the house was in the name of your mother anyway. Her money built it maybe but you got equal rights considering you are both spawns of the devil. Then you disappeared. You can never manage to face your own doings, let alone your sister.

Fast -forward. You are now in some place where nobody really knows you. You have five children and so many abortion in between. You see, you have the right to decide which offspring to keep and which not. You’re the mother after all. Yesterday you posted in FB something like this:

“I am satisfied with my looks (oh, I forgot to mention. The half-of your face collapsed from self-medication when you tried to abort your first out of wedlock baby) I am proud of my character, I’m happy with who I am, I will never change so others will like me, accept me reject me or judge me I’m still me. Because I’m born to be true not to be perfect.”

And I thought WTF! Are you for real? I have no problem with people wanting to be true, or happy or wanting to be accepted as they are because I want that too. Anyone can be proud of their characters when there is something to be proud of. But in your case…

I don’t know… Maybe it’s just me.


Collective Insanity

Today the daily prompt is more challenging than usual. They asked: 

Write a post that includes dialogue between two people — other than you. (For more of a challenge, try three or more people.)

I decided to do it while editing pictures from my recent holiday. So, you know what to expect. Here it is…

“Sometimes I think he’s going to leave me.” I said to none of them in particular. I just thrown in a random thoughts of mine to test the reactions. Granted, perhaps not the most appetizing topic during holiday dinner in a hotel restaurant but I long ceased to care about what they think of me. Not that whatever I do will alter their prejudgment of me. I’m not good enough. There is nothing more to it.

After a while his uncle said: “Don’t be too sure about that. If that’s happen, then we are in trouble. The whole family is in trouble.”

Instead of asking why “they” will be in trouble I said: “Why you think he’s not going to leave me one of these days?”

“Because he fought so hard for you.” It was his mother who answered my question. She’s like that. Loves to interrupt people. Especially her son. He detests it but doesn’t know how to vocalize his thoughts without falling from the pedestal.

“You’re my life Sweetheart. I’ll stay with you forever.” He said reaching for my hand and looking deep into my eyes. I heard grumbled and sharp intake of breath from around the table. I smiled.

After a while, the activity at the table resumed. We eat in awkward silence. Mission accomplished. 


Good News

You receive some wonderful, improbable, hoped-for good news. How do you celebrate?

It depends on the news I guess. As it is, I’ve been waiting to hear some good news about a certain thing for over two years now. If one of these days I heard that it finally happened, I will probably don’t know how to react. Disbelief would be the first thing that would cross in my mind, followed by relief, then acceptance. Then I will pack my bags and leave. Doesn’t matter where is the destination. Anywhere but here…


Golden Hour

6:00AM: the best hour of the day, or too close to your 3:00AM bedtime?

The latter for me. Once an insomniac, always an insomniac.

There are some nights when
sleep plays coy,
aloof and disdainful.
And all the wiles
that I employ to win
its service to my side
are useless as wounded pride,
and much more painful.

~ M. A.

A young girl reading a book under the covers with a flashlight; Shutterstock ID 25849123; PO: The Huffington Post; Job: The Huffington Post; Client: The Huffington Post; Other: The Huffington Post

Empty Nest

My nest has been empty for over ten years now. Before that I’ve been away from the nest most of the time. The chicks had grown big without me having to do with it. I used to feel guilty about that. Not anymore.

Now, sitting on the loo with the midday sun beating down on my back (I kind of like it. A luxury. My own infrared sauna right there in the toilet) I suddenly feel alone and lonely. Too much freedom and nothing to do. Nothing new I mean. Will I take up bungee jumping again? I can join one of those women’s (auxiliary) clubs and learn flower arranging while soaking up the latest gossips. But I can arrange flowers and I care nothing much about women. I have nothing in common with them (aside from the love for  shoes, and there is nothing much to go on from there) and men…

I still get looks from those who could be my grandchildren. Okay, I probably exaggerating but in any way younger than my children. Creepy. I should have been taller so, I look older not looking like an aging Pia Zadora or Sally Field. 

But I like men. I love hanging out with them. They are less complicated and more honest. They play open cards. No bitchiness and no jealousy. The only problem is: they don’t get much the idea of friendship between opposite sex. Sooner or later, they will try to elevate the relationship into something more complex. I don’t like that.

Back to empty nest again. 

I never thought there will come a time that I will long for company. Me who love solitude, quiet and peace. Me who is happy being alone and free. They say people tend to mellow when they age. That must be it. I’m mellowing. Sucks!


Jukebox Medley

You make a new friend. Make them a mix tape (or playlist, for the younger folks) that tells them who you are through songs.

Let’s say I’m a jukebox full of records people who come across me for the first time can play to have a taste of what I’m all about. I guess the songs that would be definitely in my playlist are:

  • My way by Frank Sinatra
  • I’ve never been to me by Charlene
  • I am a rock by Simon & Garfunkel
  • Evita by Andrew Lloyd Webber
  • I am what I am by Gloria Gaynor 

I guess that’s it for starter…


Mirror, mirror…

Open the first photo album you can find — real or virtual, your call — and stop at the first picture of yourself you see there . Tell us the story of that photo.

This one is a random picture of myself meant to be for testing shots angles. Taken in my room two houses ago. I was dressed up in something I will normally not wear anywhere but acquired because I like the look. I had given them to charity this year along with stuff from thirty years ago. Things I don’t wear anymore but kept for whatever reasons. I wish the first picture I stumbled upon bears more interesting story than this but rules are rules and I don’t want to cheat. Another reason is: I don’t want to put close up pictures of me online. If you notice, all my images here share one thing in common: my face is partly hidden. I don’t have any particular reason to do that aside from psychological. I don’t like my looks much.


Toy Story

What was your favorite plaything as a child? Do you see any connection between your life now, and your favorite childhood toy?

We didn’t have enough money when I was growing up. Whatever we had was barely enough for food and other necessities like clothes and school. I remember decorating my play house with things that I found washed ashore like bottles of shampoos and powder, plastic flowers and broken combs. I even collected mismatched slippers to wear around the house. I saved good ones for going to school. 

But the thing I loved the most was gathering wild flowers, especially from this giant tree which I can’t remember the name anymore. The blooms resembled orchids. They were orange (sometimes yellow) in color and had a darker hue in the middle. They looked gorgeous floating in the river. I used to fill huge shells with water and placed the flowers on the surface to brighten my play house. I was already obsessed with interior design even then.

I will never forget the time I found a broken truck’s headlight; I upended the thing and turned it into an aquarium  complete with catfish and water ivy. My father scolded me for it. He said the proper place for a fish is in the pan not in such far-fetched crazy ideas of mine.

 Looking back, I had a fairly adventurous childhood full of unforgettable memories and freedom only poverty could bring.

How many people can say they sleep with the song of crickets and cicadas in the background while looking outside their windows at trees full of fireflies it looked like something straight from fairy tales movies. Or swimming in the sea surrounded with a bunch of Nemos. Do other kids know that shrimps eyes light up in the dark? They look like miniature torches floating on the surface. That their babies are housed in stretchable transparent balloons you can play with them without damaging.  That mangrove fruits are eatable and sand is the best for cleaning dirty pots they look new after you scrub them with it. Simple things like that…     



…that was the key word. The one thing that could pull you through any crisis fate chose to hurl at you. To be yourself. Independent. Not witless. Still able to make my own decisions and plot the course of what remains of my life. I do not need my children (or anyone for that matter to complete me) knowing their faults, recognizing their short-comings, I love them but I don’t need them…