Genetic Makeup

I have always been fascinated with the DNA of everything. More in clinical ways than theoretical or scientifical. How can I explain it… I want to know the hows and whys of a living organism without spending hours, weeks, years in a laboratory or drowning myself in paperwork. I want to understand why things behave in certain ways. For example, why cacti (and succulents for that matter) know what shape to evolve and what kind of spines, glochids, spinose teeth or whatever they call it to grow to protect themselves. Why they flower when one abuses and neglects them? Why siblings who grew up in the same environment, shared the same genetic makeup, identical background, and upbringing become completely two different individuals, opposite in every way. Why two identical plants, planted side by side in the garden grow completely different from each other, one of them big and robust, the other small, thinly and dying. I once dismantled a transistor radio and a watch of my father out of sheer curiosity. I wanted to know how they work, what makes them tick. I am none the wiser of course after that episode. I lack the knowledge and the drive to pursue the interest. I am more artistically inclined than technical though I like to think I am both. Anyway, isn’t it handy if we understand the mechanism of everything so we can treat them accordingly?

 

The Elephant In The Room

“There’s a phrase, “the elephant in the living room”, which purports to describe what it’s like to live with a drug addict, an alcoholic, an abuser. People outside such relationships will sometimes ask, “How could you let such a business go on for so many years? Didn’t you see the elephant in the living room?” And it’s so hard for anyone living in a more normal situation to understand the answer that comes closest to the truth; “I’m sorry, but it was there when I moved in. I didn’t know it was an elephant; I thought it was part of the furniture.” There comes an aha-moment for some folks – the lucky ones – when they suddenly recognize the difference.”

― Stephen King

Am I a feminist?

A Scold’s Bridle is an ancient primitive instrument of repression. They were used in the Middle Ages to curb the tongue of nagging women.

If I had lived during those times, I might… I wonder… for sure they have… but I don’t nag. I merely state the obvious (privately) and my opinions and verdict are always supported by hard facts and I only voiced them out (repeatedly if previous attempts were ignored) as a last resort when the object (or is it the subject) of my dissatisfaction refuses to listen to my case and deliberately missing the points.

Publicly I admit I have some difficulties holding my rather strong views of anything I disagree about (and my sense of humor may be dark, dry and cynical but at least I have a sense of humor) but disagreement is always done with respect and tact and always politically correct that no one can accuse me of being rude. I might say what I have to say too straightforward for everyone’s taste but never in insolence and never in the hope of embarrassing or discrediting someone but rather born out of curiosity and inquisitive mind that refuses to rest unless all the options had been explored. I just can’t accept anything at face value except if my instinct tells me they are true then I shut my mouth, smile, and nod.

No, I have to remove from my mind the possibility of wearing the said contraption if ever I have lived or find myself (you never know with time traveling being possible in the future and don’t forget reincarnation) stuck in that era. But the thought is rather unsettling. Much like the idea of not being able to read and write. Imagine… I can’t think of anything worse than not being able to speak my mind and form an opinion and the freedom to voice them out politically correct or not, which leads me to another question that is in my thoughts for quite some time now: Am I a feminist?

Hopes, Wishes and Dreams

There is a Chinese Proverb that goes like this:

If you sit by the river long enough the bodies of all your enemies float by.

I wonder if it is about time I look for a nice big river to stand beside and watch.

It’s Not The Place, It’s The Company

Beautiful evening in the dunes. The landscape is bathed in a golden haze enhancing every blade of grass, every flower top, giving them a magic cozy peaceful appearance. She supposed to be happy, tranquil. In any other circumstances, she would be for this is her kind of environment, almost alone, quiet, stunning scenery, slight breeze and water and sinking sun never failed to cheer her up. But not today. Today she can hardly breathe, she feels her chest might explode in any moment trying to hold back the tears that insist on flooding her cheeks. She’s crying hard inside. All those years of pent up emotions, suppressed anger, disappointments, and disillusions come bubbling to the surface spilling over the edge in a current of undisguised passion. She wants to shout, to lash out, to hit something but most of all to disappear, to run away as far as she could and never look back. But what comes out of her mouth is a series of choking faltering sounds that barely inaudible, threatening to strangle her from within because she knows she cannot escape, she’s trapped, a prisoner, boxed in, there is no way out.

Is this what marriage and love are all about?

She strongly wishes she didn’t get married. she doesn’t want someone, anyone to say they love her. Experience taught her that love means pain, heartaches, forgetting one’s needs, wants and desires, existing solely for others, giving up one’s freedom and dreams. Love means losing one’s self and being numb, sad and lonely… 

I Write Because

“I write to find strength.
I write to become the person that hides inside me.
I write to light the way through the darkness for others.
I write to be seen and heard.
I write to be near those I love.
I write by accident, promptings, purposefully and anywhere there is paper.
I write because my heart speaks a different language that someone needs to hear.
I write past the embarrassment of exposure.
I write because hypocrisy doesn’t need answers, rather it needs questions to heal.
I write myself out of nightmares.
I write because I am nostalgic, romantic and demand happy endings.
I write to remember.
I write knowing conversations don’t always take place.
I write because speaking can’t be reread.
I write to sooth a mind that races.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in the sand.
I write because my emotions belong to the moon; high tide, low tide.
I write knowing I will fall on my words, but no one will say it was for very long.
I write because I want to paint the world the way I see love should be.
I write to provide a legacy.
I write to make sense out of senselessness.
I write knowing I will be killed by my own words, stabbed by critics, crucified by both misunderstanding and understanding.
I write for the haters, the lovers, the lonely, the brokenhearted and the dreamers.
I write because one day someone will tell me that my emotions were not a waste of time.
I write because one day I will be gone, but what I believed and felt will live on.”

― Shannon L. Alder

My Story

And at night , as I lay in my bed, they came my darling Erinyes, laughing softly in the dark, cold and triumphant, tender and merciless, their claws and teeth loving, beautifully seductive. Together they explore the cavities of my brain, with a mother’s tenderness, tearing, slicing with exquisite delicacy… By day they were invisible, barbed gossamer beneath my skin, a mesh of finest steel tightening and contracting on to my heart’s bloody core. I prayed- or tried to pray- But God wanted none of it. My sufferings and guilt were tastier morsels. God fed well on me.

Days… Weeks of obscene delirium at the hands of my darling Incubus. Like God they were hungry; vicious mow on their desperation.

I knew what they wanted, snapping at the leash, snarling and foaming for a glimpse of prey. I knew what they wanted. The story. My story. And I wanted to tell it…

~ Sleep, My Pale Sister

Slow Dance

Have you ever watched kids on a merry-go-round,
or listened to rain slapping the ground?

Ever followed a butterfly’s erratic flight,
or gazed at the sun fading into the night?

You better slow down, don’t dance so fast,
time is short, the music won’t last.
Do you run through each day on the fly,
when you ask “How are you?”, do you hear the reply?

When the day is done, do you lie in your bed,
with the next hundred chores running through your head?

You better slow down, don’t dance so fast,
time is short, the music won’t last.
Ever told your child, we’ll do it tomorrow,
and in your haste, not see his sorrow?

Ever lost touch, let a friendship die,
’cause you never had time to call and say hi?

You better slow down, don’t dance so fast,
time is short, the music won’t last.
When you run so fast to get somewhere,
you miss half the fun of getting there.

When you worry and hurry through your day,
it’s like an unopened gift thrown away.

Life isn’t a race, so take it slower,
hear the music before your song is over.

By— David L. Weatherford

 

 

Breakfast

To win the peace you must first fight the war.

History confirms the above saying and we witness one or other form of it happening in day to day life but still I have a trouble believing it must be so. Unjustified… Injustice… Unjustification…. are the words that playing in my head. I don’t know if it affects me greatly because I can relate to this- in my life there is no such thing as easy gain. I have to fight with all my might for every inch of space, every ounce of respect, for freedom, for personal rights… for my very existence- or being a warrior is just a part of my genetic makeup. In any case it doesn’t sit right with me. I feel angry by just reading these words. I can associate it with everything that is happening around me- there is no donuts anymore in the nearby filling station or anywhere close to where I live. There is no decent coffee either when you want it. The least you can get is half a cup of lukewarm brew- around the world- global warming and all the consequences of it. The disappearance of all the things that have something to do with quality, morals and values. I can’t rant on and on but I will not (as if this post is not ranting enough) not this time- I just cant believe one has to fight in order to gain something that supposed to be a birthright, right? Like freedom and the right to exist and be treated accordingly regardless of which walk of life you came from or the colour of your skin or if you are beautiful or not, female or male or member of the third sex or belonged to the lower class of animal (which for me is humans) handicapped or having mental illness. All because of these laws created by man which resulted to prejudiced society of supposed to be educated people from civilized countries who cannot even exercise common decency between them. And I’m ranting early in the morning just because I am sick and can’t sleep since Sunday. What that makes me?

Aftermath

It took me three years to divorce him. I had to relinquish everything for him to sign. It was two years before I learnt to trust myself again. And another two before I dared trust anyone else. I still have trust issues… I still have nightmares… still run to the basin to wash myself… still check the bolt on every door…still jump out of my skin every time I hear a sound I don’t recognize… still sleep with a big knife under my pillow… I keep telling myself I’ve done the right thing and kudos to myself for having the courage to stand and fight back and eventually leave. Now all I have to do is believe I am safe.

Truth

Some men believe that reducing a woman to a shivering wreck would result in orgasm.

TO THE GIRL HE WILL LOVE AFTER ME

Let me just first erase the thought in your mind that I am mad on you. No, I am not. In fact, I am glad he ended up being with you. Even though I don’t know you that much, I know you’ve got all the attributes that he likes. That is the very reason why he chose you over me.

You are very lucky for having him. He is a treasure, a rare one. He is sometimes naughty but let him be. He is just about to cuddle you. He is as sweet as candies, he is lovely as the day goes by, he is patient, my dear. He is ready to understand everything you demand… He is an ear to your nonsense dramas. He is a shoulder to cry on in pains. He is somehow quiet, but he’ll be the noisiest man on earth when saying how much he loves you. He is a man of few words, but a man with one word. He knows how to keep his promises… That’s why I am thinking: why he left me? He won’t just be your boyfriend, but your friend, the very best one, your knight in shining armor, your superman, your living diary, your handkerchief. He is a complete package.

But most of all, he will be your man. Strong enough to hold you, dauntless to fight for you, you’ll be his kryptonite.

Take care of him, sweetheart. I may have caused him so much pain, I may have caused him so much ache but I have loved him above all. Don’t worry, I know I am not his happiness now. And if happy is not me, I have to let him go…

Things just didn’t work out on us. I do hope in the two of you will. And it might kill me watching your hearts collide, but I’ll wholeheartedly accept.

Keep him for he is for keeps. Take care of him for he’s too much vulnerable. Be patient with him for he is a child at heart.
Listen to him for all he wants is a good listener for he knows how to do it. And lastly, love him as much as you can. Don’t you ever give up on him. Love him in the most possible way. Love him because that is what he deserves, love him because you love him.

Words by: Hannah Eunice Villamin

#FallInArts

Summer In My Heart

“I question not if thrushes sing,
If roses load the air;
Beyond my heart, I need not reach
When all is summer there.”
~John Vance Cheney

I wish I could hold on to that summer feeling. A deep contrast to the cold and dark labyrinths in my head full of bleeding pulsing wounds. In my heart, it is always summer, full of life, full of hope full of colors, full of dreams. Sometimes I forget my age or the color of my skin and only aware of the season inside me. I forget about onlookers who always judged the book by its cover and seldom thumb through the pages due to either lack of interest or lack of time. I’ve been on the other end of the spectrum and don’t quite reach the opposite end yet but I’m on the way and can’t help noticing the subtle changes over the landscapes through the seasons. The shifting gravity of time alters a little but at the same time a lot to my liking. Others for sure notice it too. But little they do know that underneath the fading vibrant colors of Autumn and fast setting sun, it is still and will always be summer till the day I die…