Tag Archives: creative writing

The Sweet Sound Of Basil

It must have felt woefully out of place

like the refugee placing a bowl of water safely

on his windowsill, front row seats

the spectacle: the moon reflects a stolen

memory

 

Also peculiar, the soul whose words want

so badly, but don’t answer to the self-portrait of

kings, whilst these fingertips understandably

caress: the land cannot belong, the land longs to be

rooted

 

That’s how we became the gardener and his basil

green power in between

Our sound is loud and clearly

wickedly misplaced.

 

(My only son K, wrote this poem)

broken-man

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?

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Fabric

The life I have painstakingly stitched together from the fragments of ruins which is my heritage and the little I know of happiness are always been threaded with pain. Yes, I take momentarily pleasures, mostly from little things and enjoy moments but those are just little patches hiding the multitude of scars and bleeding wounds which is the fabric of my being… 

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Imagination

My mother (when she was alive) had always accused me of having an over-active imagination. I don’t agree. I just happened to experience some things that other people find weird but for me ordinary. I didn’t ask for it nor fantasize about it. Who would want to imagine such things anyway? For all of the things I had experienced and seen, people might think that I believe in mystics or such phenomena but the truth is I don’t. I don’t believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, I don’t even believe in heaven or hell but I do believe in the parallel universes. I really think that there are other dimensions out there apart from this one and sometimes they collided with each other that’s why some unexplainable incidents happened. I believe there are portals to other worlds, other planes so different yet similar to ours and I am convinced that every so often its inhabitants somehow find their ways into this world and create havoc because they are scared maybe? Perhaps confused? Just happy to be here? Or simply to our understanding, evil. I don’t know. 

Here are some examples of what I have experienced so far. I let you be the judge if indeed I have an over-active imagination. For the record, it is not all of it, it’s only the icing on the cake.

Have fun reading and I hope I will not alienate you from visiting my space again. Till next time? 

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Images: Witch_IV_by_love_chizue

Agile

It’s in in the business world today_ to be agile. Especially in IT. They have agile consultants functioning as coaches, managers, facilitators, and everything you can think of. I should know, I am married to one. Mind you I have yet to see his agile side and managing capacity at home. His facilitating techniques and coaching methods think it is still early days. He must be good. They will not pay him a lot of money if he isn’t, will they? Maybe it’s me. I can’t follow conform or be govern. Unless I see that the methods are working and the leader is worth following. So far, I’m still waiting for some signs. I wonder how much more time must I wait. My time and patience are running out… 

Risky-Business

The Complete Ode To Solitude

Here is the complete poem of the passage I  featured  in one of my recent posts. This is my goal, my dream, the one thing I would like to achieve before I die…

BY ALEXANDER POPE

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

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Sleep

Drip, drip, drip in the reservoir of my mind

Scratch, scratch, scratch on the walls of my consciousness

Now you see it now you don’t playing hide and seek

Within grasp cannot catch, why it’s so elusive?

Run, run, run after it and fast

Maybe still there just around the corner waiting to surprise

Almost have the taste feeling the presence but nowhere in sight

Like the wind teasing the brain better to give up?

Oh, so near yet so far like a distant___ star?

Skip, skip, skip into nothingness resign, resign, resign…

 

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Writers

…fascinate me. They have over active vivid imagination. Look at the Brontë sisters… they could even write about things they never personally experience. But what I’m really curious about are those writers who work for television series, per episode. For example: Mr. Nygma of Gotham. He was just an ordinary dude in the beginning. Okay, granted, perhaps a bit odd but nevertheless one dimension-ally boring and harmless enough.

Then from one day to another they decided to make him more interesting by upgrading the ordinary dude into a full-blown schizophrenic psychopath (or it is sociopath… or maybe both) with multiple personalities, just like that. He is changed beyond belief and oh, so sudden. No prelude. What those writers say to each other during lunch/coffee break : ” Let’s fuck-up Mr. Nygma for fun. What do you think, guys?” Or it was their boss who gave the order (of course it’s the bosses who give orders) but not the ideas, or otherwise they will be writers themselves.

No wonder Lost (the series) gotten lost in transition. It started as promising as a new born love affair. But somehow/somewhere along the way, it lost its potentials. At the end, it was just one hell of a confusion. It goes like that I think if too many people with too many (great/sick) ideas who all trying their best (they think) to wow the audience lost touch of reality and just let go. They literally lost the way. Too much of anything is never good.

I know some actors write scenarios of the series they are involved with. Matthew Gray Gubler of Criminal Minds does it occasionally (but then again, he is really multi-talented and real life genius he even directed 8 episodes of the show so far. Do check him out) Randall Einhorn and Paul Feig are another examples.   So, what that says about them? It takes one to know one? To conjured up pretty sick scenarios take up a lot of imagination. And if one can imagine such things…

That’s why I believe that in any other circumstances, writers are a dangerous bunch. Imagine actions supporting the theories. My, we will have a situation in our hands. But so far…

 

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Legacy

Imagine yourself at the end of your life. What sort of legacy will you leave? Describe the lasting effect you want to have on the world, after you’re gone.

Aside from surprisingly (despite everything that had happened) turned out to be well-balanced, matured, successful in their chosen careers children of mine; I would love to leave my written works to the world. May the whole documented experience: the battles, lessons learned, triumphs and tragedies I have encountered serve as a guide to some to overcome their hurdles and avoid making the mistakes I’ve made. I hope it will give them hope and strength to face their trials and overcome everything life might decide to throw on their way.

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Blurb

We’ve been asked to write the blurb for the book jacket of the book we would write, if only we had the time and inclination. Here is what first came to mind. Forgive the chaos. I’m tired and feeling lost somehow after walking for more than twelve hours two days in a row. Here it is…

“She’s back!” Michael uttered to himself over and over again in disbelief. Who could have guessed that she would be back? No one! Not even him. Although God knows how much he had hold on to that single thread of hope as if his own life depends on it.  No matter how impossible and elusive it may seem, he kept on hanging, believing with all of his heart that one day this moment will come. And there she was__ in flesh and blood, not part of his dream or imagination. How many times he envisioned this meeting? He lost count already. Now she’s finally here standing before him wearing her familiar smile, the one he had fallen hard for five years ago; and the memories came rushing in. In his mind, it was raining again and he was sitting in the porch of a friend’s house attending his sister’s birthday party when suddenly a Honda Dax surged out of nowhere and stopped in front of him, atop the bike was a girl so sexy and gorgeous his world stopped from turning. And it had been like that for five years. Now she’s back and he can start living again…

How’s that? Good enough?

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dailyprompt

People

I make a futile attempt to hold Ems hand but she pulls it away. That little subtle rejection pierces my heart. There was a time that it came naturally between us, holding hands. Whenever we were together, our fingers sought each other and automatically entwined. How long ago it was that things between us happened spontaneously? I can’t remember anymore. I miss those times… those precious moments when we could talk freely without fear of hurting our already fragile emotional state. If only…

I grasp her hand once more, this time I refuse to let go even though she keeps tugging at it, after a while, she stops trying.  How people become so self-absorbed with their own personal grief they utterly forget that there is still a world outside their sorrow? I can hardly believe it was happening to me, to Ems, to us. We supposed to lean on one another in the moment like this, instead we are drifting apart and the gap between us keeps growing each day it becomes so huge I’m beginning to realize that not only the distance is becoming impossible to bridge but it is also threatening to swallow us up. I wish we can go back to the past; everything would be easier then…

Turning the corner of our favorite park where I proposed to her over by the bridge; I notice an old woman sitting on a bench, she’s knitting a small red sweater. All of a sudden I see a small body of a little boy tumbling over by the impact of the car when I hit him,  his broken body lying there on the street wearing his best-loved red sweater, the one his grandma knitted and gave to him for Christmas. My little boy! My precious son is dead and I killed him! For the first time in months, I let go of my emotion and cried…

She didn’t find it a good idea to go for a walk, but he insisted. It’s so typical of him to make up excuses to avoid confrontation. He rather drags her in public to be sure there will never be a fight. He knows she will not dare to make a scene when there are people around. All she wanted is to talk. Really talk, not the beating-around-the-bushes conversation he always seems to prefer. It’s been a year now since the accident, the grieving have to be over, they have to accept their loss and go on with their lives.

There are some facts that they have to face. She knows he blames her for not keeping an eye on their son, for forgetting to close the gate, for talking on the phone for too long not realizing the boy was old enough to be curious and venture outside. On her part, she blames him for the deed itself, taking away her only source of pride and happiness. She had a difficult pregnancy and her son’s birth left her with a torn cervix. Other complications ensured the fact that she will never bear children anymore. That boy was her only chance.

She is willing to talk about it, air their hidden grievances towards each other. Acceptance is the ultimate key in the healing process. They cannot pretend nothing happened and move on. If their marriage is to survive, they need to talk, urgently. Now, seeing him crying his heart out in public is too much for her to bear. She turns around and walks away, leaving him behind.

Gertrude sees them coming from a distance, her first thought was: what a beautiful couple. They remind her of Bill and herself in the beginning of their marriage, before everything turned sour. Now he’s dead and she’s happy, happier than she had ever been in the last years of their relationship.

She notices the man tried to hold the woman’s hand, had witnessed when she tried to pull it away and thought: “Oh, dear…” maybe she had drawn her conclusion too hastily. What it is with young couple nowadays? They divorce and separate in a blink of an eye mostly for petty reasons. They ought to talk to each other more often and learn to really listen. But who is she to talk about that matter, she is no expert. Her own marriage was not one can call picture-perfect, but they stayed together for 35 years; that must account for something.

She directs her eyes on the small red sweater she’s knitting, Wendy would love this one. Red is her favorite color. Being with her grand-daughter is one thing she always looks forward to. That little girl brings joy to her heart and energized her ageing soul; she can’t help but smile every time her memory conjures up her image. Pity, Bill is not here to witness her happiness. Then again, maybe it’s for the better.

They are closer now, the couple. She watches them from under her lids, pretending to be engrossed with her work. She sees two sets of feet stop before her. She hears the man’s outburst of crying. She looks up and catches the woman’s back fleeing, leaving the man crumpled in heap on the wet grass. Slowly, she stretches her old limbs and stands up, putting her knitting back inside her tote bag. She walks to the grieving man on the ground and put her hand on his shoulder saying: “There, there…”

Gertrude stays with the man, holding his rocking, sobbing form against her bosom. After a while, he stops crying and looks at her. She smiles at him and says: “Want to join me on the bench and tell me all about it?”

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