The view

I may have a Gothic view of life, but I’ve never been a pessimist. It took me this long to realize it but you know what they say… better late than never. Today, I marked the beginning of a new year for me; the year I discovered other sides of my personality, the hidden truth within the real self. Life is a never-ending learning process indeed.

All my life, I have believed that I was a pessimist. Sitting here in the front of the computer  I suddenly realized that is not true, exactly the opposite in fact. I found out that over and over again in the course of my existence when everything seemed hopeless; times when I encountered walls and there seemed to be no way out, dead-end wherever I turned; those were the moments when I painted doors and windows to look out. And beyond that, I created meadows, fields, hills, beaches forest oceans, mountains, and rainbows. I did it to have something to look at, to hope for.

When everything seemed lost, I made escape routes; paths to tomorrow, because I could not accept defeat, I cannot just stop and accept. There has to be a way out somehow, always… and I will find it no matter what.


Having (But) A Good Time

Imagine that tomorrow, all of your duties and obligations evaporate for the day. You get the day all to yourself, to do anything you please. What types of fun activities would make your day?

This is one of those things that is easier said than done. Being my own boss, no real financial responsibilities and having someone to back me up no matter what (I always been lucky to have that since I ran away- the only positive outcome of- someone backing up my so called personal freedom) and my days are no one’s but my own if I choose to, no duties, no obligations; on paper, I could do what I would like to do. On paper that is.

In reality, it is totally something else. First of all, I have all sorts of physical limitations so, bungee jumping is out of the question. So is skydiving. Eating what I want is also not possible. I remember eating  moelleux with fresh raspberry, vanilla ice cream and whipped cream the other day. Boy, it was heaven! I know I don’t have to eat chocolate, or combined different food groups, and whipped cream is a big no, no but I for once want to taste real food instead of those unsavory joke they call super food which is healthy and oh-so-good-for me. The result of my mischief? Puking in the restaurant’s toilet for half an hour, even before I finish my plate of sin, worrying the whole time if they can hear me out there and if they can see (of course they can) on my bloated, red face what I was busy doing back there in the little room. Embarrassing! They would probably think I have bulimia.

I would like to travel around too. Preferably where the sun is always shining and where they invented joie de vivre but although we are working towards that goal, we are not there yet. Others things I would like to do, I did already. All of its available variations in all the colors of the rainbow and one day is not enough to do anything that would please me. Not when you have lived a thousand lives already and those you can imagine are either so far-fetched or ridiculous you know it can never happen in real life.  At least not in this one.

So, what are the options left? Retracing previous steps. In other words: ( I know that I have to remain positive, be optimistic, be nice, write sunny thoughts, be an inspiration to others, etc. etc. But I don’t feel that way and I can’t and will not lie to myself) repetitive, monotonous, boring . 


The Habit

Tell us about a habit you’d like to break. Is there any way it can play a positive role in your life?

There are few things in my life I would like to do differently, like for example going to bed early. But I was born insomniac and nothing helps (herbal teas, physical activities, massage, sex, sauna, pills, therapy, combination of all) I don’t know where to begin. The direct result of my nocturnal habit is another thing I would like to change: eating pattern; I have none. My (Circadian) rhythm is  so severely disturb that I can’t function normally anymore. Make me wanting to study chronobiology even just  for the sake of (it) curiosity.

I’m weird, different (it’s always irritates my son when I say that. He doesn’t want me thinking I’m special or something. He said the reason why D. or other people who have the same “condition” are able to function normally is the fact that his parents concealed to him the naked truth that he has Asperger syndrome therefore by believing he is normal he can function normally) unusual from birth. And my life experience and upbringing only strengthen that conviction. There are lots of behavior I possess that I never seen from others and others widely consider abnormal but it doesn’t bother me. My other habits in general I mean.

Like checking under the bed, behind doors, inside the closets, when I come home and before I go to sleep. I cannot sleep without locking doors either or putting on a night lamp. Among so many other things I also have scotophobia. What a fun life I have. But that’s for another blog post…



It was my toe (the big one) I first became aware of… I could not move or even wiggle it so, I tried to open my eyes instead__  negative. Yet I could hear my mother humming post-war tunes in the background. In my mind’s eye, I could picture the sun slanting through the wooden Venetian blinds across the bed; it was always like that when I wake up around this time of the day on the same month, year after year after year… I imagined feeling the warmth of it on my face.

This was not the first time something similar happened to me. The initial experience occurred when I was fifteen years old. I know that eventually, I would properly wake up and everything will be alright. (If I fight as hard as I could at least) So, I laid there and waited… after a time, I tried to shock myself into movements… nothing. I concentrated hard, waited some more and repeated the effort, this time a nerve gave in; I was able to twitch. After several tries, I succeeded to slowly displaced myself. It felt like swimming in sticky thick syrup, every movement was a fight; the gluey glutinous surroundings holding me back. I could envision how a fly might feel caught in a fly trap.

Again, I tried to open my eyes, thinking if I could only manage to do this, the rest would be easy… found out I still couldn’t, so I slid myself out of bed… butt first. When my toes hit the floor, I stood up; my hand involuntarily circled a post, I realized I must have fallen asleep in D.s room.

I made my way blindly to the door, opened it (handy if one knows the layout of one’s house perfectly in case something like this happens) and called my mother. What came out was a gurgling sound. I slightly panic. I was not only blind but mute as well? Almost playfully, I groped for the banister, found the thing and slowly glided myself down using my butt. The house has a spiral staircase and I could easily conceptualize what would happen if I slip.

Reaching the ground floor, I realized I had to pee; probably from using my butt so much. My mother’s humming stopped. I heard the television came to life; someone must have switched it on. I paddled to the living room and once again attempted to open my eyes to see what program was being watched, I succeeded half way and only the right one; she wasn’t there but bombing somewhere in the middle east was still going on. I saw bloody mutilated bodies being loaded on stretchers… I proceeded to the toilet.

When I opened the door, I saw a man sitting there, no face wearing black. I slammed the door shut and became aware of the fact that I could see again. I thought I must be hallucinating. So, I opened the door once more to confirm my doubts and he was still there! This time he acquired a face and was looking at me straight in the eyes. He was a middle-aged man with an ordinary face, devoid of any emotion; as blank as an unused slate. Then he slowly smiled, the expression spread on his face like someone was pulling the corners of his lips upwards. I saw rotten teeth and were there fangs inside there somewhere? He languidly reached out to touch me and I must have passed out because everything went black.

The next thing I know I was back in bed. Around me, there were voices; several of them including D. I felt hands all over me, touching … poking… Then I was lifted and something sharp pierced my skin. I lost consciousness again.

I woke up in a hospital. D. was watching. He looked worried. Apparently, I had nightmares and aroused screaming. Then I fainted and he could not reanimate me and it was Sunday, contrary to my belief that it occurred on a weekday.  When I asked the doctor what happened, he uttered to me one word; just one: stress.


Don’t rain on my parade

You’re throwing a party — for you! Tell us all about the food, drink, events, and party favours you’ll have for your event of a lifetime. Use any theme you like — it’s *your* party.

I believe there will be no party. I hate noises and I hate crowds. It is tiring me enormously to be with people I need at least three weeks to recuperate after being exposed to them. I value my privacy more than anything else and I don’t want to entertain in my space. I don’t feel it is necessary. On special occasions, I rather travel or roam around by myself than be with anyone.

Eating out is also not my thing. It is hard to find places that serve decent food. Michelin stars don’t guarantee that you will get what you expect. Or maybe it is just me. But lately, I find that quality in most things is a thing of the past. People either don’t attach any value to that anymore or they find it is not really needed as long as it is current and it is hype, it is good enough.

Throwing a party will be a waste of time and money. I am afraid there will be no party ever. Not for me.



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…


To forever peace

At 10:00 o’clock yesterday evening, I was watching the movie ‘Tristan & Isolde’ when my gaze fell on a tiny split between the bricks just under the stairs. And I think to myself, wouldn’t it be nice if I could crawl in there, hide in the dark and simply disappear? Probably the right word is ‘evaporate’ for it is more appropriate to describe what I felt in that moment. I thought: if I stay in there long enough quietly without moving an inch, I could simply vanish. Or be like a piece of food or anything that could get rotten and turned into dust if left on its own for a long period of time.

But of course it doesn’t have to be that particular split between the bricks; it could be those tiny spaces also between the couch. Or simply orb like star-trek people do. But I don’t want to be beam-up to somewhere else; I simply want to vanish as if I have never existed. Or sleep a thousand years and wake up into a better world or do not wake-up at all.

I do not want to go to heaven or hell. Or have a place in paradise; (if I have, I will gladly give it to anybody) I simply want to…be gone. I keep saying to myself: ‘c’mon, pull yourself together, you can do it! You’ve done that for the last 30 years or so, you can do it now. Look at the sun, look around you…reasons enough to live. There are people who are in much worse situations than you are, consider yourself lucky and think about your kids…is that not reason enough? But I can’t. I cannot make myself believe that this life is worth living for.

Sure I’m luckier than some people. Yes, I pulled myself together all these years and I’m definitely thinking about the kids. (Am I not always thinking of them?) But I’m afraid things are finally catching up on me. I am living from borrowed times for a long period already, and my credit is long overdue. I passed my limit a long time ago; and yet I keep on going…ignoring all the signs, thinking maybe if I could stretch it some more I could reach there (where ever ‘there’ maybe) Now I’m tired. And I cannot ignore the signs no more. It’s time to rest. It’s time to crawl between those dark spaces; hide and finally dissolve into nothingness. To forever peace at last….


Running Back

I found this among my old documents while cleaning my storage. It sounds like me but I don’t remember anymore if I wrote this one. So, I googled some of the words and came up with nothing. I visited places I frequented before and searched there but still nothing. I ‘m posting it here anyway. If someone recognized this article and have a legit proof it is theirs or from someone they know, just howl and I will give proper credit to the owner.

I’ve been told by others that all I have to do is stay in line

Don’t shock or rock the boat too hard

And all would be well with or without my help.


I’ve heard some say that it’s easy to just punch the clock

Just take it and give it but don’t make a fuss

And always say ‘I’m sorry’ when there’s nothing to apologize for.


I was advised to be easy, that ‘hard to get’ is not anymore in

And that boys really don’t appreciate a psychotic tease and

It’s all right to f–k if you’re in love (or if he’s filthy rich or on the way up).


I tend to lose focus, though

On the things that is important, like the politics of advancement,

Of smiling at the right people

And the politeness of stabbing others in the back.


I missed what was said on letting it all hang out

Because I was too busy stuffing it back in with the help of wonder bra(s)

And figure forming lycra contraptions

While eating McDonalds and drinking Diet Coke.


I am still convincing myself to turn a blind eye on everything,

Because I was befuddled about what was right and what was wrong

And why we do it in the name of gods, demons and lovers.


I can’t see it or hear it clearly like you do.

But some days I do

And it’s never pleasant

Especially when I’m alone and the vacuum cleaner is saying a lot of things.


So, I always run back here…



Rules of Engagement

They were walking from the waterfalls to his place. It was raining. It had been for a long time already, making it damn difficult to walk those hills. The mud kept sticking under their slippers till it became inches taller and much heavier, making the usually pleasant walk an ordeal.

She loved the mountains and the simple way of life. So much so that she grabbed any opportunity to be there with both hands. Even if it meant dealing with him. She did not dislike him, not anymore. She overcame already her initial aversion to him. Last year, she even ran away to escape his attention. That was then. It’s different now. She learned to know him better.

She didn’t regret knowing him much later. It was a necessary process being who he is. When was the first time she laid eyes on him? Seven- eight years ago? He was 24 then.

They never talk to each other until last year. Not even a passing ‘hello’ though they had met each other often enough. How could it be otherwise? She used to live… around.  

He was definitely one of the no-nos. Besides, she was not interested. If she found out earlier his real nature, would it be different? Would she change her mind about him? Give him a chance? Who knows…

Last year she talked to him for the first time. It was difficult not to, they were eating supper and he was there. In their culture it is very unethical not to ask any guest to have a meal with the hosts if the visitor happens to be there at meal time.  She did ask and he complied. The rest is history.

Now here they are. Not their first time. She had visited the place on more than one occasion. His family is known to her and vice versa. She was there before, only not ‘with’ him.

He removed her slippers from under her feet and offered her his own. It had more profile and had better grips; so he said. He washed hers in the small creek which running along side the dirt path. He also occasionally removed some stubborn mud that kept clinging under ‘his’ slippers for easy walking.

Always attentive. Very resourceful. She could not help being drawn to him. He was everything she was missing in her current relationship, and more. He is a man. She missed that. Revenge did cross her mind as one of his motives for being nice to her, but who cares? It felt good and only temporary they both knew it. In fact everybody knew.

Everybody… nobody said something but looks are enough. She could imagine what people think. They were both aware of the talking behind their backs. She cringed when she thought about it but… what the heck! She deserved to be… happy like everyone else. Even for a time. She refused to acknowledge that her situation and that of  him matter to here and now. She was aware of the consequences of course. She knew by experience. How many times she was in similar plights… she lost counts already. But this one was even trickier, considering his own predicaments. But c’est la vie. You cannot always follow the rules. It’s not only boring, it is also impossible.

There are limits of course. Always. So far, she didn’t jump over it… yet. And she was not planning to. But was she not planning to kiss him too?  Or kissed him back. She wondered if there was a difference.

She lost her balance! It happened so fast! One moment she was walking quite alright, and the next she found herself pirouetting with her both hands to keep her balance.

He was there before she hits the ground. He came from behind and put one arm behind her back, to keep her from falling. His palm went under her arm, almost cupping one breast! But he flicked it away from the wrist, at the very last moment, before it touches the danger zone.

He could have done it. Do it and pass it as an accident. A necessary manoeuvre to save the day. But he didn’t. And for all that he had done so far, all the caring, the sweetness, the teasing and the whole song and dance; it was that simple gesture that touched her the most.

Why? Because it shows respect. Granted, he maybe attracted to her (God knows since when) or trying to get his revenge, perhaps it was lust after all, who knows? But one thing is for sure, he respects her enough to do that. And if she is going to remember one thing from all those days that they were together, this probably would be it.

And for all the tender, thoughtful little things he done for her, it was also the deciding factor why she almost consider jumping off the limit. And probably she would. Given the time…


image: favin &


This post is inspired by an article in the Daily Post by Robyn titled: Five Posts to Write Right Now. It’s about nostalgia based memories as inspiration and I’m using her questionnaire as a guide to make my own trip down memory lane. Originally, I just wanted to place my answers as comments on her blog but I realized to do it decently, I will need so much of her space and I don’t want to do that. Palming and cluttering someone’s page is never been my goal in writing; so, I ask her kindly if I can write my own related to her article instead. Luckily she said yes. Thank you, Robyn for the inspiration. Here it is…

  1. The place where you felt happiest or safest.

That would be airports. Or any other transit area like train stations or even a car on the road. Part of the explanation is here and here, the other part is because I love travelling; I love the feeling of anticipation, the thoughts that I’m moving and on my way to yet another adventure, places I have never been before or going back to familiar ones and hopefully able to recreate the magic of previous experience.

Robyn asked:

“If you had a time machine and could go back to any place, at any time in your life, where would it be? Did you ever return to that place as an adult? If so, was the magic still there?”

The time in my life I would most want to go back to is my childhood. Strange because it was a difficult turbulent moment in my life but that was also the time I was still innocent and able to enjoy it to the fullest. When one is young, one does not worry too much. Daily woes and turmoil don’t bother a child much. Going back to that… how one can go back to the past?

  1. An antiquated item like a pay phone you had to dial, penny candy, or your Charlie’s Angels lunch box.

Robyn said: The older I get, the less value I put on objects. But, in childhood, I didn’t have “things,” I had “treasures.” Did you have a talisman? Was there an object in your childhood home that brings up emotion for you when you think of it? Is there something you wish you could get your hands on now…but isn’t manufactured or attainable anymore?

I never have baby pictures or any photographs when I was growing up. Come to think of it, we don’t have family photos either. The little we had was lost in floods or typhoons. I would like to get my hands on graduation pictures, Christmas parties, recognition days and class photos. Anything that spell memory of my younger years.

  1. A food that reminds you of your youth.

Is there a food that evokes memories of your younger days, of a relationship you had, or of a major event in your past? Have you eaten it since then, or was it a once-in-a-lifetime experience? Relive it, improve upon it, or recall a memorable meal.

I was born and bred in a fish pond. My father had always been a caretaker of such properties across the country, which by far the only decent job he was able to hold being an unschooled wandering gipsy.

Being feed by endless supply of seafood could make someone easily conclude that my favourite meal would be anything that contains any of these delicacies, and that is mainly true; but__ and it is a big but __ they are not the one that was always a treat, that meant “celebration,” or that comforted me and has deep roots in my memory. Hold your breath, here it is… pork chops (or any type of meat but in particular pork chops) are the one I (we, siblings) associated all those happy feelings.

We cannot afford to buy meat during those times. Seafood is there for the taking, but meat we eat only on Sundays. My father was paid weekly, and my mother always shopped after the mass, bringing our supply for the whole week; and pork chops were always on the list together with ripe mangoes. Sunday was the only day we were allowed to have desserts, and it was always ripe mangoes.

I will still not consume them daily but every time I sit at the table and I have pork chops before me, the meal becomes a feast. It never failed to bring back sweet (and not sweet) memories, sights, smell, sounds included… (the rest of the story you can read here if you wish)

  1. What you thought you were going to be when you grew up.

How about you? Did you know what work you’d do as an adult? If so, was it because it was your family business, or because it would get you out of your hometown, or because you’d be able to change the world? What happened…did your dream become a reality?

I always wanted to be a Pirate (before that I briefly entertained the notion of becoming a nun or a dressmaker) I would like to be Sinbad, sail the seven seas and embark in adventures after adventures. I remember drawing endless images of lady pirates on every available surface including wooden stairs and tables. Then I decided to leave piracy alone and be FBI agents like Mulder and Scully. Chasing and solving paranormal activities and aliens seemed to be a very exciting occupation.

When I was in high school and been handpicked against my will to perform on stage for some school plays and with success, suddenly I found myself dreaming to be an actress on Broadway or silver screen. I remember rehearsing in the front of a broken hand mirror of my mother, standing on the bow of a stranded old boat wearing my mother’s clothes which I transformed into costumes. I have been beaten badly by my parents for doing these acts. My father said why I cannot think of real careers that guarantee me a sure income. I never tell them this but I thought those are boring.

Needless to say, none of my dreams becomes a reality. I followed what my father wanted and that’s it. End of the story.

  1. Your childhood fear.

I have none. I thought I was indestructible and immortal that time. I ran over by a car, broken my fibula and spent an entire month including Christmas and New Year in a hospital bed; almost drowned three times but it never stop me from sneaking away from the house in the evening to swim alone because I saw that the sea was wild and wanted to know how it was to be beneath those crashing waves. No, I had no childhood fear.

Do you often delve into the past to inspire your writing?

Yes and yes. The past is my main source of inspiration. I find myself always going back there to search for materials to write. I am a product of my past. That’s who I am.  

What about you? 


How Are You?

… that’s the question I hate to be asked. The truth is_ nobody really want to know. People are just being polite. They expect the customary answer of : Yes I’m fine, how are you, how’s your family the weather, the dog, your job, your philandering husband etc.

Imagine when someone asked let’s say at work at the coffee/vending machine and you tell them the truth like:

“Ah, I don’t feel fine, not for a long time already, in fact since I was born. You see I hate this freaking life. The only reason why I don’t say goodbye to this cruel world (actually it’s not the world that is cruel for this is a wonderful, beautiful world full of gorgeous scenery) is because I am a catholic and even though I doubt the existence of heaven and hell deep down inside I still believe in the possibilities that those places really exist you never know and I don’t want to be punished for taking my own life for I suffered already enough in this one I don’t want to suffer again where I’m going. And my family… you asked about my family? Well, they are lying, thieving bunch of no good who will betray each other including me, mostly me in order to get what they want. Not what they deserved but what they want it doesn’t matter if it’s not theirs to take.”

And you go on and on about why it is that you are not feeling fine. I wonder if they are going to ask ever again: How are you?