tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17917209817046571242024-03-14T03:54:37.833-07:00Excessive flatulation leads to scarring.myra & lovely's: writing, random things, and inside jokes.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-49081824615516973872009-05-28T00:01:00.001-07:002009-05-28T00:01:25.902-07:00UntitledThe winds blow my sails<br />Toward seas of uncertainty,<br />Where swells beckon and swallow<br />Hope and pride, like sailors fall prey<br />To the songs of sirens.<br />I am enveloped in suspense,<br />As I taste the saltiness of fear from<br />Tears and sea water.<br />I watch the skies grow damp like<br />Paper towels.<br /><br />I am in the middle of nowhere,<br />And headed everywhere.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-4675339725160517242009-05-27T23:59:00.001-07:002009-05-27T23:59:28.931-07:00Swept off my feetmango-peeling heat strikes my pale skin<br />while i whistle for the breeze--<br />the cool but sticky<br />humid air clings,<br />my body tastes the sliver of perspiration.<br /><br />mama beckons me to her,<br />standing on a clearing,<br />sheltered by tall bamboo trees.<br />she squints while she waits,<br />eyes exposed by the glaring sun.<br />on her face: patterns that move with the breeze,<br />dancing pictures from shadows of leaves.<br /><br />she takes me into her arms with a sweep,<br />leaving my feet to dangle near her side.<br />i grasp shadows and watch little fingers<br />make ducks, rabbits, and birds on her cheek.<br />her dimples deepen with a smile.<br />as did mine, pearly teeth showing little,<br />and gaps where age comes shy of three.<br /><br />"tatang is waiting," she whispers.<br /><br />he stood tall and lean, peering towards me<br />an indentation on his cheek too,<br />i noticed, just like me.<br />he smelled like the sun, age, and comfort.<br />i reached for his hair,<br />grasped at curling black strands near his temple.<br /><br />then he picked me off my mama's arms,<br />in the same fluid, quick but gentle sweep.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-84662153838056256382008-10-13T16:10:00.001-07:002008-10-13T21:58:00.060-07:00No Space For TitlesDrunk nights, two, three, four<br />Splash a little of that sunshine into the cup<br />These are the chiming of our hours<br /><br />Tell that silence to shut up<br />Peep-toe heels and shoeboxes of wit<br />The rise of the eyebrow at night<br /><br />Cross your arms to the music of the drift<br />Lyrics bang: “I like you? Sike!”<br />Sure you’re a winner.<br /><br />I could never tell if I was angry or glad<br />When my strength was a dying song<br />And being “A Woman” was a fad<br /><br />They never suggest you be alone<br />But I sit by myself and wonder<br />If it will ever be the same<br /><br />Or if I will find myself getting stronger<br />Getcha back to the rhythm of the game<br />Shrug a bye, and go write a poem.<br /><br />You should never allow it to roam<br />An armory of lies and breathing<br />On a neck in broken baritones<br /><br />Like the touch of butterflies seething.<br />I would like to dedicate this tea<br />To a frantic lullaby. I’m tired.<br /><br />Leave the soil to the seed<br />Let me work because I’m wired<br />This will someday leave me alone.arymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-37945547451647490112008-06-27T01:15:00.001-07:002008-06-27T01:15:32.192-07:00II. Puppies<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Premise:</span><br />Part of a series of 10 shorts aptly titled "Ten Years" which, as the title implies, happens within a 10-year time span (to the past, present, or future).</span><br /><br />She always had a “thing” for his voice. Deep, slightly harsh, but had a boyish tone. Sometimes she imagined hearing it close to her neck, ragged and hoarse. It made her shiver.<br /><br />“So my sister and I threw eggs at this house. Then my brother tripped on their lawnmower. It made so much noise…”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.hot-screensaver.com/wp-myimages/adorable-puppies.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.hot-screensaver.com/wp-myimages/adorable-puppies.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Their conversations were mostly about families—her’s and his, separately. At times she talked about her friends or about mutual friends she still kept contact with. Then, when it’s late at night, she talks about big boats while half-asleep, he’d talk about puppies. They made fun of each other. They had fun altogether.<br /><br />“Wait, why did you decide to egg this guy’s house?”<br /><br />“Were you falling asleep again? Dreaming about yachts?”<br /><br />“No! Unlike you I have more sophisticated things to dream about, let alone talk about.”<br /><br />“Tell me, because I want to laugh at your answer.”<br /><br />“I want to laugh when you ask.”<br /><br />He laughs.<br /><br />She always had a thing for his laugh. Honest and genuine, it makes her smile. It was the type of laughter that rumbles from your core, feel it throughout your body as it leaves your throat, and when you hear it coming out of your mouth. The type that echoes happiness or amusement on her behalf. It didn’t really matter.<br /><br />At that time, nothing ever did.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-34529389995033564782008-06-25T14:21:00.000-07:002008-06-27T01:14:32.034-07:00New York City<span style="font-style:italic;"><span style="font-style:italic;">Premise:</span><br />Part of a series of 10 shorts aptly titled "Ten Years" which, as the title implies, happens within a 10-year time span (to the past, present, or future).</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/183/471779726_75477dc66c.jpg?v=0"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/183/471779726_75477dc66c.jpg?v=0" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />They stood in the rain for what seemed like ten years, on repeat. He stared at her, wide-eyed, holding a blue and yellow umbrella, almost afraid to blink. She shrieked at god’s blessing and invoked a curse before giving him a hug. Ouch, he said, oh, when she clumsily stepped on his brown loafers. Some things never changed.<br /><br />The first thing he noticed was her eyes, naked in amusement. She always wore glasses. She now wears her hair short with bangs, slightly damp from the showers. He could tell she was hurrying to find cover when she ran into him the first time. Slightly taller, slimmer than what he imagined. He still felt a lot taller like last time, even now when she’s wearing three-inch heels. <br /><br />Their meeting seemed coincidental. He was there visiting his dad, she was meeting her friends for lunch. New York City seems to be that place for people. A place to meet, to lose, and to find each other once again.<br /><br />He shook his head, apologizing for his awkwardness. She laughed refusing to accept his apology and began to walk. They surfaced the usual questions, falling into step, as if picking up from where they left off years ago. She teased him about his clothes, he lightly nudged her on the shoulders. No awkwardness, just playful banter.<br /><br />“Married?”<br /><br />“Nope.”<br /><br />“Engaged?”<br /><br />“Almost.”<br /><br />Filled with one-liners, their conversation fueled on. From seventeen and fourteen, to twenty-two and eighteen, to thirty-six and thirty-two. He talked about his daughter and the ex-girlfriend that ran on him, she talked about her Master’s degree program for Visual Communication Arts. She laughed when he asked about her hiding behind fruit stands when there was a boy she liked.<br /><br />She wanted to ask, but of course he’d remember. All these years, she thought, he always remembers.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-91330201200196728202008-05-31T20:17:00.000-07:002008-05-31T20:18:11.552-07:00...How do you write a poem?<br />How do you write a poem<br />When sunsets are merely oblivious particles in the sky<br />Emanating wavelengths according to the laws of physics<br />When the stroke of a finger<br />Is just nerve endings sounding off<br />In a tight, chemical cascade<br />Refined by the metal chisel of evolution<br />When God no longer is your mirror<br />But a flat picture on the wall, a manufactured statue on the altar<br />Unmoving, unsmiling, emanating a light<br />Whose warmth and brilliance you know will never reach you<br /><br />How do you write a poem<br />When you already know exactly what you want to say<br />When words are no longer vehicles for metaphors<br />Because you’ve deliberately chosen the words that will carry<br />That exactness, with a clarity of elaboration<br />That makes you speak exactly like this<br />Because this poem is just a pretentious collage<br />Of all the essays and entries I’ve put in my blog<br />All I really had to do<br />Was take out the periods.<br /><br />And now all those periods are nicely arranged in an unending ellipsis<br />Located at the beginning of this poem<br />Because it took me so long to figure out what I really wanted to say<br /><br />If writing is an attempt<br />To create a mirror of the soul<br />Then maybe this poem is a hint<br />Of how I can no longer handle the ambiguity<br />That comes with creating a work of art<br />I have abandoned that sparkling iridescence<br />Just so I can see the world exactly the way it is<br />To mirror how I want to be seen<br />Exactly the way I am<br />There is a harmony that resonates within this world<br />That allows you to make words rhyme<br />With terms like pantomime<br />So your audience can clap, because you tied them together beautifully<br />And made them sound the so similar. Like twins!<br />Bravo.<br />There is a melody that softened the harsh angles of your late grandfather<br />A melody that stirs the soul of your reader<br />When you write lines in iambic pentameter<br /><br />But all I hear, most of the time<br />Is a distant cacophony that scoffs at a rhythm, a design<br />A screeching note<br />That makes you long to head ram yourself<br />Into one of Jack Pollock’s canvases<br />To erupt into a splatter of in-your-face nonsense<br />Just so<br />You could make something<br />Of yourself<br /><br />And just so<br />You could mean something<br />For that one stranger that passes you by<br />And gazes at you for the longest time<br /><br />That stranger and I<br />We will echo at each other for all eternity<br /><br />And<br />The lilt of that singer’s ballad from another country<br />Will never make sense to you<br />But you listen to it anyway<br />Because maybe you can catch that phantom<br />Who holds the sway to words of wisdom and clarity<br />Within lyrics you don’t understand<br /><br />We deceive ourselves willfully.<br /><br />How do you write a poem<br />When the world is no longer a mystery<br />Armed with a dry, cold arrogance<br />You can sum up the entirety of human existence<br />Within a period.<br />And Nietzsche would be proud of you<br /><br />What used to be a suede pouch full of sacred dreams<br />Is now an arid sack of sand hanging on that hot air balloon of yours<br />And all you want to do is toss it away<br />And just rise<br />So you can continue on that journey<br />To a place so high, so distant its size can be summed up<br />Within a period.<br /><br />But here’s the truth:<br />I have written more than fifty lines<br />For something I could say in four words:<br />“I’m really only scared”<br /><br />That same suede pouch of sacred dreams<br />I can’t shake the damned thing off<br />Because that same sac covers me and turns my skin to suede<br />It’s my body that is sacred<br />And full of dreams, scattered across the contours<br />Nestled along the curve of my skin<br />A marred, imperfect exterior<br />Pierced by the shards of brilliance<br />From the diamonds in the suede pouch of this April baby<br />Twenty years of intense pressure forced onto this pouch<br />In the hopes of creating a life<br />So raw, precious, so graceful, so rough<br />So complete<br /><br />I’m really only scaredarymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-40914480218923373692008-04-27T14:53:00.000-07:002008-04-27T14:57:12.944-07:00Oh Odegaard<br />You pass a smooth river of warm soy chai down my throat<br />My screen is on negative, my thoughts are on positive<br />Algae reeking from the pdf file last opened four weeks ago<br />For an exam coming up<br />Doomsday in 2 days and decreasing<br />Caffeine in 2 minutes and increasing<br />Waaaaaah I'm screwed<br />And now, I freak out in the middle of the libraryarymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-87514904232894049422008-02-19T07:01:00.000-08:002008-05-05T00:32:56.757-07:00Never (2/19/08)They'd both carried their suitcases to the terminal, and stared at each other for what could be their last time. There are moments in life, Paz thought, that God gives you, large and just enough to fill the palm of your hand, significant and tangible enough to leave you breathless at the touch of a memory. As she stood breathing, staring at Lawrence, who stood against the backdrop of the bright airport runway, the rest of the world blurred for a moment, enclosing her in the space of timelessness.<br /><br />"It would be a lot easier if you pinched me," she said.<br /><br />He'd started at her parting comment. "I'm not the kind of person who would make this easier for you," he replied.<br /><br />"Just this once?"<br /><br />"Never," he quietly said, and he stepped closer, and gazed into her, with dark, penetrating eyes.<br /><br />"If I was the one who pinched you?" she offered.<br /><br />He frowned. "I'll just grab you before you land it and kiss the hell out of you, tell you how much I'm going to miss you, tell you how much I want to drag you with me on the next fucking plane to God knows fucking where, so that I can, you know, do you."<br /><br />She felt the moistness gather in her eyes. Always the asshole. "How could you?" she whispered.<br /><br />He gazed down at her. "I'm not going to let you leave without fighting you and forcing you to remember this for the rest of your damned life."<br /><br />"I have enough to remember," she countered, her voice trembling, "and they're not all good, you jerk."<br /><br />"Life's a bitch, ma'am," he replied, his voice dropping even lower. "You come into my life, in the middle of a jungle, looking like a man. Make me want you anyway."<br /><br />The tears started to form. "And here I thought other women did the same thing."<br /><br />"Close your eyes," he said.<br /><br />"Huh?"<br /><br />"Close them. Let me do something."<br /><br />She closed them, and then suddenly she felt his hands on her waist and felt herself being lifted up in his arms, with them chest to chest, and she only had half a second to breathe the heady cologne on his collar before he breathed her into his mouth, parted her lips into what became the most tender, sensual kiss she had ever received. His warm breath spread over her lips and she grabbed onto the lapels of his jacket, paying him back for all it was worth.<br /><br />She vaguely felt her body float through the air but thought it must have been the kiss. They continued to hold on to each other, both reeling in their violent emotions, only allowing themselves this one small passion that no one else in the world would ever come to understand. She didn't know how long the kiss lasted, only that her chest tightened and that her entire body was centered in that connection. But then suddenly their kiss broke and his hands settled her back down on the ground.<br /><br />He leaned his forehead against hers, and whispered, "You've destroyed me."<br /><br />She smiled but her mouth trembled. "You deserve it."<br /><br />"Always did."<br /><br />She looked up into his eyes and a tear streaked down her cheeks. "I can't say the words," she broke out.<br /><br />"Keep it. Don't wanna hear it."<br /><br />"I'd go back again," she suddenly said, and she made a valiant effort to control her voice before she'd start to break down, "Go back to the jungle, pretend to be a man again. Like old times, huh?"<br /><br />He grinned. "I know," he said, and sighed. "Turn around."<br /><br />She turned around and saw the airplane ramp immediately before her. "You...?"<br /><br />He chuckled, but it was soft, and his eyes seemed moist. "Go, before I do you in front of the flight attendant."<br /><br />"Christ, you never stop, do you ---?"<br /><br />He grabbed her ticket and gave it to the airport personnel, who ran it through the machine and gave it back to her. His hands settled on her arms and he turned her around to face the ramp. "Never," he breathed into her ear, and he kissed her neck, right below her right ear, before he gave her a push. "Go on. You're giving me a hard-on," he said.<br /><br />As she began to walk, she turned around and showed him the middle finger.<br /><br />He laughed and winked at her.<br /><br />Paz slowly turned back to face the ramp and pushed her luggage behind her. Nothing had ever felt heavier. Their story was made for the books, Paz knew, but no one would ever know how the two of them had once met and connected. No marriage certificate, no photographs, no letters. Only the memories she'd have to fight for to remain in her mind, of the only man in her life who had destroyed her body and soul, and then picked up the pieces for her renewal.arymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-54971705812849707792008-02-11T00:57:00.000-08:002008-02-11T01:04:36.590-08:00Letters (January 28, 2004)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVGtQrv1oOgRJL35KW7Y-t5gupcAnpEoLMthPjlxuVV3tWII_XYmWqZCpF78LKdr-qN2fQjcLcKhLAfcFsBtw3SVdwi5uSmR4biXR5zCqWzBL-1-RyNxTs4BcVe-F8H2axPgABrds-6cC/s1600-h/juanluna.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaVGtQrv1oOgRJL35KW7Y-t5gupcAnpEoLMthPjlxuVV3tWII_XYmWqZCpF78LKdr-qN2fQjcLcKhLAfcFsBtw3SVdwi5uSmR4biXR5zCqWzBL-1-RyNxTs4BcVe-F8H2axPgABrds-6cC/s320/juanluna.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5165645453553243778" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Inspired by </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Tampuhan</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);"> (Lover's Quarrel) by Juan Luna [above], Jose Rizal's </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">Noli Me Tangere</span><span style="color: rgb(153, 153, 153);">, and the song "Bakit Ngayon Ka Lang?" by Pops & Martin.</span><br /><br />His eyes forced a spark as the light from the balcony reached into his pupils. The dark intensity within them hid the uncontrollable ambiguity of his emotions. And by that light, emerged a familiar face from his childhood, yet made beautiful with age.<br /><br />"Josephine," he managed while stepping up towards that light.<br /><br />The woman, upon hearing his voice froze in place. On her face, from what could be seen, was contorted in some form of emotion, irrefutable by the sight of him. He, who has been her childhood friend of so many years, who left her when she was ten, who has left to break her heart. They wrote letters when he was in Spain, England and Germany; through them he showed his excitement of fulfilling his dream of seeing new lands, through his vivid descriptions of the wonderful European terrain, and through them, she was able to dream of the closeness they could have shared.<br /><br />She turned to leave and close the door behind that dream, when his hand graced across her soft skin to stop her. What was then not seen was evident now, on her face was irreplaceable sorrow.<br /><br />"Bakit ngayon ka lang?" She said quietly, refusing to look up at him.<br /><br />"¿Es verdad? Totoo bang ikakasal ka na?" The young man's voice was uncertainly calm, but trembling.<br /><br />The young woman couldn't answer but tried to break free, only to be gently pressed against the door as the man in front of her stepped closer. She suppressed a shudder of indignation when she saw him smile lightly.<br /><br />"Sí. Oo.."<br /><br />"¿Pero, su letra? Anong ibig sabihin nito?"<br /><br />The man held up a piece of folded paper: the letter she last sent him, the letter when she told him she loved him (too). It must have reached him much later, much later when it was already too late for her. For them.<br /><br />"Lumipas na ang madaming panahon, Jose," she began as she dared to look at him, "madaming mga gabi ng ikaw lang ang aking iniisip at nais kong makita..."<br /><br />With her words, she removed his grip on her arm and stepped away.<br /><br />"Ngayon, ibig kong itanong sa iyo: Bakit ngayon ka lang?"<br /><br />Also with that, and she was gone and closed the door in front of the young man behind her. The symbolic closure to her beloved memories of him and him altogether.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-77123329787479219742007-12-02T02:01:00.000-08:002007-12-02T02:05:53.874-08:00Somethings and Nothings<span style="font-style: italic;">I wrote this more than two years ago... it's amazing to see how much I've grown since then, and the natural style of my writing, without any influence from CHID. At the time I was growing spiritually, which accounts for the allusions to God. It's strange how I can marvel at a little of my naivete and yet at the same time be inspired right now at what came out of that 17-year old girl.<br /><br /></span><span></span>What is life? Life is making something out of nothing. Life is never really reaching that something because no matter how much we try, we never change. We are nothing. If we stopped doing something, we'd be nothing. And that is our biggest fear. To be nothing. To have no meaning, no significance; to be a piece of dust in the universe, a speck of light whose luminescence was never to be appreciated, because it never existed. It was nothing.<br /><br />But if I stop. If I stop doing something, I may be nothing. So I keep on doing something, and they become so many somethings that I lose myself, and realize that I still am, after all that, nothing.<br /><br />So I say nothing. And I stop. I stop doing something. Will I stop being nothing after this? Should I just give up and give in to my biggest fear?<br /><br />But I hear something. Something I've never heard when I was doing something. Voices in the back of my head. A being over my shoulder. He tells me that I used to be nothing. Before time and before the universe, I was nothing. But because He is perfect, and full of love and grace, he shaped nothing into something. Only He can do that. Even before I was born, I was something. And even if I stopped being something in this world, I'd never stop being something to Him. And because I'm something to Him, I can be something to someone else. And make them feel like they are something.<br /><br />If I never stopped doing something, I wouldn't have heard Him say that I *am* something. And that's all I need to hear. That's all I need to know.<br /><br />Because in this universe of dark matter, black holes, and mysterious gaps of nothingness, physics tells us that we are nothing. But in another city, there is light, the complete opposite of this black universe; and matter is not nothing, but something. And my existence is something. That 'something' is going to have a destiny that means something.<br /><br />So maybe I do walk and exist in this world trying to do so many somethings, trying to make a something of myself. But I never heard His voice until I stopped. Because He says that I only need to feel it within myself the light I was made of that came from Him.<br /><br />I did so many somethings that ultimately meant nothing. So maybe being nothing may be my biggest fear. But to do all those somethings that amount up to nothing is the biggest waste of time. It means nothing to me, and nothing to Him.<br /><br />So don't make something out of nothing. Because the truest 'nothing,' the truest definition of the word 'nothing' is anything that exists in this universe, in this earth we live in. The world is nothing. He tells us this all the time, to not tie ourselves with nothing, but tie ourselves with something. With a purpose, with a destiny he has created out of light, out of something --- he loves us, he gave us this something out of love.<br /><br />So what is this something?<br /><br />This something is the promise. He is part of that promise. I am part of that promise. And everything else made out of the light from the Almighty is a part of that promise.<br /><br />I don't rightly know what that promise looks like. But I know that promise will last for eternity. Because, like light, it exists everywhere, and it never stops shining, never stops glowing. I am of the light. I am of the promise. I am something. I always was, and always will be.<br /><br />So when I feel like nothing, I'll remember that it was nothing that made me feel like nothing. The world made me feel like nothing. He put me in this world to make me realize that I am something, even when I am surrounded by nothing. I call it faith.<br /><br />The world means nothing. The realization is my faith. And that something is love. I was placed in a world of nothing so that I could realize that I am something. I am light. I am love. I always was, and always will be.<br /><br />So what do I do while I'm here in this world?<br /><br />The answer is easy, once I come to realize it.<br /><br />I, after all, was always something.<br /><br />I'll be light. I'll be love. And give so much to another person who feels like they are nothing, or is doing too many somethings that mean nothing --- I'll make them realize that we are made of the same thing. That we can combine exponentially, and exude more light. Shine more with love. Then pass it on. Until it can no longer be contained. Until this world of nothingness becomes charged with so much light and love, so much of the true something, that it begins to change.<br /><br />Then we become like Him. We make something out of nothing.<br /><br />So out of this world will come the kingdom of light. The kingdom of love. Out of nothing, we'll make something. And He'll surround us, because He is of the light. And most of all, He is love.<br /><br />So what is life?arymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-56141960251163155742007-08-17T14:12:00.001-07:002007-08-17T14:15:05.652-07:00untitled, part Istart /<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My mother grew up in a far more humid town somewhere in the Tropics, with pigs, cows, and over-grown water buffalos. Everyday was like summer days there, except in late July and August, when the air began to smell like rain. And it was rain accompanied by lightning, thunder and strong winds that howled and made the windowsills creek. The house she lived in was built on dirt and gravel, the walls were concrete that had slim and curved lines drawn in them as the cement was settling in. Whereas the first floor had concrete walls, the second had walls made out of strong tree wood. They provided a sharp contrast with the dryness of the concrete, as if to describe the people that lived within them—a family of eight children, all have diverse and conflicting personalities. She had a wonderful childhood, filled with summers lying on riverbanks, splashing cool water against hot flesh, stolen kisses, and other forgotten memories now etched in her face.</span><br /><br /> An aspiring writer paints a portrait of an unknown past. She discovers both the challenge and the excitement of feeling the edges of a finished novel. Until she reaches the last period on the last page, she anticipates a future of blank sheets. <br /> For Selene Montoya, blank sheets signified new beginnings and so she welcomed them with uninhibited ease. She preferred the color white, naturally, and so she chooses to decorate her one-bedroom apartment with clean lines of white, solid pastel colors, and beige tones. When she first saw the apartment she had been apprehensive—though it was located in a questionable district in the city, the flamboyant district as they described it, she fell in love with its wooden floors, granite kitchen tops, and its classic white bathtub that stood on four legs. Her mother had been completely against it based on its location, while her father only smiled, white teeth exposed and all. He said, “Whatever makes you happy.” And happy she had been. Right away, she drew a long, hot bubble bath on her bathtub, the first of many.<br /> She spends most of her time staring out her balcony, watching raindrops and lovers hop on puddles. On days that she worked on her novel, she would drink coffee from an oversized and round mug she bought from a novelty shop in San Francisco. It was her thinking mug. Armed with this mug, a pair of white Chanel glasses she would feel the mood to write—it was necessary to have all three, and she preferred it because it worked. There was something about their presence that made her feel up to the task.<br /> Today was not one of those days.<br /> On her hand was a lukewarm cappuccino that she had purchased from the Starbucks downstairs. Over her years at the university, she had developed an affinity for over-priced coffee drinks: white mocha, caramel macchiato, vanilla bean frappucino, and her favorite, non-fat, extra hot, chai latte. Their overrated novelty undermined her ‘fix’ for anything caffeinated. Easy ‘fixes’ would expedite and fuel her work ethic. She’d type furiously on her laptop, only blinking once, and breathing quick and uneasy. But as she discovered later, the caffeine rush went as quickly as it came. Now, her eyes wandered to the couple outside her window, kissing under the rain before she hesitantly went back to work.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My mother met a young lawyer in the capital. He was tall, and he carried a briefcase as easily as he carried a smile. She had just graduated from the college and was then teaching at the nearby high school. It was not love-at-first-sight. The moment they met, my mother instantly singled him out as a brownnoser, while the lawyer saw my mother as a bore as well as prude and he was not about to spend more than a few dates to be in bed with her. They saw each other more than once, to each of their annoyance, for he worked as an assistant to the mayor at City Hall, which was only two blocks away from the high school she taught at.</span><br /><br /> “How fucking convenient,” she put her cup down, staring out of her laptop screen and out the window, only to find her muses absent from the scene. Even though she had heard this story a billion times, she still could not believe how her parents eventually married, let alone separate after so many years. The convenience of their first jobs should have been a clue as to how fate worked in their lives. They had separated two years ago after thirty-five years of marriage, but not a step closer to a divorce, for they were both strictly Catholic.<br /><br /> “So what are you going to do, sleep on separate beds?” Selene remembers asking her father. “Just get a fucking divorce and get it over with.”<br /> “Watch your language, when you’re talking to your Papa.” Her mother stood next to him as she spoke to Selene. “Where did you learn how to speak like that? Just because you’re in college—“<br /> “But Ma, why are you separating in the first place?” Junior, Selene’s younger brother, interjected, who was clearly uncomfortable with the news. Of the three siblings, he spent the least with their parents, having been raised by grandparents who lived in San Francisco. The reason behind this arrangement was unknown to Selene, although she did not mind it at all. She had the freedom to do as she wished, ask for everything (and she often did), and she got it. Junior, on the other hand, had been independent as a result of this arrangement. Even at nineteen, he had already saved up enough money to buy a car and pay it in cash. He always asked questions, though saying very little, and would contribute less once he pieced together the answers.<br /> “You two have been together for so many years, so I just do not understand why. All of a sudden, you just got tired of each other?”<br /> “Just don’t do it!” Selene and Junior’s younger sister was crying. Andrea seemed to be the only one who approached the situation with emotion, and it put Selene at ease. Her parents, Junior and herself approached the situation with obvious constraint. Andrea’s sobbing gave the room its livelihood, no matter how somber. “What’s going to happen to our family? It’s going to fall apart!”<br /> “Like it hasn’t already,” Selene earned a reprimanding look from her mother that she nonchalantly ignored.<br /> “We just need time apart,” Selene’s father spoke, “nothing is going to change between us because we love each other very much.” He looked at their mother as if to prove the point.<br /><br /> Now that she looked back on it, Selene would never admit the news had been a surprise to her. Growing up, she prided herself for being aware of her surroundings: she knew everything and about everyone. Whether the surprise, or a numbness she tried to supplant within her, became the cause of her bitterness, she did not know. She took pride in her ability to brush it off so easily to avoid Junior’s concerned looks, to show courage for Andrea, but most of all, to preserve her own sanity.<br /><br /><br /><br />/end<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">OMG: MAWA, I MISS YOU TOO! COME BACK SOON. :)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-12182672545777669772007-07-28T01:36:00.000-07:002007-07-28T01:38:39.704-07:00TO LOVELY:<br /><br />I MISS MY BOO!<br /><br />FR MYRAarymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-71091049819874287182007-05-29T01:41:00.000-07:002007-05-29T01:42:35.976-07:00from april 2005you've got sensual and delicate lips<br />like you've got something to say but dare not say it<br />as if you're some pompous ass who thinks highly of yourself<br />but you're not at all<br /><br />they're fun to kiss<br />the way they press against my lips and you tilt your head like this to deepen it<br />and explore the recesses of my mouth<br />and i've kissed you so many times before but none feel like this<br /><br />i have no room to vocalize the way i feel because<br />you've got my lips captured into a searing lock<br />and you've thrown the key into the high seas<br />nowhere to be found, just like my voice<br />so my only way to show it is to pull you closer<br />and enjoy you taking all of me<br /><br />and i won't protest<br />and i won't regret<br />and i won't stop until each of us runs out of breath,<br />my vision gets cloudy from the lack of air,<br />but you breathe some life in me like no other person has done before<br /><br />so i let you<br />whatever wherever whenever<br />the sooner the better<br />coz i can't hold this feeling of anxiety<br />of wanting to hold you inside of me<br />exploring the recesses of my soul as<br />walls collide<br />and friction emanates between us<br />pushing us to that limit<br />the furthest level reaching<br />higher and higher in a heart-stopping crescendo<br />making beautiful music<br />that i can sing on my own when you're not looking<br /><br />and you're watching me from less than an inch<br />so move a bit and let me stare at your lips one more time<br />before it disappears again as we turn off the lightsUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-71926611539652840652007-05-26T12:05:00.001-07:002007-05-26T12:15:23.484-07:00Tongues, Teeth, and Treason<span style="font-style: italic;">The character finds herself in a dangerous guerilla faction in the southern Philippines after heading down there to find her sister. She disguises herself as a man (since it's not too hard for her) but her identity is accidentally revealed later. This scene is one of the ones that follow as she is taken prisoner.</span><br /><br />She experienced a moment's shock when she felt his tongue dart into her mouth savagely, sluicing the tip of its tongue across the cavern of her mouth. It excitedly rolled from the backs of her molars to tangle with her own stiff tongue, and felt very much like a large, slimy worm was struggling its way into her throat.<br /><br />Despite the scorching heat of the sun, a cold shock wave penetrated her bones and rendered her stiff as she stared at the man. Somewhere in the back of her mind a raving conscience shrieked indignation and downright outrage. Before Jamie could stop herself, her teeth clamped down on the man's roving tongue with the unforgiving speed of a guillotine and with no less force.<br /><br />Jamie knew a moment's pause as she felt the gummy yet hard tongue grate against her teeth and she let go just as quickly. Bile rose up her throat as she stared wide-eyed at the man, as his scream in her ears sounded strangely tangled as his tongue hung limp over his lips, blood steadily trickling down from the dark pinpricks where her teeth had just been.<br /><br />A large, blunt force across her cheek knocked her flat on the ground, sharp as marble and just as hard. The world dissolved in a dull blur.<br /><br />"Bitch!" a voice yelled hoarsely above her after he backhanded her. "Puta!" Another sharp kick attacked her right rib and she rolled to find her heaving face against the dirt.<br /><br />Gasping for breath and choking on dust and gravel, she shoved her hands upon the ground and lifted herself to breathe. Slowly, she drew herself up on her knees and sat on her heels, still clutching her ribs tightly, with her head bowed down in pain. She could hear the man breathing a few feet away from her right.<br /><br />Her hair lifted slightly as a coarse breeze flowed past. Suddenly, a large glob of spit caught her across her red cheeks to drip slowly down her chin to mingle with a single tear. The corners of her mouth dripped with a blood not her own.<br /><br />A spray of dirt hit her face and she heard the man turn around and stomp away. And in the relative silence of the dusty clearing, her body heaved and shook powerfully, almost as if she were sobbing. And she felt acute remorse --- not because she was thoroughly humiliated --- but because despite the vulgarity of it, that had been her first kiss.arymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-88102789275086780142007-05-24T01:50:00.000-07:002007-05-24T01:58:07.630-07:00"spoiled" (inspired by harry potter)<i>I'm spoiled<br />By your love boy<br />No matter how I try to change my mind<br />What's the point it's just a waste of time<br />I'm spoiled by your touch boy<br />The love you give is just too hard to find<br />Don't want to live without you in my life<br />I'm spoiled</i><br />"Spoiled" - Joss Stone<br /><br />She couldn't keep the ghost of his smile away from her mind. That all-knowing grin, which seemed to show the world how he owns it, or in other cases seemed to show how he carried it. She noticed how he raked his thoughts the way he raked away flakes of worry from the mop that is his head -- the way black shadows of doubt seemed to fly away from his face. This was the moment where, as hard as she fought the will to smile at him when he wasn't looking, or when he was just talking animatedly as the world is drawn to him, she was losing.<br /><br />Utterly and completely losing ... her mind?<br /><br />Or was she lost, and now she was being found?<br /><br />She has fought the instances when she found herself staring at him at dinners or when he's studying intently. There was something about the way he seemed to make the words stand out of their pages like leaves fall in autumn, only to be swallowed by his focused gaze, the way she seemed to fall into his eyes, hypnotized before she even realized it.<br /><br />She bit her lip. The more she resisted, the stronger her feelings were aflamed, the more she tried to avoid him, the more she was afraid she'd never see him again. What was wrong with her? Resisting James' perusal had been proven valuable in the past two years; the walls she had built up in defence had given her immense satisfaction and his constant rejection -- something he had shaken lightly in her opinion. How ironic it is now that the same walls have crushed down without her victorious Joshua not knowing.<br /><br />For some boy who was the most intelligent one in her year, he surely was the most oblivious one when it came to her.<br /><br />And she was just as clueless when it came to him.<br /><br />She scoffed, momentarily shaking James' concentration.<br /><br />"All right, Lily?"<br /><br />She blushed at the sound of his voice, shaking her too. Had he caught her staring? "What the hell is it to you?"<br /><br />He raised a brow, lips itching to rise in mock annoyance. "You can tone it down you know," he scratched the bridge of his nose while he shrugged, "I've never met a girl who swears more than you do. You must be a dirty-talker in bed." And he grinned, mischief dancing in his hazel eyes.<br /><br />"And what if I am?" She breezed, challenging his gaze.<br /><br />"Prove it."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-3068239591519419152007-05-22T03:23:00.000-07:002007-05-22T03:25:48.250-07:00introducing jamie (still unedited)Jamie read the tick marks on the measuring tape. 29 in… 31 in… 32 in.<br /><br /> Her breasts were getting bigger. Shit.<br /><br /> Jamie sighed heavily and dropped the measuring tape in the sink. At this rate, by next year her breasts were going to grow as big as her head and she’d have to give them names. She looked down. The left would be Lewis, and the other Clark.<br /><br /> Because she’d hope they’d go away as soon as possible to explore the world, never to be seen again.<br /><br /> She huffed loudly and it sent her short hair flying. She was in agony.<br /><br /> Well… at least she wasn’t a David and Goliath, she thought. God forbid.<br /><br /> She looked down again, and stifled a giggle, which instead came out in a very loud snort.<br /><br /> And then Jamie’s body jerked all of a sudden when the wooden door banged loudly and rattled against its flimsy frame.<br /><br /> “Jamie!” The singsong voiced called out, sounding muffled at the other side of the door. It was Ate Sophia. “We’re going now! Marilyn is outside already.”<br /><br /> “Er…” Jamie looked at the mirror. She was stark naked except for her panties. “I’m almost done.” She swore softly as she grabbed the wide elastic band and strung it around her breasts.<br /><br /> “What did you say?” Ate Sophia demanded.<br /><br /> “Nothing,” Jamie replied as she made several more rotations and secured the band tightly. Good God. She’d worked a sweat over that. She gazed at her breasts forlornly. She’d probably lose at least an inch or two with the bindings.<br /><br /> “Jamie, come on!”<br /><br /> “Okay, okay! Sorry.” Man! All this fuss for church. She quickly grabbed the flowery, oversized blouse and shoved it over her head. She buttoned the blouse while she yanked the long plain skirt over her legs, then thrust her feet into her slippers and stepped out.<br /><br /> Ate Sophia was outside waiting.<br /><br /> “Dear God, Jamie,” she said slowly. “You do go out of your way to look plain.”<br /><br /> “It’s… humble,” Jamie mumbled as she patted her short, thick hair down neatly.<br /><br /> Ate Sophia continued to stare at her for a moment, looking almost concerned. Jamie didn’t want to see it. “Come on, let’s go,” she said as she walked out the screen door. She stepped out and squinted under the bright, hot rays of the sun.arymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-59438120250136398852007-05-18T04:58:00.001-07:002007-05-18T05:08:11.722-07:00peace<a style="font-weight: bold;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1mp6CD28JfWODZw_6MXa1xiYpDuv2Ykk0bIfjkhZ7sh9ouzrhE8Z84BKqA1XGmOgJnqiTCG_8mOMuVHwM1DgHLNSaTYnvynr4C3of-kGwwbGQhnJiODpx8B5T6Ixh6gOZGwx_eWW7_Na3/s1600-h/maui.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1mp6CD28JfWODZw_6MXa1xiYpDuv2Ykk0bIfjkhZ7sh9ouzrhE8Z84BKqA1XGmOgJnqiTCG_8mOMuVHwM1DgHLNSaTYnvynr4C3of-kGwwbGQhnJiODpx8B5T6Ixh6gOZGwx_eWW7_Na3/s320/maui.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5065870339353320706" border="0" /></a>[4.3.2005]<br />find that inner strength<br />that core where the pillars stand<br />that breeze where the bamboos sway<br />that music in your ears that tingles your senses<br />find that sadness you're willing to subside<br />for a happiness than only you can provide<br />find that swell with a beat up surfboard<br />and ride until you hit the sand without getting caught in the undertow<br />find the lines of age on your father's face<br />and trace it with a finger to your heart<br />find your mother's face in a clouded mirror<br />when you look at your reflection in the morning after a shower<br />the trees rustle at night on your bedroom window<br />as the moon shines and peaks into the cubicle<br />of dreams of aspirations of failed attempts and passion<br />the white walls speak the language of your ancestors in each picture<br />raising questions and those answers<br />find them<br /><br />find that moment when you close those brown eyes<br />and the world turns from different hues of red brown and black<br />so you can breathe<br />so you can sleep<br />so you can finally find peaceUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-45276620979170348252007-05-18T03:58:00.001-07:002007-05-18T04:02:39.381-07:00the beginning of the 'novel' unedited[written july 19, 2006]<br /><br />Hmm.<br /><br /> It was dark. He knew he was somewhere, somehow floating in the deep recesses of an unseen world. The darkness, the silence, the floating would have unsettled him in another place and time, but for some reason, right now he felt strangely relieved, and blissfully content. <br /><br /> All of a sudden, he felt a sharp, piercing pain shoot across his forehead, and his body jerked. His eyes wrenched open of their own accord, and he found himself staring at a multitude of sweaty, dark heads bobbing up and down a few feet in front of him. He tried to move his mouth, and winced. His cheek was lodged heavily against the stone beneath him. He blinked again. The tiniest of breezes blew over him, and he felt the cool outline of drool --- thankfully, his own --- and the thick wetness of the stone beneath, where it had trailed down towards.<br /><br /> “Hoy. You’re awake.” The voice was not his. Somewhere above him, behind him, he didn’t know. But, strangely enough, without him sending any mental commands, his body refused to move, and his heart dropped a little at the sound of the voice. For a moment, the man sleepily marveled at how his body could already respond to the environment around it while his brain was still trying to figure out where it was.<br /><br /> “Hey. Look. Here. Here’s a book.” The voice came back again. This time, he registered its tone. Quiet, condescending. Mocking, even. “Read it. I think you’ll like it.”<br /><br /> He groaned softly. His own groan was music to his ears. He smiled stupidly.<br /><br /> He’d been lying on his side, and he leaned on his forearm to get himself to a sitting position on the warm, slimy stone floor. He absently laid his head on a long, rusty band of metal.<br /><br /> That’s when he really opened his eyes. The sweaty, bobbing heads suddenly veered into focus, and the fluorescent light from the ceiling above shone sharper, stinging his eyes. <span style="font-style:italic;">Jail. Prison. Death.</span><br /><br /> ...<br /><br /> He lifted his head and in awakened clarity, looked around at the prisoners resting and snoring around him. A pitiful sea of humanity, drifting and floating in their own little worlds, faces covered in grime and sweat, clothes whose colors have long faded away. The bodies literally surrounded him, from the men sitting sleepily in front of him to the boards on top of his head, which held even more sleeping prisoners.<br /><br /> This was the Philippines he knew.<br /><br /> Because despite those white pristine beaches he’d never visited, and the <br />pictures of wide-eyed tarsiers he knew would be staring back at him once he opened that tourist book, nothing could change the fact that he was now looking at the shameful, the guilty, and the hopeless people of the Philippines in the face. Faces with histories a tourist book wouldn’t necessarily want to elaborate on. Faces like his own.<br /><br /> He just thanked God he wasn’t in Building One. He knew the numbers.<br /><br /> More than a thousand dead men walking.<br /><br /> <i> Welcome to the Philippines</i>, he thought grimly. <span style="font-style:italic;">The next death-penalty capital of the world.</span>arymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-78670811798384894542007-05-18T03:40:00.000-07:002007-05-18T03:52:59.767-07:00three forty in the mornythree forty in the morny<br />the fuchsia hued liquid of my evian bottle<br />lies dormant yet potent<br />the elixir runs through my veins like a desperate madman<br />thrusting itself into the multitude of brain cells<br />making me feel driven to mania... maybe<br />and the freshly cut sandwich lies to my right<br />carbohydrates, cellulose fiber, protein, and triglycerides<br />all enmeshed in a healthy concoction<br />a recipe<br />for individuals that torture themselves<br />by seeking production and passion<br />at three forty in the morny<br /><br />we stare fixedly at our laptops<br />the glare of the screen illuminating our faces<br />in this already bright, fluorescent world<br />high ceilings and victorian brick<br />reminiscent of a castle<br />supported by the beams<br />of compiled signifiers.<br />and we are<br />reminiscent of children<br />supported by the dreams<br />of compiled blankets.<br />he. he. he. he.arymaiahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02400991060061488076noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1791720981704657124.post-7759688003503987152007-05-18T01:04:00.000-07:002007-05-18T05:07:03.587-07:00transient & love[8.19.06]<br />filling in blocks of hours in a day for your education<br />filling in 8 glasses of water to hydrate<br />filling in moments of time slipping away<br />feeling movement and pressure build up in a week<br /><br />and that is your life<br />wasted beneath the sheets<br />miracle happens when you're asleep<br /><br />filling in 12 hours on the dot w/o a minute being paid<br />filling in shots of liquid waste to wash off the dirt, hands off inhibitions late<br />filling breaths of air to the drone that's become your everyday face<br /><br />and that is your life wasted beneath the sheets<br /><br />now put it on repeat.<br /><br />--<br />we give, we give, and we give<br />until our nothings become something precious.<br />and that is the beauty and curse of sacrifice.<br /><br />i give, i give, and i give<br />not because i have material riches to spare<br />but because i love, i love, i love<br /><br />and i am loved in return.<blockquote></blockquote>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0