What it's like here

A delicious wind is filling my bedroom with smoke, seduction, and sexiness, and that's just what I smell. Next door, someone is burning leaves (Mary J? banana leaves? coconut leaves?); around the corner, a small stand is frying sugared bananas, batter-dipped quail eggs, and meatballs; in the kitchen, my brother is making chicken soup from scratch. The yumminess makes my mouth water for orgasm, food lust, and comfortable familiarity; these desires are all easily fulfilled, but somehow never within reach.

The sunset - hazy indigos blending into deep violets, with a fringe of neon orange and bright pink - is a curtain of smooth velvet behind the satin and leather of thick foliage and swaying palm trees. Tropical flora are camoulflaged as black spikes by dusk and dust. The sooty stain of car exhaust and third-world grit covers- my eyes? my windows? my perspective? I don't know, but they're there, enshrouding everything I see out of my window. It is dark and mysterious, brooding and romantic, elegant and dirty. It is everything I've ever known, exquisitely contained within a place that could not be more foreign or exotic. It is absolutely intoxicating. It is what my world has become.

I lie prone on my king-size bed, the backs of my feet dangling near my head, another Jessica Hagedorn novel beneath my hands. My thin cotton sheets are a pale butter yellow that soften the regal yellow-gold of my curtains and blend in subtly with the khaki-taupe color of my walls. Riley's crib - enormous, made of hearty wood, cherry-finished, decorated with adorable sea creature mobile and matching crib set - sits, solemn and intimidating. It looks like it could be in a boutique's display window, his colorful toys merely carefully-positioned props. My three academic medals hang from the taller side of the crib, a shiny focal point for Riley and a clever reason for me to show off to visitors and say, "This is my trophy case. Riley is my greatest prize."

Outside the largest swatch of yellow-cold brocade curtain, there is a terrace that overlooks the front street. In front of me, there is a walk-in closet. To the right of the walk-in closet is my own private bathroom, complete with a tub that's begging for bubbles, candles, and a glass of wine.

Riley and I spent the day at my grandma's, where I ate well, took a nap, and played and laughed and exercised with Riley. Riley got to spend quality time with his great-aunts and great-grandmother, bask in the glow of love and attention, and nap next to me. Now he's with his nanny, I am pouring out my brain onto the computer screen, and a stack of academic books are positioned at my side, awaiting my attention. Later on, I will study (midterms are coming up), do assignments, write fiction for a few hours, and look for more ways to make money on-line.

Rob's paid my debt to Brooklyn College, and my transcript should arrive in about 10 days. My mom's got her travel agent scouting tickets for Rob. My dad is the antagonist of a now-canceled TV show. I am poised to have a 95 average this semester. And I made enough this month via writing to afford Riley's day-to-day stuff and new clothes, and a couple of choice closet jewels for myself.

Life really can't get any better than this.

*****

I feel like there were tangible strings that I wanted to tie-in from the email I sent you, but I can't seem to find them. I just know that I want to continue blogging, and I figure the subject will make itself known as I continue doing my thing. I don't have any grand designs for internet conquest or anything, though I would appreciate making some money from every single word that finds its way out of my head. Maybe you're right: this is a good opportunity for me to figure out how to write about the simple things - because that's when the writing has to be good, right?

I'm getting my head wrapped around this idea of "no conflict." I feel like all those years of being Stephanie-esque should be enough prep for manipulating my stories and my characters. We'll see... All I know is, this is definitely a new challenge. And that's what I'm craving above all else.

Writing feels blah

I have so much to write about, and I don't just mean blogging. I have several article ideas that I want to pitch to magazines, plus a few up-and-coming mags that are expecting articles, and I've been writing fiction non-stop for the past four days. There's also a journal that I'm supposed to be keeping for my English class, and a group project (survey and essay) that I'm supposed to do for my sociology/anthropology class.This is the first time that I've been overwhelmed with writing that I want to do, and the pressure to find my happy place within my happy medium is not lost on me.

Lately, my feelings are coming so quickly, so purely, that I feel them with every fiber of my body. But even that last part of the last sentence - "every fiber of my body" - sounds so contrived, so cliche, so outdated. I feel things, sure, but I don't know how to express them. I can't find the mental energy to dig deeper, to find a colorful way of saying what's on my mind. I feel inept and frustrated at my loss for words.

I've been rereading articles that I wrote for the Kingsman three, four, five years ago, and I can't help but feel that my way with words is slowly sinking toward mediocrity. There was once a spark, a definite feeling that my writing persona was someone special, that the words that flowed out of me were arranged in a unique way. Maybe my audience was limited, and maybe I didn't earn any money from writing, but I was undeniably good at it. Now, my audience has definitely grown and I'm earning a little bit from my writing, but I feel like my talent is diminishing. My words just don't have the easy flow, witty tone, and biting sarcasm they used to have. They feel so common, so used-up. It doesn't help, either, that I have such a hard time searching for the right word. I wonder if it's because I'm learning Tagalog that my brain is having a harder time processing language?

Speaking of writing, I'm reading Albert Camus's The Plague, and Jessica Hagedorn's The Gangster of Love. I've always liked Camus, but Hagedorn is a new obsession. I LOVE her. She's the first Filipino woman writer I've ever come across, and everything I learn about her - that she was discovered by Beat poets, that she's unconventional, that she's... what's the word? Gender ambiguous? GAH! I can't find the- ANDROGYNOUS! Yes, that she's androgynous-looking. Everything about her is fabulous, and I want her to be my mentor. After all these years of women picking me to be their mentee, I want to choose the person I want to learn from, and it's her.

I'm rereading each paragraph in this post, and I can't help but feel like this conversation would lead to one of our marathon gab sessions. I miss those! I want desperately to find someone here - someone besides my brother - who I can speak to like that. My best bet is one of my cousins, probably Leila or Lara. If not, then I'll have to wait till Rob gets here. But dammit, I miss actually speaking with a kindred spirit. I miss having face-to-face conversations with someone who just gets me and who I get. I'm wondering if that kind of friendship is possible between two people of such different experiences, cultures and languages. The only people I've met so far with good grasps of the English language are family members, and limiting my conversations to only them seems too exclusive. I have to figure out something to get me out of my communications rut.