A brief update. Like with everything else, my mind is paused at the inhale, and not ready to let anything go. Everything's catching so I'm not gonna force it.
My last day at work is this wednesday (the 20th). I'm not ready, but what's done is done. I always find it interesting, that things go better for me when I'm not so heavily invested in it. Work is a breeze now, my days are filled with laughter, my duties are done with swagger, with that small air of superiority necessary for my position (lacking up until this point). My relationship with my coworkers and supervisor is much better, I speak and make actions and do my job with this deep confidence, intimately tied to an ease of disconnect. I make jokes freely, and take everything less personally. It's hard for me to consider that disconnect as an unhealthy one, when it is quite clearly my comfort zone. There is not so much fear tying my tongue, thus I shine without filters.
It's good to be home. *Throws last year to the wind*
I'm excited about this. I'm hoping I could find time in the next year to work out, eat the way I'm supposed to, etc -- start investing in my much-ignored physical. This seed of insecurity that's borrowed deep a few years ago has done nothing but sprout a leaf here and grow an arm there, steadily drawing nutrients from the small, almost insignificant wafts of mental humidity. It's persistent, this thing. Hmph.
My mind's eye cocks a brow at more and more men nowadays, but this (hopefully closing) era of Delaying Self-Gratification has fucked me up and left me patched with scars. That overbearing, selfish girl Consequence always grounds her heels and interrupts the flow of positive, inviting, sexual energy, advising me to exercise extreme caution. All the time. (Ugh, burly ass cockblocking bitch.) I'm tired of it, but maybe I should just work around her. Looking impatiently past her shoulder is obviously NOT working. There are dustbunnies blowing out of my panties whenever I sneeze.
Entertaining the idea of "proper seduction" -- the more respectable, under-the-radar kind, if there is such thing. As opposed to the throaty-voiced, staring-in-the-eye type that I've never had the desire (or ability) to master.
Meh. Seduction, the slow process of it, the effort of it, was never consciously applied in my world before. Attraction was simply felt, and if undeniable I submitted to it. The games I played were done with the blindfold of defense mechanisms. As the standards I hold myself to have changed - not even raised, just changed significantly - it seems like an interesting path to tread. I'll drop updates if this happens.
Among a lot of other things, catching themselves on the flat of my tongue. This year is going to be an exercise of effort, gritting my teeth through the shit I'd have to break through, hopefully getting closer to being a person I could once again respect, even admire. Those who've never experienced that on a bone-marrow level might call it some extreme form of vanity. We know it better as Swag..
I miss you, I wish you were here; but our paths have taken the shapes they have for a reason. I can't wait to see you, to skype you, or to be beside you in person one day - to fill you in on all the spaces between these letters. There's so much that text cannot capture -- blasphemous, I know, to the eyes of the writer. Forgive me for that.
Love,
Jess
Friday, January 15, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
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.
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.
Feel the love
Dear J,
I'm gonna try not to blog for about a week, just as an ego-detox ritual. I feel like I'm getting really full of myself and becoming a whiny elitist bitch, bragging about my achievements and complaining about "problems" that aren't really that bad. I know my viewpoints are valid, but I feel like I should take a breather from publicly writing about myself, and wait for something really noteworthy to happen before I continue noting every little feeling/action/thing I come across. I have a gut feeling that that's what "Mistress Mom" is gonna become: a well-written blog about everything and nothing. I'm not yet sure how I feel about that... I mean, I figure that's kinda what it's about now, but it's slowly slipping into the fantastically mundane. Soon I'll be taking pics of our dogs balancing strange things on their heads, like dooce does on her blog.
Anyway, before I momentarily step away from the blogosphere, I have to reply to a comment on my blog from someone named Becky. I have no idea how this politically conservative, middle-aged mother who lives in the Midwest found my blog, but somehow she did and her latest comment about my angsty-ness rang true on a bunch of levels. Life is falling into place and becoming what I've always wanted it to be, and I just don't know what to do with myself.
As soon as I read that, I felt calmer and more relaxed. YES!, I thought, EXACTLY!!! I knew this in the pit of my stomach, but I think I needed someone else to acknowledge it to make it real. The second I realized its validity, I took a step back from my angry place and thought about the last week. Sure, I've had setbacks, but I've had free time, I've worked on my writing, I've spent lots of quality time with Riley, I've studied and caught up with assignments, I've laughed and spoken with Rob, I've (re)-connected with a bunch of friends and family in a big way, etc. In short, I've done everything that I'm supposed to do, everything that I wanna do, everything that the ideal me would be doing. So what gives? I guess, a part of me feels the possibility perfection and doesn't know what to do with it.
For a long time, I've been working towards a place in life where my greatest problems are how to style my hair and which vacation spot would best suit my family, and now that I'm nearing that goal, I feel distant. Being thisclose to everything I've ever wanted is jarring. I've always defined myself by the yearning, but now that all of my desires will soon be within reach, my life will not be about reaching my goals, but maintaining them. Not making money, but having money and using it wisely. Not finding love, but keeping the flame alive and healthy. Not fixing my parents' problems, but continuing to keep enough distance from them to keep my sanity intact while still being a good daughter. In each case, there's a HUGE DIFFERENCE between the former and the latter.
[In other news:] It looks like Rob's mom isn't coming after all. Her sisters aren't coming with her, so she doesn't want to come at all. I'm like, "Um, I thought you're coming here to see your grandson - not to hang out with your sisters, who you see ALL THE TIME?!" But of course I say a version of this to Rob, and not directly to his mother, aka the woman who is supposed to pay Rob's way while he's here.
Now that she's not coming, Rob's mom refuses to pay Rob's ticket. Can you say "WTF?!", cuz she was more than willing to pay for her ticket and his ticket when she thought her sisters were joining them. When he told me all this, I started asking questions, and he had a talk with his mom right there and then so I could hear their convo. Let's just say, he held his own a lot better than I thought he would. It looks like she isn't coming in February, but Rob's gonna come anyway. He's saved enough money to buy a ticket, and now he just has to earn/save some more so he can bring more luggage on board (all Riley's things). This turn of events pleases me to no end.
A while ago, an ex-cum-good-guy-friend laughed when I said I wished relationships were easy. "I don't think so," he'd scoffed. "Your personality doesn't do easy, Maria." I'm realizing he's right. I don't know how to take it easy. I just know how to do it the hard way. When I relax and let the cards fall where they may, things come out well and I wonder what I'm supposed to do with myself. Because now that Rob's going beyond my expectations, what are we gonna do? Be saccharine sweet and lovey-dovey all the time? Now that I've got these school and writing things on lock, what am I supposed to do? Relax, do my thing, and leave the rest up to the powers that be? Now that my family has worked on a way to keep my mind at ease about its problems, what am I supposed to do? Focus on the good, and forget about the bad? Because that all seems so simple, I can't help but question the authenticity of the answers. I mean, could it really be that easy: at the age of 25, I've figured out how to be happy, healthy and successful? Maybe I've always known the answers, but I needed convincing of their legitimacy, and therefore had to act out and try to be unique?
That brings me back to feeling like I'm being a braggart, and hence my keeping away from blogging for a while. *sigh*
Speaking of blogging, maybe we should just post these emails on The Epochs? We wouldn't feel the cocked gun at our temples, the way it happens when we're writing directly on Blogger.
Anywhos, I know you're busy, but I'm just letting you know: I'm happily awaiting your post and/or reply. And YAY! for Skype. :-)
XO-M
I'm going to download skype right now, and see what happens. It might be difficult to speak so freely since the only computer with internet is in the midst of family, playing video games behind me and shouting conversation from the kitchen. Or, the inexplicable magnetic draw of my parents with their unfolded letters whenever I am on the phone, interrupting to ask me to decode this and please call that.
this was a really great ...post? email? chapter? thats really interesting about the ego-detox.
what do you want misstressmom to be about?
this is where I get stuck. Responding to your life falling into place and you not knowing what to do with myself. I want to say nothing and everything at once, I just want to smile at you with my eyes while you talk this out. It's not something I can tackle as a problem and try to look for alternative routes. This is wonderful, this is the ultimate goal obtained, and I can only imagine how WRONG it must feel lol. Welcome to the beginning of book II, Maria's Chronicles. A different cover, a different binding, a different voice and a different font. Still a continuation of the same story, but one that could live under a different shelf, in a different genre, and still be respected and revered in itself.
(And the writer in you must be itching as well - for what is a story without conflict? How could one thicken the plot into a palatable sauce? SHOULD you?)
What's interesting is: I wonder if this dream, this perfection, could have EVER been obtained in the United States?
PS: IM SO FUCKING HAPPY FOR ROB. WTF. I could never have imagined that turn of events. He had enough of his own money saved up to say fuck you mom, I'm doing it? THATS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT RIGHT THERE MOTHERFUCKER. robs mom's actions sound like the typical controlling manipulative and damaging actions of a stephanie-esque (or a kim, my boss-esque) person. Which might explain a bit of robs tendencies and personality.
We question its authenticity because our lives were such a struggle to get to the unreachable. and now that the unreachable is actually in your hands, you look around blankly. It's not like a movie where we can roll credits and walk out with the satisfaction of a goal obtained. Indiana Jones comes home, takes off his clothes, peels off his dirty long johns, and takes a really long shower. He brushes his hair, he flosses, he probably has a comforter with a pattern that reminds him of his mother. Either that, or he has ridiculous bronco sex on his kitchen floor with a gun in one hand and a whip in the other.
As writing practice, the mundane might be a good thing. As a blogger, it's up to you to decide if you want to be dooce or not. Why not just create a new blog? for your daily writing practice, where you can make the mundane sound beautiful still, and give your life the shine of a nice polish.Or write in your journal? Or simply absorb, and adore, and store until the words explode out of your chest?
dont do anything that doesnt make you feel good. But if it does, M, fuck it.
re: the epochs
Honestly, I don't care what happens to this post after you send it to me. The epochs was started as a way to trick my mind into shutting down some of its filters. It was a way to facilitate conversation with you. I dont care who reads it, if anyone does. If you want to post it up there please do! A conversation with you is a delicious conversation with you always, whether it is in person or on the phone or via email and hopefully, eventually via skype. My mind responds to your frequencies the best, and opens up willingly whenever mine touches yours; now that we've got so many things in between us it just doesn't seem to be responding as flourishingly. lol.
i love you maria bot.
xoxoxoxooxo.
I'm gonna try not to blog for about a week, just as an ego-detox ritual. I feel like I'm getting really full of myself and becoming a whiny elitist bitch, bragging about my achievements and complaining about "problems" that aren't really that bad. I know my viewpoints are valid, but I feel like I should take a breather from publicly writing about myself, and wait for something really noteworthy to happen before I continue noting every little feeling/action/thing I come across. I have a gut feeling that that's what "Mistress Mom" is gonna become: a well-written blog about everything and nothing. I'm not yet sure how I feel about that... I mean, I figure that's kinda what it's about now, but it's slowly slipping into the fantastically mundane. Soon I'll be taking pics of our dogs balancing strange things on their heads, like dooce does on her blog.
Anyway, before I momentarily step away from the blogosphere, I have to reply to a comment on my blog from someone named Becky. I have no idea how this politically conservative, middle-aged mother who lives in the Midwest found my blog, but somehow she did and her latest comment about my angsty-ness rang true on a bunch of levels. Life is falling into place and becoming what I've always wanted it to be, and I just don't know what to do with myself.
As soon as I read that, I felt calmer and more relaxed. YES!, I thought, EXACTLY!!! I knew this in the pit of my stomach, but I think I needed someone else to acknowledge it to make it real. The second I realized its validity, I took a step back from my angry place and thought about the last week. Sure, I've had setbacks, but I've had free time, I've worked on my writing, I've spent lots of quality time with Riley, I've studied and caught up with assignments, I've laughed and spoken with Rob, I've (re)-connected with a bunch of friends and family in a big way, etc. In short, I've done everything that I'm supposed to do, everything that I wanna do, everything that the ideal me would be doing. So what gives? I guess, a part of me feels the possibility perfection and doesn't know what to do with it.
For a long time, I've been working towards a place in life where my greatest problems are how to style my hair and which vacation spot would best suit my family, and now that I'm nearing that goal, I feel distant. Being thisclose to everything I've ever wanted is jarring. I've always defined myself by the yearning, but now that all of my desires will soon be within reach, my life will not be about reaching my goals, but maintaining them. Not making money, but having money and using it wisely. Not finding love, but keeping the flame alive and healthy. Not fixing my parents' problems, but continuing to keep enough distance from them to keep my sanity intact while still being a good daughter. In each case, there's a HUGE DIFFERENCE between the former and the latter.
[In other news:] It looks like Rob's mom isn't coming after all. Her sisters aren't coming with her, so she doesn't want to come at all. I'm like, "Um, I thought you're coming here to see your grandson - not to hang out with your sisters, who you see ALL THE TIME?!" But of course I say a version of this to Rob, and not directly to his mother, aka the woman who is supposed to pay Rob's way while he's here.
Now that she's not coming, Rob's mom refuses to pay Rob's ticket. Can you say "WTF?!", cuz she was more than willing to pay for her ticket and his ticket when she thought her sisters were joining them. When he told me all this, I started asking questions, and he had a talk with his mom right there and then so I could hear their convo. Let's just say, he held his own a lot better than I thought he would. It looks like she isn't coming in February, but Rob's gonna come anyway. He's saved enough money to buy a ticket, and now he just has to earn/save some more so he can bring more luggage on board (all Riley's things). This turn of events pleases me to no end.
A while ago, an ex-cum-good-guy-friend laughed when I said I wished relationships were easy. "I don't think so," he'd scoffed. "Your personality doesn't do easy, Maria." I'm realizing he's right. I don't know how to take it easy. I just know how to do it the hard way. When I relax and let the cards fall where they may, things come out well and I wonder what I'm supposed to do with myself. Because now that Rob's going beyond my expectations, what are we gonna do? Be saccharine sweet and lovey-dovey all the time? Now that I've got these school and writing things on lock, what am I supposed to do? Relax, do my thing, and leave the rest up to the powers that be? Now that my family has worked on a way to keep my mind at ease about its problems, what am I supposed to do? Focus on the good, and forget about the bad? Because that all seems so simple, I can't help but question the authenticity of the answers. I mean, could it really be that easy: at the age of 25, I've figured out how to be happy, healthy and successful? Maybe I've always known the answers, but I needed convincing of their legitimacy, and therefore had to act out and try to be unique?
That brings me back to feeling like I'm being a braggart, and hence my keeping away from blogging for a while. *sigh*
Speaking of blogging, maybe we should just post these emails on The Epochs? We wouldn't feel the cocked gun at our temples, the way it happens when we're writing directly on Blogger.
Anywhos, I know you're busy, but I'm just letting you know: I'm happily awaiting your post and/or reply. And YAY! for Skype. :-)
XO-M
*****
Dear M,
I don't know why I've been feeling the pressure of response both on and off blogger lately. while reading, a bunch of replies burst into my head, but come time to put them on paper I freeze.Dear M,
I'm going to download skype right now, and see what happens. It might be difficult to speak so freely since the only computer with internet is in the midst of family, playing video games behind me and shouting conversation from the kitchen. Or, the inexplicable magnetic draw of my parents with their unfolded letters whenever I am on the phone, interrupting to ask me to decode this and please call that.
this was a really great ...post? email? chapter? thats really interesting about the ego-detox.
what do you want misstressmom to be about?
this is where I get stuck. Responding to your life falling into place and you not knowing what to do with myself. I want to say nothing and everything at once, I just want to smile at you with my eyes while you talk this out. It's not something I can tackle as a problem and try to look for alternative routes. This is wonderful, this is the ultimate goal obtained, and I can only imagine how WRONG it must feel lol. Welcome to the beginning of book II, Maria's Chronicles. A different cover, a different binding, a different voice and a different font. Still a continuation of the same story, but one that could live under a different shelf, in a different genre, and still be respected and revered in itself.
(And the writer in you must be itching as well - for what is a story without conflict? How could one thicken the plot into a palatable sauce? SHOULD you?)
What's interesting is: I wonder if this dream, this perfection, could have EVER been obtained in the United States?
PS: IM SO FUCKING HAPPY FOR ROB. WTF. I could never have imagined that turn of events. He had enough of his own money saved up to say fuck you mom, I'm doing it? THATS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT RIGHT THERE MOTHERFUCKER. robs mom's actions sound like the typical controlling manipulative and damaging actions of a stephanie-esque (or a kim, my boss-esque) person. Which might explain a bit of robs tendencies and personality.
We question its authenticity because our lives were such a struggle to get to the unreachable. and now that the unreachable is actually in your hands, you look around blankly. It's not like a movie where we can roll credits and walk out with the satisfaction of a goal obtained. Indiana Jones comes home, takes off his clothes, peels off his dirty long johns, and takes a really long shower. He brushes his hair, he flosses, he probably has a comforter with a pattern that reminds him of his mother. Either that, or he has ridiculous bronco sex on his kitchen floor with a gun in one hand and a whip in the other.
As writing practice, the mundane might be a good thing. As a blogger, it's up to you to decide if you want to be dooce or not. Why not just create a new blog? for your daily writing practice, where you can make the mundane sound beautiful still, and give your life the shine of a nice polish.Or write in your journal? Or simply absorb, and adore, and store until the words explode out of your chest?
dont do anything that doesnt make you feel good. But if it does, M, fuck it.
re: the epochs
Honestly, I don't care what happens to this post after you send it to me. The epochs was started as a way to trick my mind into shutting down some of its filters. It was a way to facilitate conversation with you. I dont care who reads it, if anyone does. If you want to post it up there please do! A conversation with you is a delicious conversation with you always, whether it is in person or on the phone or via email and hopefully, eventually via skype. My mind responds to your frequencies the best, and opens up willingly whenever mine touches yours; now that we've got so many things in between us it just doesn't seem to be responding as flourishingly. lol.
i love you maria bot.
xoxoxoxooxo.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Scrambled
It's been a crazy couple of days. I've been feeling disconnected and really angsty. I want to do something dangerous, something outrageous and unpredictable. I want to be bad, but I don't want to act badly. Does that make sense?
The other day, I was talking to Rob on Skype and he mentioned that he might move here earlier than expected. Maybe as soon as February. My initial reactions were shock, surprise, and joy. Then he explained that his early move would be because his mom has no company to the Philippines, and that she's insisting he go with her and they stay at a hotel in Manila (about 1 1/2 hours away from us), and I dunno. My elation deflated. Because I wouldn't be getting the amazing reunion I'd expected. Because Rob would be in the Philippines, but for the first few weeks, he wouldn't be with me and Riley. Because this only proves that Rob's a momma's boy and can't stand up to his mom.
I should just be happy that he's gonna be here, right? I mean, that's the normal reaction, right? Instead, I find fault with it. I just can't help it. Why can't it be the perfect reunion? Riley and I pick him up from the airport, shuttle him back home, and we fall into domestic bliss - that would be ideal, and so simple to achieve (okay, everything but the "domestic bliss" part is easy).
Maybe I'm never satisfied. Maybe I crave the meeting of expectations that Rob has never been able to give me (this certainly rings true). Maybe, like I wrote in an email to a dear friend, I just don't know how to stay happy. Happiness, after a while, makes me sick to my stomach. I need complication, problems to solve, reasons to act out. I need to travel and write and know strange people. If I'm honest with myself, I know that this is part of the reason I want a big family: I feel like my kids' lives will be anything but normal, and they'll need each other to validate and acknowledge their life experiences.
I dunno, J. I'm in the middle of a 2 1/2 week break from school, and aside from a trip to a mall (which reminded me so much of the States!), I'm feeling in a rut. I need desperately to go out and make a scene. I want so badly to be doing things instead of writing about them. Even if what I'm doing is reading, I feel like being a spectator of someone else's ideas is more active than living my own life in my head via writing. I've been blogging and writing incessantly for almost a month now, and it's taking it's toll. I'm out of touch with reality. I feel cleaved from everything I know. I feel spent. And yet, this is what I've always wanted to do for a living: write. Maybe I feel spent because I'm on vacay and therefore don't have academics to balance out my brain. Maybe I feel spent because I've been writing non-fiction, and it's more exhausting than writing fiction. Maybe it's for the same reason that I'm second-guessing my feelings about Rob being here: fear, doubt, suspicion that he may not be what I want.
Things seemed so much simpler back in New York. Even as I was leaving. Even as I was readying to irrevocably change myself. Even though I knew that that place in time was fleeting and oh-so temporary. It still felt comfortable, it still felt real, and it still felt like home.
I miss that feeling.
The other day, I was talking to Rob on Skype and he mentioned that he might move here earlier than expected. Maybe as soon as February. My initial reactions were shock, surprise, and joy. Then he explained that his early move would be because his mom has no company to the Philippines, and that she's insisting he go with her and they stay at a hotel in Manila (about 1 1/2 hours away from us), and I dunno. My elation deflated. Because I wouldn't be getting the amazing reunion I'd expected. Because Rob would be in the Philippines, but for the first few weeks, he wouldn't be with me and Riley. Because this only proves that Rob's a momma's boy and can't stand up to his mom.
I should just be happy that he's gonna be here, right? I mean, that's the normal reaction, right? Instead, I find fault with it. I just can't help it. Why can't it be the perfect reunion? Riley and I pick him up from the airport, shuttle him back home, and we fall into domestic bliss - that would be ideal, and so simple to achieve (okay, everything but the "domestic bliss" part is easy).
Maybe I'm never satisfied. Maybe I crave the meeting of expectations that Rob has never been able to give me (this certainly rings true). Maybe, like I wrote in an email to a dear friend, I just don't know how to stay happy. Happiness, after a while, makes me sick to my stomach. I need complication, problems to solve, reasons to act out. I need to travel and write and know strange people. If I'm honest with myself, I know that this is part of the reason I want a big family: I feel like my kids' lives will be anything but normal, and they'll need each other to validate and acknowledge their life experiences.
I dunno, J. I'm in the middle of a 2 1/2 week break from school, and aside from a trip to a mall (which reminded me so much of the States!), I'm feeling in a rut. I need desperately to go out and make a scene. I want so badly to be doing things instead of writing about them. Even if what I'm doing is reading, I feel like being a spectator of someone else's ideas is more active than living my own life in my head via writing. I've been blogging and writing incessantly for almost a month now, and it's taking it's toll. I'm out of touch with reality. I feel cleaved from everything I know. I feel spent. And yet, this is what I've always wanted to do for a living: write. Maybe I feel spent because I'm on vacay and therefore don't have academics to balance out my brain. Maybe I feel spent because I've been writing non-fiction, and it's more exhausting than writing fiction. Maybe it's for the same reason that I'm second-guessing my feelings about Rob being here: fear, doubt, suspicion that he may not be what I want.
Things seemed so much simpler back in New York. Even as I was leaving. Even as I was readying to irrevocably change myself. Even though I knew that that place in time was fleeting and oh-so temporary. It still felt comfortable, it still felt real, and it still felt like home.
I miss that feeling.
Monday, December 28, 2009
This Weekend
Alo Maria,
Long post alert. It's about freaking time.
This weekend was extremely pleasant. A small milestone in my personal realm. Maybe things better left unsaid than made permanent ("permanent") on the inernet, but would really be lost otherwise. So here I go.
(PS: As I write this I notice the struggle I'm having with myself, the lack of ease with my thought and the instafilters that have immediately clicked into place. via our last convo, re: is that what I felt when I suddenly became aware of my audience?: I definitely feel you on that. I can relate to a certain degree. The difference in our struggle is that I never valued my writing for its extremes or anything like that; I lost more than a voice... I valued my writing for its ability to stroke my core, the core that I kept hidden from even myself, and its ability to stir something in strangers who held a similar dissonance on the tips of their tongues. It's that disconnect that I adored; writing was therapy for me in a way no other form of self-reflection could possibly brush against. It was this completely personal, private, raw, open, honest conversation I had with myself, a conversation with my subconscious, who clearly knew better than I did. Once that bridge of awareness formed, connecting the two, and my conscious attempetd to overpower the other, I lost it. I lost the friendship, I lost the blind intimacy that I had with my emotions, and I haven't been able to regain it on a steady, pure level since.
There was the tiniest switch that flicked once censorship slipped into my radar. I can compare it to a virus that I rebelled against, shut down against, and am now learning to adjust to and live with. Perhaps its curable, but my life completely free from it might have to fade into the fond once-upon-a-times of 'childhood.'
It's funny because, I interrupted my post to send you a parenthesis. And within these parenthesis, outside of the context of the 'real world' which I plan to present to you, here is the realest and flowingest train of thought I've had thus far. My filters stepped aside. The best truths do come whispered in undertones, don't they?)
I've rewritten everything I originally had here. Let me try to maintain this clear point of view while I got it.
A few updates. One of my closest's lost her grandmother on Christmas. Last year this time, there would have been a desperate uncertainty gnawing at the caves of my belly on how I was supposed to be that "good friend." This year, cooler heads prevail. There's a calm belief that giving her wide space before meeting for tea tomorrow is the best for her right now. Overwhelming her is the last thing I should do. I hope I can be there for her as wonderfully as she has been there for me.
I'm slowly regaining my confidence in myself, as a friend. For the longest time I believed that I was terrible at knowing how to judge my closest, how to smoothly understand their needs and adjust them to present situations. I can't tell you now if that's a mindfuck residue that Toxicity left behind, from her steady and open and weeping frustrations at my inability to properly cater to her, or if that's who I really was prior to this shift in perspective.
I saw Divo (male diva) this weekend as well. I'm sure I've mentioned that story (stop me if I haven't.) I remerged with the bouncers that night, joining them as their shifts were ending - it's been so long since I've done that. In the past I would have been huddled in their cipher, laughing deeply while weed thickened the air, capping the night with one last act of comraderie before parting ways. But I was perfectly content watching the strip of sky lighten between buildings, lost in my thoughts until we head for the morning train to Newark.
We had an extended-family "dinner" at Owl (by far my favorite)'s home. All of us ambled in at 8am to heaping plates of turkey, egg salad, yellow rice, mac and cheese. It was delicious. Their baby was awake, an adorable terror who took one glance at us walking in and blurted, "Oh, shit!" (His father's expression, a greeting of happy surprise.) They let me claim the one air mattress and Divo warned that he'd be joining me. I didn't deny it, as I was strangely craving a bedfellow - not sex, and please God, not with him - but a pleasant partner to sleep next to.
What I didn't expect was his insistence on intimacy. The finger-caressing kind. He pushed it onto me in waves, and at first I didn't mind it. His sexual advances were easy to turn down because they were indifferent, he merely nudged me with questions of permission ("Can we make out?" "No." "Aight. I'ma ask you again in 15 minutes."), and I knew that it was not sex he really wanted. What strange creatures men of insecurity make.
Believe it, we ended up talking for hours. His hand resting on my stomach, my legs tossed over his hips, my arms crossed. His arrogance, and my hatred for it, was a familiar presence between us. ("Hey J, remember when we used to make out?" "Yeah. Remember when we stopped?") All in all, it was wonderful until my cuddle-tank dripped past full. I sat up as soon as I became uncomfortable and did not want to be held anymore. His persistence bothered me, but he's a boy used to getting what he wants if he keeps trying. And I am fickle as I like to chase my happiness. Can I really be mad? Heh.
Our conversation turned from apples and religion to... lol. He murmured against my shoulder about how he's been different, how he regrets the direction we took, how he thinks about me a lot nowadays. I either laughed or stared at the ceiling. Whether it's because I don't desire him enough to search for truths in his statements, or because I've watched him enough to doubt his sincerity as a person, (or because I just don't trust romance in general? LOL) I listened to my soul shut down. My discomfort grew as he beamed at me (and made sure I saw it) later, sneaking pictures of me while I cradled Owl's newborn in my left arm, his older baby chillin & leaning against my right - didn't we three make such a pretty image? As much as I loved the group, and as much as I adored those kids, I found myself so far from my zone that I had to gtfo. And gtfo I did, with a huge sigh of relief.
The ultimate success of this weekend, and the point buried in the folds of this rambling post somewhere (also used to fill you in on my happenings!), is that I've come to trust my instincts without a hitch in stride again. It's been so long since I've allowed myself to absorb the sudden injection of intuition, and to pause in action to heed and consider. Somewhere among the debris of my past years I'd started believing that my impulses were wrong, that they led me to this mess in the first place, that I could no longer take them seriously because they only led to destruction. (Thus began my long, long road of delaying self-gratification and quitting everything I loved, from meat to sex to smoking to giving unwanted advice). It's wonderfully refreshing to have faith in myself again. The difference now is knowing which instincts to follow, and which to credit to uncertainty. Amazing to once again walk away from my actions without much regret; I have been plagued with them, and the weight is lifting.
Kryptonite got into a car accident yesterday. Exhales. He is alive, and no bones are broken; an SUV hit him and he flew back a few feet on impact. This intense stir in my belly cannot be soothed. When I found out last night, I felt the tender side of me -- which had rebelled so violently from house, kids and cuddle earlier that morning -- explode into action, grabbing for its keys and running to the door, making plans for care packages, soup and stories.
I can only chuckle. Some things never change, and some things will never be free of doubt.
Long post alert. It's about freaking time.
This weekend was extremely pleasant. A small milestone in my personal realm. Maybe things better left unsaid than made permanent ("permanent") on the inernet, but would really be lost otherwise. So here I go.
(PS: As I write this I notice the struggle I'm having with myself, the lack of ease with my thought and the instafilters that have immediately clicked into place. via our last convo, re: is that what I felt when I suddenly became aware of my audience?: I definitely feel you on that. I can relate to a certain degree. The difference in our struggle is that I never valued my writing for its extremes or anything like that; I lost more than a voice... I valued my writing for its ability to stroke my core, the core that I kept hidden from even myself, and its ability to stir something in strangers who held a similar dissonance on the tips of their tongues. It's that disconnect that I adored; writing was therapy for me in a way no other form of self-reflection could possibly brush against. It was this completely personal, private, raw, open, honest conversation I had with myself, a conversation with my subconscious, who clearly knew better than I did. Once that bridge of awareness formed, connecting the two, and my conscious attempetd to overpower the other, I lost it. I lost the friendship, I lost the blind intimacy that I had with my emotions, and I haven't been able to regain it on a steady, pure level since.
There was the tiniest switch that flicked once censorship slipped into my radar. I can compare it to a virus that I rebelled against, shut down against, and am now learning to adjust to and live with. Perhaps its curable, but my life completely free from it might have to fade into the fond once-upon-a-times of 'childhood.'
It's funny because, I interrupted my post to send you a parenthesis. And within these parenthesis, outside of the context of the 'real world' which I plan to present to you, here is the realest and flowingest train of thought I've had thus far. My filters stepped aside. The best truths do come whispered in undertones, don't they?)
I've rewritten everything I originally had here. Let me try to maintain this clear point of view while I got it.
A few updates. One of my closest's lost her grandmother on Christmas. Last year this time, there would have been a desperate uncertainty gnawing at the caves of my belly on how I was supposed to be that "good friend." This year, cooler heads prevail. There's a calm belief that giving her wide space before meeting for tea tomorrow is the best for her right now. Overwhelming her is the last thing I should do. I hope I can be there for her as wonderfully as she has been there for me.
I'm slowly regaining my confidence in myself, as a friend. For the longest time I believed that I was terrible at knowing how to judge my closest, how to smoothly understand their needs and adjust them to present situations. I can't tell you now if that's a mindfuck residue that Toxicity left behind, from her steady and open and weeping frustrations at my inability to properly cater to her, or if that's who I really was prior to this shift in perspective.
I saw Divo (male diva) this weekend as well. I'm sure I've mentioned that story (stop me if I haven't.) I remerged with the bouncers that night, joining them as their shifts were ending - it's been so long since I've done that. In the past I would have been huddled in their cipher, laughing deeply while weed thickened the air, capping the night with one last act of comraderie before parting ways. But I was perfectly content watching the strip of sky lighten between buildings, lost in my thoughts until we head for the morning train to Newark.
We had an extended-family "dinner" at Owl (by far my favorite)'s home. All of us ambled in at 8am to heaping plates of turkey, egg salad, yellow rice, mac and cheese. It was delicious. Their baby was awake, an adorable terror who took one glance at us walking in and blurted, "Oh, shit!" (His father's expression, a greeting of happy surprise.) They let me claim the one air mattress and Divo warned that he'd be joining me. I didn't deny it, as I was strangely craving a bedfellow - not sex, and please God, not with him - but a pleasant partner to sleep next to.
What I didn't expect was his insistence on intimacy. The finger-caressing kind. He pushed it onto me in waves, and at first I didn't mind it. His sexual advances were easy to turn down because they were indifferent, he merely nudged me with questions of permission ("Can we make out?" "No." "Aight. I'ma ask you again in 15 minutes."), and I knew that it was not sex he really wanted. What strange creatures men of insecurity make.
Believe it, we ended up talking for hours. His hand resting on my stomach, my legs tossed over his hips, my arms crossed. His arrogance, and my hatred for it, was a familiar presence between us. ("Hey J, remember when we used to make out?" "Yeah. Remember when we stopped?") All in all, it was wonderful until my cuddle-tank dripped past full. I sat up as soon as I became uncomfortable and did not want to be held anymore. His persistence bothered me, but he's a boy used to getting what he wants if he keeps trying. And I am fickle as I like to chase my happiness. Can I really be mad? Heh.
Our conversation turned from apples and religion to... lol. He murmured against my shoulder about how he's been different, how he regrets the direction we took, how he thinks about me a lot nowadays. I either laughed or stared at the ceiling. Whether it's because I don't desire him enough to search for truths in his statements, or because I've watched him enough to doubt his sincerity as a person, (or because I just don't trust romance in general? LOL) I listened to my soul shut down. My discomfort grew as he beamed at me (and made sure I saw it) later, sneaking pictures of me while I cradled Owl's newborn in my left arm, his older baby chillin & leaning against my right - didn't we three make such a pretty image? As much as I loved the group, and as much as I adored those kids, I found myself so far from my zone that I had to gtfo. And gtfo I did, with a huge sigh of relief.
The ultimate success of this weekend, and the point buried in the folds of this rambling post somewhere (also used to fill you in on my happenings!), is that I've come to trust my instincts without a hitch in stride again. It's been so long since I've allowed myself to absorb the sudden injection of intuition, and to pause in action to heed and consider. Somewhere among the debris of my past years I'd started believing that my impulses were wrong, that they led me to this mess in the first place, that I could no longer take them seriously because they only led to destruction. (Thus began my long, long road of delaying self-gratification and quitting everything I loved, from meat to sex to smoking to giving unwanted advice). It's wonderfully refreshing to have faith in myself again. The difference now is knowing which instincts to follow, and which to credit to uncertainty. Amazing to once again walk away from my actions without much regret; I have been plagued with them, and the weight is lifting.
Kryptonite got into a car accident yesterday. Exhales. He is alive, and no bones are broken; an SUV hit him and he flew back a few feet on impact. This intense stir in my belly cannot be soothed. When I found out last night, I felt the tender side of me -- which had rebelled so violently from house, kids and cuddle earlier that morning -- explode into action, grabbing for its keys and running to the door, making plans for care packages, soup and stories.
I can only chuckle. Some things never change, and some things will never be free of doubt.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Hypothetically (of course),
would it be weird if I adopted my half-sibling and raised them as my own?
Monday, December 21, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)