Random Musings of an Insatiable Dreamer

To Aidan & Brandon

To Aidan & Brandon

Your innocence and trust make me want to shelter you
From all the pains and ills of this world.
Right now, you are so small that any hurt is so easily soothed.
I pray I have the strength and wisdom to prepare you
To be able to withstand the hurts of adulthood,
And I hope when your hurts grow greater, so will your strength.

I will be there to run to.
A shoulder to hang on to.
An ear to unburden yourself on.
A hand to hold to make you feel loved.

In the meantime, I will shower you with kisses,
Secure you with hugs,
Temper your developing characters with discipline and guidance,
Protect you from fears and hurts no child should ever be exposed to.

If, in my old age, I tire easily or sicken often,
I hope you will be there for me as I was there for you.
I love you.

**I was putting 3-year-old Brandon down for his afternoon nap, when he insisted his 7-year-old Kuya Aidan sleep as well. Game for anything, Aidan whispered to me, “Mommy, I’ll just pretend to sleep so Brandon will go to sleep too.” I had long ago ceased giving Aidan regular afternoon naps, so I said yes.

After nearly an hour, Aidan was fast asleep while Brandon was still awake! Brandon eventually slept and the sight of them sleeping, their faces warm and flushed, with the innocent abandon of babies, bodies almost touching because they were sleeping so close, in heart and mind.

This is a scene I want to commit to memory, a mental picture I can pull out when the inexorable passage of time will change them into the great men they are destined to be. **

Being Karla

Above all else,
I am a mother, a wife.
I am defined by the people around me.
My husband, my children.
My family, my friends.
But I know how to be myself, when I’m by myself.
Just as I am at my peak with my loved ones,
I also thrive alone.
I love my boys’ noise,
I love my silence too.
I am clay that molds itself anywhere,
to any situation,
but I have substance.
I have my own distinct characteristics
that may or may not be unique,
but put together with the others
makes me, me.

On Papa’s Last Valentine.

Last year on Valentine’s, Papa knocked on our door with a delivery of flowers from my husband. He had a smile on his face he was trying to suppress because I know he was thinking how corny we are, but still loving it that Ram was able to send me flowers, eventhough he was in Germany at the time. I’d like to think he was remembering the times he also used to send flowers to Mama when we were younger, eventhough he was overseas.

After picking up Aidan that day, we came home and surprised Papa with his favorite dishes from Max’s restaurant. Kare-kare, pancit canton, chicken, sinigang and crispy pata. They also had special truffles. My boys and I spent the rest of the day and most of the evening with him. I like to think we made his last Valentine’s special for him. I’d like to think I made a lot of days special for him. Death leaves pain no one can heal, but Love leaves memories no one can steal.

For those who don’t care, today’s Thursday. :)

Short Story: Break In

Break In

It was a long ride home. Dad had bailed me out, Cody, by his mom and Steve, by his grandmother. That just left Alice in jail. Her mom was out of town for five more days and her brother would not be able to pick her up. Everything had gone off without a hitch.

When you know you are in major parental trouble, the ride home sucks balls. I stare out the window where the lights and sights morphed into blurs of soon-to-be-forgotten memories. I wait for my dad to start his verbal lashes. His eyes still shell-shocked, his jaw clenched, as he tries to go over in his mind what he wants to say. What he will eventually say. To me, his eyes said it all. I was his 16-year-old son, a 3.92 GPA student that had broken into a Park N Buy and got caught.

I got caught alright. We all had. There we were, sitting on the floor in a circle, talking. Alice was crying. Cody was drinking a soda he had paid for. The cops had treated us like we had broken into Fort Knox. Screaming. Tasers and at least one gun at the ready. Screaming for us to get down on the ground when we didn’t know how much closer to the ground we could get.

Grinning, I recalled how scared I was when it was happening. We didn’t resist. We didn’t fight. We had been handcuffed and walked around like they had caught whoever had shot JFK. Our arrest would make the cover of our small-town paper. They were proud.

If all goes as planned, so would we.

The fat cop had kept asking if we were trying to get arrested. He had kept right on asking until we had all been stuffed into different cop cars. We had practiced this part. We figured they would split us up so we couldn’t get our stories straight. We had our stories straight before we ever got there. We would talk only when the time was right.

Home.

Dad got out and went inside. He is pissed. Big time.

My hands are shaking. This isn’t sneaking out to hang at the lake. I had been arrested.

As planned.

Mom was up, waiting. They were united, a stern duo with shock, disbelief and anger in their faces. A long silence and then a quiet, “Spill it.”

I took a deep breath, then told them how we had broken in and gotten arrested. Their faces got angrier by the minute, until dad stopped me with his fist slamming on the table. I thought he would punch me. “Do you realize what you’ve done? You’re not stupid, so you know this goes on your record. Not to mention Alice is still locked up in that jail and will be for days?”

Shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks, “YES,” I said, my voice quivering, “that’s why we did it. It’s why we all did it.”

Silence.

“Her brother touches her,” I said, a weight off my shoulders. “So we broke in, so they would arrest us, arrest her, so she could be safe while her mom was gone.”

—-

The Unfinished Chronicles

It’s been three days and all I have to say is that I miss the space, the smells and the action.  I’ve never been much for filming but it’s starting to sound good.  I have the makings of my own set of friends who’ll love me and an apartment with nothing to say for itself.  Time after time I get the feeling that I’m supposed to be somewhere else.  A place that exists only on the farthest reaches of my memory.  I like that feeling.  I guess it’s comforting to think that I might have another purpose other than the humdrum day to day of my existence.  I would just have to remember it before I become catatonic.  Patience never was my strong suit.  Nor, do I think it’s a virtue.

*Another of my 4-yr-old files surface. Man. I don’t even know where I was going with this, nor do I remember writing it. I had a totally different writing style back then. I guess writing with client specifics in mind really changes you. If I didn’t have to make a living, I would just write to my heart’s content with no thought to audience, grammar and punctuation. Take this next one for example:

Red, orange, yellow, blue.  What’s in me, I give to you.  Now, why did I think that? It’s not like I’m a candidate for a poetry contest, not that it could get past the screening panel.  Still, what’s the 

*That’s it. It ends just like that. It’s frustrating. Maybe I was writing and got interrupted by my little trooper and never got around to finishing. I understand now why other writers want long blocks of time to write. Not that I’m much of a writer.

Sleep: An Excerpt

Random images flash through my mind.  I wake up feeling disoriented and slightly stiff.  I really need to get one of those pillows that conform to your shape.  

An owl hoots outside the window.  Huh?  An owl?  How would I know if it’s an owl?  Of course I know it hoots and is awake at night but I’ve never heard a real one hoot before.  At least, I don’t think I have.  

How long have I been asleep?  I stayed in bed with the covers over my head, a little gap in front of my nose and mouth, listening to the ticking of my bedroom clock.  It never really leaves me, this feeling of emptiness.  

I think up sheep and words that rhyme with it.  Never a great way to get to sleep, but it’s something to pass the time.

*Was cleaning up my laptop. Found this in a four-year-old file. Decided to post it anyway. I leave so many unfinished. I have such a wandering mind. Here, there, everywhere. Humming.

Intro to Undecided: Romance or Thriller or Neither

Chapter 1

Nicholas Blake walked quickly down the empty hall in search of his first class. Glancing at the schedule and school map the admissions lady had given him, he made sure he was going the right way and lengthened his already long strides. He knew by experience it was never a good idea to be late, especially when you’re transferring the middle of the year. It calls even more attention, attention he didn’t need.

In the quiet hall, the soft tones of a piano tinkling away in a wistful melody drew his attention. They sounded just like the songs his Ma used to play before… well… before. He slowed and focused his senses, just like his Pa had taught him, and his grey eyes homed in on the door where the sounds were coming from. He peeked through the window but all he saw was the back of the raised piano, and tiny dainty feet in peach flats, pressing on the pedals.

He hesitated, he was late. 

‘Go to class, idiot! You don’t want to go through any weird late penalties like in the last school!’, the rational part of his brain insisted.

‘Just a few seconds, I just want to know what that song is.’, the reckless part argued.

With a deep breath and a quick twist of his wrist, he had the door opened. He paused to listen, his eyes glued to the peach-clad feet, but it continued moving, the sounds never ceasing.

He cleared his throat, ‘Uh, hello?’, wincing and cursing inwardly as his voice cracked. It had been a while since the last time his voice had betrayed him with puberty.

He brushed his hand through his jet black hair and waited. Nothing. The haunting melody continued as if his voice had never registered in the air.

He walked toward the piano and tried again. ‘Hello? Is anyone here?’, and immediately rolled his eyes at himself at the stupid question.

The sounds stopped and he had to stop himself before he begged the faceless player with the dainty feet to continue.

He quickly walked a few more feet before he could see her.

She was sitting still with her hands on her lap and a guilty look on her innocent face. A ray of sunlight shone through the window and set her hair glowing. It was red, or blonde, he didn’t know exactly. All he knew was that he had never seen anyone with that hair color. It was glorious to his eyes. Her eyes were blue and wide. Their color reminded him of the blue of the Pacific Ocean he had once lived near to. She had freckles on her nose.

‘Oh, I thought you were someone else!’, she said. ‘Who are you? You’re not from here. I know because I’ve been going here for ages and I’ve never seen you. I would have remembered. Why aren’t you in class?’, she clapped her hand to her mouth and stood up, while collecting her bag on the piano ledge. She only reached his chest. She had on a denim skirt that reached her knees and a loose, white blouse with some kind of lace.

Her attention on the bag straps that got caught on the lace, she said, ‘I’m sorry, that was rude. But I just remembered I have to be in class too.’ She looked up. ‘Oh! You’re taller than most boys here. How tall are you?’, clapping her hands to her mouth again, she blushed. ‘Sorry. I have to go.’

Then with the grace and speed of a gazelle in the sights of a wolf, she sidestepped him and ran out to the hall. The ringing of the bell almost drowning out her quiet, ‘See you around.’

He let out a breath and only just realized he had been holding it ever since she had stepped close enough that he got a whiff of her subtle scent. He turned, ran his hands over the keys she had been touching, and smiled.

*This is a rough first draft. I know there’s room for improvement, so be kind. I am still undecided if this will be a romance or thriller. It can go either way, don’t you think? Your thoughts are appreciated. Wish me luck!*

Reawakening

(Wrote this back in 2008, when I wanted to get back into writing.)

I first started writing journals when I was 10.  My parents had given me AU$20 for my birthday and I went to the small cottage shop down the hill that sells pretty, one-of-a-kind knick-knacks.  I saw this diary with an embossed floral cover, gold-edged leaves, golden lock and key and an irresistible smell.  I promptly bought it, even though I had no real plans to write on it at the time.  It was so pretty, that I was touching it the whole morning, as some girls will, when they have anything new and pretty in their collection.  I almost didn’t write on it because I thought it would be a pity to mar all those smooth pages and that wonderful, new book smell.

Luckily, I had had a few friends over for swimming that afternoon.  I had so much fun that I decided to share it with the diary.  Really. A diary. I even started the entry with a Dear Diary!  How cheesy can I get huh?  But I was 10, so it probably doesn’t count.  =) 

Anyway, I loved that diary.  I used to write something on it almost everyday.  On slow days, I would only write a couple of lines.  On exciting days, I would fill two pages of it.  It was the perfect recorder of my idyllic island life.  My big brother made it his mission in life to get my diary and read it.  I had to constantly find separate hiding places for the golden key and the diary.  Under the bed, the mattress, over the door, the windowsills, under the floorboards… you name it, I found every nook and cranny in our house to hide my diary.  My mom had to constantly referee fights that spark when my brother gets his hand on my diary and tries to pry it open!  I protected it with my life!  Come on, I wrote that I had a major crush on one of his mates.. who wouldn’t keep that from a big bro?  I would have died of humiliation if he teased me in front of his friend.  Again, I was 10.

I started to love writing stuff.  All kinds.  Essays, short stories, I even tried my hand on a novel.  I never could get the hang of poems though.  The few times I tried were amateurish and didn’t bear reading.  I don’t know, maybe it’s because I can’t stand the time it will take to think of a word that rhymes with, let’s say, flamingo.  Bingo!  See what I mean?  By the time I would have thought of something that rhymes, I would have lost my train of thought.  I consider Dr. Seuss a mean, poem-spouting machine.

I usually go off on different tangents when I write.  That’s why I bless the fact that I’m a reasonably faster typist than I am at writing by hand.  My handwriting is atrocious.  Ask my friends.  They even laugh at my nicest (to my eyes) calligraphy.  Seriously, I taught myself calligraphy from a book when I was 12 with disastrous and long-lasting results.  It would insult chickens if I liken my handwriting to chicken scratch.  Oops, there I go again, different tangent.

I stopped writing journals when I was 13.  It wasn’t a conscious decision, I just stopped having a desire to write every night.  Even when there was something interesting to say, I would be too lazy or indifferent to write.  I guess I was on my emotional teen phase at the time.  Ha!

I started writing again at college, 18, for literature classes, but never really got into the habit again.  So I’m trying to reawaken my inner Edgar Allan Poe.  Well, maybe not him, he’s too dark, but definitely someone lighter.  Maybe my inner scribe goddess.  Ok, that made me cringe.  So, here’s hoping this decision sticks!  Cheerio!

About Me

I’m a passionate hedonist with a logical turn of mind..
I’m a paragon of contrasts, conflicts, twists and turns..
I hear voices in my mind..
They tell me stories I’ve never read, never seen,
But they remain unwritten as a rule;
‘Cause they fly too fast for my fingers to catch up.

I value my rare moments of literary fluency..

I have a near-perfect visual and aural memory..
I see, hear, rarely tell.. always appreciate

I’m a food glutton, different tastes seeker, sensory overload..
I’m a tactile slave, textures, colors, sound..

I’m annoyed by those who write with big words peppered by even bigger words,
With vague platitudes and silly sentiments.

I don’t believe those who say they are simple, normal, ordinary;
There is never a simple person in all the world.

I’m naive and cynical most of the time, either-or, neither-nor..

I believe there are always three sides to a story,
YOURS
MINE
and the TRUTH.

‘NUFF SAID.

BART SCHANEMAN: TREES OVER FLOWERS