Musings

Grr. I can't get into Writers' Cafe for some reason--has it suddenly become extremely popular over the two days I haven't checked it? At the meantime, I'm researching for a story.

See, I have this idea, one that features and awful lot of cheesy puns about food (the idioms, in fact, are really my motivation for doing the story). But developing it is starting to become a massive headache.

That's all. Summer's started, along with summer class (community service), and with the infernal tropical heat I'm not sure I'll be able to churn out fiction and prose easily.

Wordsworthless

This should be emotions
Recollected from tranquility
But serenity doesn't come
When one is free-falling.

No reason, no rhyme
No beautiful lines
And the subject
Is rather vague, too.

Because how can you say
Elegantly with symbols
(For that's all words are,
Elephants to nine blind men),

That your mother called you fat
As she had for a score,
And all the heavy issues
Attached to it--ignored completely.

You can't,
And the words
Die in your mouth
And become useless.

Writing Recuperations

I was out on a week, exploring some pretty exotic sights. Lots of inspiration came, however the fruits of my sojourn are thoughts that no virginal semi-convent-raised 19-year-old girl of supposed moral fiber should have. Not to mention that manifesting such thoughts into stories really won't fit into the mood of ths blog.
    How can one right erotica, after all, when one hasn't experienced the mechanics involved herself? No matter how many Regency trash and other fiction of questionable literary value I devour, I'm pretty certain I'm going to freeze up in my first real date.
    And there you have it. I confess, I'm nearly two decades old and never dated, never had a proper kiss. And I'm really not torn up about it. I don't like it that many of my peers get boyfriends just for the sake of saying they have such, even if the boys are really disgusting and have the brain cells of a sex-crazed lemur. What will happen will happen, and despite all pragmatism I do believe I will end up with my equal, someday.
    I'm fully aware the picture-perfect images of romance and love are just that, far from reality, and it's highly foolish of me to persist with my idea of chivalry and true love. At heart however I'm still that little girl who grew up wanting to be a Disney princess.
    A quandary, then, only resolved by dreams and writing. For the past five years, however, those dreams grew steadily more sensual, and in my stories I've tried to portray the world in vivid colors both passionate and full of wonder.
    I've written two pieces with two mature scenes, and I'm wondering now if I should post it. As a writer, I should, if I follow through with what I've been threatening to do and become the first ever virgin romance novelist. Criticism is a must. On the other hand, here the paradox reasserts itself, and I shy away from revealing my hidden desires, the depths of my dreams and escapism.

Any ideas?

The New Year

In the silence of
A screaming hundred thousand
As witchlight played through the night
You greeted me with a kiss.

Boy Met Girl

(At the risk of discovery, I'm reposting this)

He has nothing to sing about, nothing
To write—his dreams are all of dust.
He fills his journals with mad denunciations
And colors their faces with jade.

The works he weaves are women worshipped,
Naked, and sadly aware of their glory
The women and he have stale sex and beer
Trying—and failing—to revive their dead hopes.

He sits, the image of bitter youth.

She breezes in the sunlit class, chattering-blathering-yammering
Joy. Her eyes, how they sparkle, blaze with passion
For the world and life she says still believes in.
She gives a blinding metal smile as she giggles,

And her slight plumpness does not mask her light.
Blindingly oblivious of her beauty
She seems, and just as aware of the ways of the world.
She needs a keeper, or so he first thinks.

They sit together, the boy and the girl.

He is captured by the pictures she painted,
Of hope and dreams and great make-believes.
The sour taste in his mouth is getting sweeter,
And in spite of himself, he believes anew.

And she laughs at his jokes, though cruel they may be;
Of his pessimistic view, she’s extremely uneasy. Naïve,
She allows him to touch her,
In fleeting hugs and gestures.

Soon he’ll assume it is love at first sight.

But she’s not as innocent as she seems—
Her glass is half-empty. The veneer of cheer
Hides an angst-ridden heart—
And her eyes sometimes age an eon, or two.

She’s fully aware of his growing ardor,
Annoyed at his cynical jibes.
She’s far from the perfect princess he imagines,
And he’s in no way her knight-errant.

So ends the fairy tale of boy and girl.

Period

It’s burning white vision bursting at the tops of my eyes.

    It’s nausea, shivering and plunging at ten thousand feet. Pulsing, pounding pressure, starting from the low centre of my body and radiating downwards until I can’t move, can’t do anything but lie limply on the bed. Every step taken is an epic battle in itself. Cold sweat becomes rivulets pouring down my spine.
    Considering this happens once a month, it’s shocking how we’re considered “the weaker sex.”

Crossfire

You feel your heart sinking within the first few minutes of the meeting. Though the stone table is round, it’s possible to discern edges—and you’re on the fringe of two boundaries.
    One side spins out rhetoric like bullets, aiming for the more impressionable young. They’ve found their marks on quite a few, and riddled with wounds the few limp off the battlefield.
    The other camp suffers from lack of authority, experience, supplies. It’s apparent they’re embattled, but here and there they gain a few pyrrhic victories. Their salvos when launched land on the others’ troops, but there are too many soldiers for the left cause. Your heart aches for the rebels, as cannons fire from all around you.
   A union, what a laugh. It’s more like a civil war.
   And as you duck that last fiery, spat-out word, you fleetingly wish you joined the other club.

Once More Into The Breach

I've been under a lot of pressure lately--academic, filial, amicable, aesthetic, and yes, even physical expectations.
Strange as it is though, the more work piles up the more story fragments drift into my head.
I'm going to try to write more...at least once a week.
Shouldn't be too hard, since I'm pretending to be anonymous.

Here's to professionality, and the shaping of a new persona.

Here's to the pretensions of a wide-eyed dreamer.

The Workout

The room is bare and still, waiting for a life to saturate it with character--perhaps pictures marring the perfect blankness of the walls, or maybe clothes and shoes strewn haphazardly on the wooden floor. But no books crease the folded bedsheets, and dust decides to linger in the corners.

She enters, carrying nothing in her hands but a music player. The door is locked. Gauzy white curtains shield the room from the world. It's safe to begin.

A button is pressed, and music soars into the room. The room gasps and spins. A pirouette, a leap, a moonwalk and suddenly it no longer staid green-and-white.

It is in the arms of a gallant Spaniard with fire in his fine dark eyes as they samba through the night.

It is fighting red-coated men, armed with only a cutlass and a heart of valor.

It is dressed to the nines, swinging and boogieing amongst country-club peers.

It is slowly shedding its skin, lace and leather and string, feeding on the excitement of lonely, hungry eyes.

The music stops.

She wipes the sweat off her brow and looks about the room with a wistful kind of sadness. The door thuds closed behind her, and it is ivory and mint once more.

The room is bare and still.

Mordant Coffee
I confess--I haven't gotten around to making this a real blog. As of right now, it's crap (if I may say so). Blog layout and other such superficialities aside, what concerns me is the content. I have three other online journals (that are active) besides this, and each with their own sets of audiences and personalities.
This is another attempt at hiding in plain sight. But, I ask myself, what sort of entries will I write here? Originally I had planned venting all my repressed anger and inevitable neurotic breakdown in this blog. Mordant, dark. Coffee, a bitter and far too addicting beverage. But whenever I'm feeling those 'beauty in a breakdown' moments, I'm far from internet access. By the time I can rage in private, those emotions are lost, and replaced by chipmunk optimism.
Aside. That might be a good thing. I'm leery of ever being called 'emo'. That word deserves a whole other post, though. End aside.
I don't know. I don't know what I'll be writing here, though I'm leaning towards sardonic, pretentious witticisms. I don't know if I'll be writing in my native language--probably not, since I'm hopelessly inept in grammar. Heck, I don't even know if there's going to be an audience.

The point? Stick around. I might surprise myself, too.

A question that has been plaguing me all day:
Do I ooze with responsibility? Is that why people find it in them to saddle me with these new position? Or is it that I'm so-called rich-girl? Or, by some chance, they've discovered my neurotic compulsion to do everything when I'm assigned a task, despite my inherent laziness?
Cue not-quite-verbose gargling.

Here's another thought. Romance novels are, as we know, formulaic to the point that you can predict the ending just from the back cover (unless, of course, the back cover features the glammed-up authoress with too-bright smiles and big hair). The time-travel ones are rather typical as well; modern century you-go-girl woman gets deposited into the hands of a Fabio-esque laird or English lord. Stuff happens. Smutty stuff happens. And then, invariably, either she tearfully bids her lover goodbye (but meets the reincarnation/descendant in the future), or somehow manages to stay in the past.
But, dude. They're all white.
I'm not saying this to be racist, mind you. However, what IF the 21st century gal was Black, or Chinese, or (heaven forbid) Filipino? Interesting, then, where she'd might end up.
Personally, if it was me I'd look for Illustrados in an instant.


Hn.

Yay for pretentiously scintillating wit.