Dear C,
Like what I rambled on in your blog's comment box, my mind is still racing about what transpired the night prior. It was like 4 March 1998 all over again, as I shared with our group, that milestone in my life when I learned I wasn't alone in the world, that I wasn't the solitary 'freak' as I thought about my self then (and now still!). It was refreshing to know of kindred folk with the same challenges who at the same time have fresh insight on how to overcome the insurmountable.
Thank you for the questions you've asked, thank you for listening. As I've intimated already, I will take you up on that offer of meeting outside of the cafe. I, too, hope this will be the start of a meaningful relationship- of being friends, of course =]
Maybe you have a magic wand somewhere inside your closet to help me un-clutter my personal life?
Just resuscitated,
PS- Writer dude who sat to my left is hot. hahaha too bad i'm not antisocial and brooding =0 Who knows though...
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Monday, December 27, 2010
A New Yearn
Dear P,
If I'd have the chance to talk to you again, I'd begin by saying that I think about you everyday. Heaven knows I try NOT to, considering that I'm the Stupid One between the two of us; but someone like you is difficult to forget. I have no right to think about you.
Then I'd ramble on to say that no one's loved me the way you did. The meals you've made were always peppered with care. The conversations we've had were always punctuated with hope. The dreams we've drawn together were shaped by y/our love.
I'll probably look away so it wouldn't sound too cliche when I'd tell you that you're forever-material, that you're the one everyone dreams of waking up with to have a blissful week ahead, and coming home to at the end of a difficult day. That you're the one worth choosing to grow old with. That you're the person I'd choose to be with if my life were to end tomorrow.
I'll launch into a litany of excuses and explanations on why I'm such an @s$- which I won't expect you to believe and buy. I will try to be sincere- I would really be- when I'd tell you why I gave up on us in favor of just a me.
I wouldn't tell you that I'd want another chance to be called yours. I'd endure your probable expression of pain and misery courtesy of me beginning that infamous January day, if that will lead to a glimmer of a possibility of being a twosome again- which I will not express out loud of course.
Because I'm a coward, a selfish wuss, who needs to get a pair of balls of my own.
*hayayay*
Instead, I'll probably just thank you again for dinner, and for being civil, and for resisting the urge to shred me to smithereens. I'll probably attempt to hold your hand and look into your eyes to communicate a year's worth of...
Longing,
If I'd have the chance to talk to you again, I'd begin by saying that I think about you everyday. Heaven knows I try NOT to, considering that I'm the Stupid One between the two of us; but someone like you is difficult to forget. I have no right to think about you.
Then I'd ramble on to say that no one's loved me the way you did. The meals you've made were always peppered with care. The conversations we've had were always punctuated with hope. The dreams we've drawn together were shaped by y/our love.
I'll probably look away so it wouldn't sound too cliche when I'd tell you that you're forever-material, that you're the one everyone dreams of waking up with to have a blissful week ahead, and coming home to at the end of a difficult day. That you're the one worth choosing to grow old with. That you're the person I'd choose to be with if my life were to end tomorrow.
I'll launch into a litany of excuses and explanations on why I'm such an @s$- which I won't expect you to believe and buy. I will try to be sincere- I would really be- when I'd tell you why I gave up on us in favor of just a me.
I wouldn't tell you that I'd want another chance to be called yours. I'd endure your probable expression of pain and misery courtesy of me beginning that infamous January day, if that will lead to a glimmer of a possibility of being a twosome again- which I will not express out loud of course.
Because I'm a coward, a selfish wuss, who needs to get a pair of balls of my own.
*hayayay*
Instead, I'll probably just thank you again for dinner, and for being civil, and for resisting the urge to shred me to smithereens. I'll probably attempt to hold your hand and look into your eyes to communicate a year's worth of...
Longing,
Friday, June 26, 2009
Homme Coming
Dear R,
Honestly, I was just looking for something to help me get off, that cold, lazy, randy morning.
With my computer having another epileptic attack, there was no way my need was going to be taken care of by the cyberworld. Instead, I rummaged through one of the nether drawers of my cabinet, hoping to find a lingering piece of indecent material.
But I found something better. I found you. Again.
The churches gave you away. You remember, that time when I was enamored with reproductions of images and prints of Spanish structures? You happily indulged my then fervent desires by showering me with those magnificent prints- Binondo church, the old customs house, the bridges spanning the Pasig.
I came across a pile of greeting cards with your signature script- big, bold strokes, passion tempered with gentleness. I love/d the way you wrote my name. I love/d the way you wrote your name. I love/d the way that you said that "in this world you can always rely on two things- God’s love and mine."
I read, re-read those cards. I've forgotten that I still had them. But seeing your cards transported me back to days more valuable than the edifices the images in front of them represent. I was hurtling back to the days of pasta pig-outs and rollercoaster romps, of clueless Cuban cinematic conundrums and frenetic family functions.
Four years’ worth of cobwebs is a lot of mess to be entangled in again.
After taking care of "business," I got ready for work. I wore the shirt you gave me, on my last birthday that we were together. It somehow made the cold more bearable.
Struggling to be stoic,
Honestly, I was just looking for something to help me get off, that cold, lazy, randy morning.
With my computer having another epileptic attack, there was no way my need was going to be taken care of by the cyberworld. Instead, I rummaged through one of the nether drawers of my cabinet, hoping to find a lingering piece of indecent material.
But I found something better. I found you. Again.
The churches gave you away. You remember, that time when I was enamored with reproductions of images and prints of Spanish structures? You happily indulged my then fervent desires by showering me with those magnificent prints- Binondo church, the old customs house, the bridges spanning the Pasig.
I came across a pile of greeting cards with your signature script- big, bold strokes, passion tempered with gentleness. I love/d the way you wrote my name. I love/d the way you wrote your name. I love/d the way that you said that "in this world you can always rely on two things- God’s love and mine."
I read, re-read those cards. I've forgotten that I still had them. But seeing your cards transported me back to days more valuable than the edifices the images in front of them represent. I was hurtling back to the days of pasta pig-outs and rollercoaster romps, of clueless Cuban cinematic conundrums and frenetic family functions.
Four years’ worth of cobwebs is a lot of mess to be entangled in again.
After taking care of "business," I got ready for work. I wore the shirt you gave me, on my last birthday that we were together. It somehow made the cold more bearable.
Struggling to be stoic,
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Writhe and Write
Dear Xerex,
After much internal debate, sleepless nights, many blank sheets of paper and previously clean bed sheets now soaked and stained, I have come to the conclusion that- brace yourself- writing and sex don’t differ too much. Howso? Consider:
Length or size doesn’t matter. I know, I know- you think this is just the excuse of the not-so-well-endowed. Hear me out though. Written materials- novels, poems, essays, treatises- are judged by the substance and thought process spent in creating them; quality is neither directly nor inversely proportional to length. Sex- whether the intrument used or the act itself- is judged by the skill and emotions it evokes. Kilometric or nanometric- it doesn’t matter. To many.
It’s great when you do it alone, but it gets better when you share it with somebody else. Yes, there are times when self-gratification suffices, especially when there is a dearth of willing and/or able partners to share your stuff with. But as NVM Gonzales said- a book is never finished unless it is read by another person. The same is true with sex- whether your aim is to procreate or give and/or receive pleasure, it always takes two to tango. Dancing alone just doesn’t feel write.
Sometimes it’s best when done incognito. There are so many levels of joy that going undercover bring. You feel safer behind that veil of secrecy; no one will be the wiser if you fuck up fucking or writing. Or you maybe engaged in something controversial or taboo- your reputation however you may have built it remains. And the stalkers and madcrazy fans can be held at bay if they know nothing of your particulars.
You get better with practice. ‘Nuf said.
If you’re great (or lousy) at it, you don’t have to advertise. Word of mouth, baby! Kiss and tell, read and tell- the same banana. Especially if it’s a good banana that you’ve fed to them. A great, hunk of quality banana that will keep them raving and craving for more.
Foreplay is key. It’s one thing to swoop into the action like a hawk and be a predator, but to passionately devour them is another. Great authors and lovers start off by tickling their readers and/or partners. They whet their appetite some more, stimulate their minds and bodies further. They save the main course for later. Their interests get piqued with smooth talk weighed deftly that it doesn’t lull them to sleep. Lit are the embers of desire to go on and discover what the next page will bring, the next sentence, what lies beneath the undershirt, what’s hidden beneath the sheets.
There’s always somebody better or worse than you. Learn from them. Nobody’s perfect. There will be hits and misses. There will be lousy trash written in the guise of art and there will be skin-scraping teethy blowjobs. Mercifully, there will be Booker Prize winners or Bel Ami boys who can show you the way. To miss out on the opportunity to improve one’s craft is not only a shame but a crime.
Love what (or who) you’re doing; and what (or whom) you’re doing will love you back. Like any endeavor, great sex or effective writing is no mean feat. Patience, commitment, focus are essential. There is room for spontaneity, true- quickies or flashes of genius a la JK Rowling are the bonuses of life!- but careful study, selflessness, and dedication will afford to us maximum satisfaction, on bed or on paper. Let the juices flow, creative and otherwise.
Shag on. Write away.
Lovelots,
After much internal debate, sleepless nights, many blank sheets of paper and previously clean bed sheets now soaked and stained, I have come to the conclusion that- brace yourself- writing and sex don’t differ too much. Howso? Consider:
Length or size doesn’t matter. I know, I know- you think this is just the excuse of the not-so-well-endowed. Hear me out though. Written materials- novels, poems, essays, treatises- are judged by the substance and thought process spent in creating them; quality is neither directly nor inversely proportional to length. Sex- whether the intrument used or the act itself- is judged by the skill and emotions it evokes. Kilometric or nanometric- it doesn’t matter. To many.
It’s great when you do it alone, but it gets better when you share it with somebody else. Yes, there are times when self-gratification suffices, especially when there is a dearth of willing and/or able partners to share your stuff with. But as NVM Gonzales said- a book is never finished unless it is read by another person. The same is true with sex- whether your aim is to procreate or give and/or receive pleasure, it always takes two to tango. Dancing alone just doesn’t feel write.
Sometimes it’s best when done incognito. There are so many levels of joy that going undercover bring. You feel safer behind that veil of secrecy; no one will be the wiser if you fuck up fucking or writing. Or you maybe engaged in something controversial or taboo- your reputation however you may have built it remains. And the stalkers and madcrazy fans can be held at bay if they know nothing of your particulars.
You get better with practice. ‘Nuf said.
If you’re great (or lousy) at it, you don’t have to advertise. Word of mouth, baby! Kiss and tell, read and tell- the same banana. Especially if it’s a good banana that you’ve fed to them. A great, hunk of quality banana that will keep them raving and craving for more.
Foreplay is key. It’s one thing to swoop into the action like a hawk and be a predator, but to passionately devour them is another. Great authors and lovers start off by tickling their readers and/or partners. They whet their appetite some more, stimulate their minds and bodies further. They save the main course for later. Their interests get piqued with smooth talk weighed deftly that it doesn’t lull them to sleep. Lit are the embers of desire to go on and discover what the next page will bring, the next sentence, what lies beneath the undershirt, what’s hidden beneath the sheets.
There’s always somebody better or worse than you. Learn from them. Nobody’s perfect. There will be hits and misses. There will be lousy trash written in the guise of art and there will be skin-scraping teethy blowjobs. Mercifully, there will be Booker Prize winners or Bel Ami boys who can show you the way. To miss out on the opportunity to improve one’s craft is not only a shame but a crime.
Love what (or who) you’re doing; and what (or whom) you’re doing will love you back. Like any endeavor, great sex or effective writing is no mean feat. Patience, commitment, focus are essential. There is room for spontaneity, true- quickies or flashes of genius a la JK Rowling are the bonuses of life!- but careful study, selflessness, and dedication will afford to us maximum satisfaction, on bed or on paper. Let the juices flow, creative and otherwise.
Shag on. Write away.
Lovelots,
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