Do You Believe?


But then, I, too, wear the garments of pride and ego perhaps of a better fabric than yours and now I know I am a super female, the xxx-chromosomed human being if you care to call that.

***

These days I feel somewhat of a minimalist, in the way I am, the way I speak – usually with short sentences and some measured hand gesturing. What I wear is not very different. I am, and always have been branded, a non-conformist. I do not subscribe to a particular school or generation of fashion (among other things) and wear whatever I feel most comfortable in. Except that recently, I have taken to wearing flip-flops, flat ballet shoes, glittery sandals, and well, my Reebok Zig Nano, most of the time because I want to give my feet and ankles a break from my dominatrix-heeled shoes. You’ve lost a lot of weight, my running friend Lauren remarked last night, and I was openly happy with her observation because three weeks ago before I started Insanity, I have been having nightmares of checking into a fat farm. So I say ‘oh maybe it’s running or maybe it’s the fact that I’m happy, well, happy-ish.’ Sometimes, like last night on my way to Coffee Bean to meet up with her, I watch old people sitting outside Gloria Jeans and some bars, I see some of them, still flaunting cleavage, still bearing radiant smiles despite their age, and I can’t help but think to myself that maybe if I fold in my edges, or remember to always sit with my back straight, maybe if I start wearing sunblock on my face and exposed body parts and not stare directly into the sun, or maybe if I do NOT let disappointment and frustration show in the corners of my mouth, maybe I will escape getting old and wrinkly.

Maybe I will be the only person to be always young.

Being happy-ish is somewhat different from being happy. It’s somewhere near the happy alley and it’s still a lovely feeling, don’t get me wrong. But at the same time, I’m aware, always, alarmingly, aware that this happy-ish state will end and that shortly, maybe in the near offing I will be sad again. Well, not sad, but sad-ish. I bought flowers last night just before the mall closed and they were white and yellow and very pretty. I took them with me, softly whispering into their petals about what I hoped they’d bring to my tiny space across the street. About how I wanted to be the sort of person who bought flowers for themselves and put them up and I’d always have flowers because having beautiful flowers shows you’re the kind of person who does things like that on impulse. And when I got home I put them into a ceramic coffee mug half-filled with tap water because I don’t have a decent flower vase and tried to make them look pretty. And when I was quite satisfied with the way they crowded the ill-sized mug, I smiled and thought maybe I’m a flower person after all. Just as I was a fish person when I had Humpy the Flowerhorn and Toti and Friends, my playful Oscar fishes, four years ago. Just as I was a dog person when I had Fido the mongrel and Tiny the Doberman, years ago.

To have and to hold.

Boracay this weekend has somewhat freed me of encumbrances of the emotional kind. Fairly soon this erratic mood swings will end and I will once again be I-don’t-really-know-what-I-will-be but the point is, maybe I shouldn’t be adding another maybe to my list, and instead make room for none at all. Perhaps I should just let stars explode behind my eyelids. Yes, I should allow this to happen without fighting pulse by pulse.

Do you believe in fate, in reincarnation, in karma, do you believe everything happens for a reason, do you believe in the power of the internet, do you believe in dinosaurs, do you believe in coincidences, do you believe in compatibility and meant-to-bes, do you think everything is an accident, do you believe in God or the higher power, do you believe in science, do you believe in free will, do you believe that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, do you believe in sex for sex’s sake, do you believe that there is indeed a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, do you believe a man and a woman can never be “just friends”, do you believe that if you want something badly enough, it’ll happen?

I believe.

In You.

In Us.

Blues.


As much as I love the sun and how it warms everything on terra firma, I have also developed a certain fondness for the rains. Not the mud or the brown swirls gurgling down the open manhole in the middle of the road that nearly swallowed a man the other day. Not the damp clothes, mud-spattered shoes and stockings and people opening or shutting their dripping umbrellas in your face and drenching you in bits and leaving you soggy. Definitely not the flash floods on primetime news TV and the body-count constantly being flashed on the red bar at the bottom of the screen. No, I want none of those. I live for the edited rains. The romantic version you could say. Something similar to the rain scene at the end of the movie Four Weddings and A Funeral. Or that rain scene in Chasing Amy when Holden finally declared his love for Amy and she fired back with a stream of “f**k yous” my ears literally burned – but just when you thought it was kaput, their lips sought each other, tongues engaged in a passionately mad duel, you just knew they had a good thing going on. At least for a while. I like the drama of the sudden demise of the late afternoon sun turning the gallery of cotton blue hues into a uniform shade of grayish darkness, the swirls of dry leaves and bits of paper on the streets, the uncontainable gust of wind that disguises itself as tame until it flies madly through your hair leaving a painfully tangled nest on your head.

Not something an average lovemaking can claim for itself.

Yes, you’ve spotted it, haven’t you?

The Romantic version.

Of me.

I AM…


Always in motion

Constantly living on (the) edge

Would melt for melting.

 

Ebony, Ivory.


Why the obsession with white skin? One night in a friend’s bathroom I did a double take. The bottle of Vaseline sitting on top of her sink said “healthy white.” I groaned and wondered how many more women got suckered into the Caucasian version of fair and lovely. There now seems to be a clamour for women to get fairer. Whatever happened to celebrating natural beauty and loving the skin you were born with?

Must we now equate being dark with being unhealthy apart from being ugly? I shudder at the thought of what the young girls’ response would be.

Love Symbiosis


I have a serious fascination with the symbiosis between and among lovers. I find it thoroughly charming when different personalities collide and try to accommodate each other’s uniqueness…giving birth to the exponential possibilities for richness, latitude and intensity of love. When lovers are not only different in many ways possible but they come from polarized scenes as well, that’s when I am most interested, more intrigued. When everything about them make it seem as though they should be in opposition with one another, every voyeuristic nerve in me twitches in anticipation to see how they will go about their quest for a powerful union. How they feed, for example, in both ways: feeding each other and feeding off each other.

100: Mouth


Her mouth had, from the very beginning, already seduced him. The voluptuous flesh of it appeared to him like a rich promise of a generous womanhood. And the beads of moistness planted by the occasional running of her playful tongue along the curve of her lips cause him to burn in feverish arousal. Always, always, he wants to lose himself in her mouth. Ravaging it until his tongue is exhausted in its assault, and his lips swollen like the waves in a storm. In that tantalising crevice on her beautiful face is where he always wants to find his release.

100: Fat Girl


She pushes her feet in to her shiny black Maryjanes. She walks from the bed to her door, and back a few times, like she had seen models do it on TV, attempting to get her feet acquainted with the sharp pains she is sure to suffer in just a few hours. But what pain? Vanity, after all, prohibits one from feeling such. Facing the mirror, she carefully applies cream on her ageing face. Noticing, again, her developing double-chin. Ugh. She couldn’t wait for tomorrow when finally she’d start losing those damned pounds. Then she pops Godiva in her mouth.