Posted in Write On on September 16, 2008| Leave a Comment »
I sing the song unsung
I read the word unwritten
I sail the ship unsunk
I travel the road untaken
I cry the tears unshed
I lead the life unled.
Unlove me !
June 8th, 1998.
UKM Bangi.
Found this old poem I wrote ten years ago right after I met Be for the first time. Love was in the air even then. But I turned and ran away, not wanting to breathe it. I was afraid.
.
Tonight, I am waiting to exhale.
.
.
.
Posted in Uncategorized on September 16, 2008| Leave a Comment »
…Returning To His Wife
She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let’s face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you, your practical, your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter’s wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission –
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound –
for the burying of her small red wound alive –
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother’s knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call –
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
~ Anne Sexton.
Posted in Hurt on September 14, 2008| 2 Comments »
I also have a daughter – a sweet little button, I tell ya – just as beautiful as an angel, who has a scar on her forehead. It’s gigantic to me, though it can always be covered with her gorgeous curly locks. It’s obviously un-noticeable to those who don’t know the story behind the teasing, the chasing around with her big brother and the bumping of head almost through the kitchen wall on that sunny winter morning. So, naturally I would be thinking whether I should get that scar removed or whether I should get rid of that sweet little button altogether. I can’t keep a damaged good, can I?
God bless my soul, for I cannot keep on killing one lamb just to save another… and another, and another.
.
.
Or can I?
.
.
Posted in Uncategorized on September 14, 2008| Leave a Comment »
“Good morning, sleepy headed Mommy!” Greeted my daughter one morning last week just before she went downstairs for breakfast and off to school. She’s getting more and more creative each day now with her greeting. While I…I stay with ‘Good morning Sunshine’.
After giving her a peck on each cheek and a sniff in her hair, I said my usual line. “Hmmm my favorite smell in the whole wide world. The smell of heaven!” And after the usual ‘biggest-hug-ever’ ritual, she would usually say her usual line, “You’re the bestest Mom ever, do you know that?”
But that particular morning, she had a question. “How come you know the smell of heaven, Mom? You’ve never been to heaven.”
“I have two of them right in my house.”
Posted in Hurt on September 11, 2008| 2 Comments »
..
When the time comes, you will understand that love is not what you spend your whole life looking for. You don’t look for love. You just love.
.
In time, you will see that love is not those I-love-you’s you say when you know not how to say the I-am-sorry’s. Do justice to the truth. Tell it. It will set you free. Just be sorry when you don’t mean the love you say.
.
And someday you will love the way I love your Daddy. No reason, no season, and no prison.
.
So, my sweet little monchies…
While you were sleeping tonight, I loved your Daddy the only way I know how.
.
I let him go.
.
.
I love you, goodbye.
.
Posted in Hurt, Monchies on September 9, 2008| 5 Comments »
We were just about home from Seoul Garden (formerly Seoul Bulgogi) when the car USB got to In My Daughter’s Eyes by Martina McBride again. Kitreena was just happy singing along through the first and second part. But towards half of the song, she went awkwardly quiet. I turned to look at her. She was covering her face with both hands, her body was shaking from trying so hard to contain herself from crying.
.
When I stretched my left arm to touch her right knee gently, she broke down. She was all in tears. I knew exactly what she was going to say. I just saw it three weeks ago. So I said exactly what I said three weeks ago. That it is okay to miss Daddy and that I am sure Daddy feels the same way. And that I would skip to the next song if the song upset her. And as exactly expected, she denied that it was the song that made her feel sad.
.
What’s not exactly like what happened three weeks ago was what she said tonight.
.
It’s not the song Mom! It’s Daddy!
What do you mean?
If Daddy doesn’t know when he’s coming back, I keep thinking he’s going to be there [in Russia] forever!
No, sweetie. He is coming back in October for a few days. I told you that.
But you don’t know when!
True. But he is coming back.
Does the airport know when Daddy’s airplane is landing here Mom?
I don’t think so, monch.
.
A long silence.
.
Mommy, does Daddy want to come back?
.
A longer silence.
.
I was just holding my breath wishing for some numbness. We got to the gate, Kitreena sat up and said, “Mommy, I keep thinking Daddy is going to be there forever.” While waiting for the gate to open, I looked at her and smiled, “No monchy, Daddy has a home here. He can’t stay there forever, can he?” Kitreena looked at me and smiled – convinced.
.
But I lied.
.
Kitreena, held by Daddy, when she was just six days old.
She’s turning six on November 10, this year.
.
Posted in Uncategorized on September 7, 2008| 1 Comment »
“This is Dad and me going shopping to get you a dress, Mom.”
“This is the booty-ful dress Daddy and me bought for you Mommy.
It’s for your PROM.”
Prom?
Me oh my! Though I am nowhere near an agreement with her watching too much ‘High-School Musical 2’…I must say, the thought of my daughter getting me a booty-ful dress for my prom, made me feel sixteen again the whole afternoon. Now that I have this booty-ful dress to go to the prom in, who am I going to the prom with? Can somebody put the clock back, please?
I never did have a prom when I was sixteen.
Posted in Uncategorized on September 6, 2008| 2 Comments »
Time’s up!
The one month I gave myself to pick up the pieces and to pull myself together is up. August 6 to September 5, 2008. Completed. Done. Ended. Finished. Gone. (In perfect alphabetical order C, D, E, F, G.) And so I have come to the part, just like in any good movies, when I embraced that little Enida for some good minutes, said my silent goodbye with a nod, took one last good look at her, turned around and walked away. Farewell past, welcome future!
Good morning, Sunshine(s)!
Posted in Uncategorized on September 5, 2008| 4 Comments »
He knew how to reach me deep inside
And he found a part of me I could not hide
And we’d walk and talk and touch tenderly
Then he’d lay me down and make love to me
We built a love so strong and couldn’t break
There was not a road we were afraid to take
And we’d kiss all the way from Arkansas to Rome
‘Cause in each other’s arms we were home sweet home
But he don’t feel the same
Since our lives became
Years of bills, babies and chains
Home ain’t where his heart is anymore
He may hang his hat behind our bedroom door
But he don’t lay his head down to love me like before
Home ain’t where his heart is anymore
If foundations made of stone can turn to dust
Then the hardest hearts of steel can turn to rust
If he could only find that feeling once again
If we could only change the way the story ends
And he may still come home
But I live here alone
The love that built these walls is gone
Home ain’t where his heart is anymore
He may hang his hat behind our bedroom door
But he don’t lay his head down to love me like before
He don’t lay his head down to love me like before
Home ain’t where his heart is anymore
No, home ain’t where his heart is
Posted in Uncategorized on September 3, 2008| Leave a Comment »
~Erica Jong
https://www.w3counter.com/tracker.js?id=151113
Questa è Enida 