Sudden Death

Yesterday I found out I have an ovarian cyst as big as a small quezo de bola. Surprise! I might actually go under the knife if the cyst doesn't give in. With a score of 8/9 benign levels, I think I have what it takes to walk this Earth with one ovary less than standard issue.

I have to admit, there was but one person in my mind I wanted to share the news with; especially in that glorious moment where I was really scared and feeling alone. But it's not like telling her would make any difference. I don't count. I'm not enough reason.

The Disappearing Eve

On a sheet of passing palpability, the disappearing eve woke up an eternal uprising that moves across blurred out spaces and stains dog-eared corners of a double-crossing title, a slivered spine corroding on a mountaintop. It sashayed high and low along a current of hormonal exchanges bouncing from one wall to another igniting feral waves to detonate thoughts of hopeful swallows hung up with powder-blue skies of a pretend-summer's dream. An acquaintance forced by a lyrical goddess, and an expected wanting of dusk and movement, pointlessly judging delated tapes of broken promises, the disappearing eve vindicated a two year's worth of seclusion with a non-acidic page sealed with a crossroad letter shared over an unstable fast food table. And there was an applause, a reverberating "ahh..." secretly hovering with a mission, an unchanging image of peaceful poultry and elegantly stretched necks overlooking a falling river, almighty.

If you could keep a memory, real or imagined, what would you choose to remember?

Desert Storm

My mom mouthed "thank you" as I handed her over some money. I'm not made for all this maturity-responsibility shit because I've always seen myself growing up, hippie style. Before I butchered my hair as I have had my heart gang-raped, I had long semi-virgin (allow me) hair, down to my waist, with curls (and horrid tangles) casting pretty shadows on pretty shadows. I've always been the type who would wear a flower crown--still am, always will be.

Earlier today I walked from our office to this chipipay salon nearby for an out-of-nowhere mani-pedi. It was high noon. I loved the walk.

The warmth of the sun touching my skin felt like much-awaited kisses from flaming lips (of tongues on fire). There's something outlandishly lovely about soaking up the sun. I would if I could be a solar battery, be a solar battery.

Last night I was feeling blue because I was worried for our employee. Given the circumstances, I feel more concerned about her losing her job. I'm still utterly saddened by it.

Last night I saw our four puppies crawl and try to stand on their paws. One of the four, the darkest bundle of dark coat, was able to stand upright. It was magical, to see such little creature find his first drop of strength to carry himself. He also tried to shit upright that very night, although that second feat was a bit of a failure because his shit was probably too hot to handle.

Life is shit. I feel shit. But it's my shoot tomorrow so I might as well suck it up because if I don't, how the fuck will things get better. I mean, even if I can't imagine any good thing to milk just to make me feel a hint better, I am still enforcing a leave of absolution. I want to get to that point where the heaviest of sins would be absolved in my mind, so the rest of me will follow. I hate to admit, really, but I can't afford to flail.

There are things that are best left unsaid. Then things best left mouthed and read.

LESBIAN BOOK#3 Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters

I always find myself entering a second-hand book store without any idea what to find. Frankly, I trust that the beauty of the visit is in that, in the unknown. The likeliness of finding a gem among abandoned, neglected, dilapidated, and sadly, untouched books shelved and stacked upon stacks of opportunities is titillating for me. It's not that mystery is sexy, but it's alluring, that's for sure.

So one dreary and dry afternoon, I visited Book Sale and found a book by Sarah Waters. If you don't remember Sarah Waters, she is the author of Fingersmith, yet another lesbian novel that I posted about earlier this year. When I read Fingersmith, and liked Waters' style, I knew I wanted to read another book by her but just don't know where to find copies. I didn't want to make a request as that would be too eager, so I released to the Universe and boy did it hear me out. I found a copy of Tipping the Velvet for a very affordable price!

Nothing like two overexposed women to get my attention, thank You for my perversion. I couldn't have found this copy if it weren't for my hawk eye attention to details that refer to women, especially when they're undressed.

First, I have to say, that compared to Fingersmith, Tipping the Velvet rolled slower down my tongue. It was however easier to translate to typical modern affairs of which I myself experience or witness unfold. Of course, there's nothing more lesbian than a story that opens up to a world of oysters. Granted, I expected a sexual anecdote about how one should eat an oyster right--the chance to apply this anecdote has yet arrived--I still found the bits of metaphors that strained and plucked the issues of finding yourself a lesbian lover, and more importantly, persona (?) believable, endearing and oddly enough, comforting.

Tipping the Velvet is hardly a coming out book but it did chronicle how the process of realizing your orientation yourself sometimes hits where it's most unexpected to strike. Although, one may even see Tipping the Velvet as an example of corruption, I see in it my own take on my path as a lesbian: how on the surface it may seem like a choice you need to make, but down to the very center of the feeling, it isn't. I never felt compelled to choose this road because my attraction to the same sex is as natural as liking music, or humming to the silence of a still night.

Speaking of music, Tipping the Velvet heavily draws mystic upon the allure of the grand and dreamy stage. As a place of worship and despair, I would expect many of you would appreciate (maybe celebrate) the part where Tipping the Velvet may be found on Youtube. As always, the book should be better than the movie, but it surely wouldn't hurt to see the halls come to life. The singing and dancing too.

(Disclaimer: I have not tried watching the entire adaptation online, so I would like to apologize in advance should the video sources on YT be insufficient somewhere down the road; but if you're eager to watch how Kitty and Nan's story turns out, you may peruse the video link below and just head on forward from that first cut)

PS. Like Nan, I helplessly fell in love with Kitty too. Odd how she affirmed how much I hope exes stay away to never reappear, even the slightest.

How did you find out you're a lesbian?

Conventions and confectioners

My world spun or spiraled, whichever available, yesterday. The day started with a confused bang, then there was coffee, large Fries and a tedious walk under the morning sun. These were then followed by a stolen rest, a stolen time, a stolen glance and a heart stolen by default. It was a conspiracy to deal with the turn of events, but it was also a magical spectacle to have seen it close with a reunion, a gathering if I may, of souls lost in misery and conjunctions, simultaneously.

I was with my tomboy friends last night. It was an impromptu tomboy convention, I can leisurely recall. It was a promise kept and a promise made. It was a promising acquaintance and a knot made to never ever falter against the changing names of gift cards in scrapbooks, well-hidden and structured by dreams.

People may find it hard to believe, but I join the renegade feeling of "feeling friendless". I'm a very out there person, and friendship is something I am open to granting upon first second of intertwining souls; but at the end of the day, I have only a few number of people I can truly, whole-heartedly, confidently and without hesitation, call as my friends. I like it that way.

So last night I was with my friends, two of which were friends since the beginning of time, one of which was a friend made when the beginning of the now spun close. Before that, however, I was with a dear friend who unknowingly achieves the personification of my unseen moonrise. Admittedly, she is unprecedented. I can't put my finger on how she acts towards me, neither can I put my finger on who she is; but I find myself in a comforting tunnel, a faltering abyss of mixed silence and whispers, I don't need to know.

Late in the night, as my unforgiving wooziness got the best of me (thank you BioFlu for allowing me to wake up the next day a bit saner than expected), I concluded that break-ups aren't the reason why relationships end. Relationships end because they stop happening. Relationships stop happening because people cease trying. Sometimes, the causes would be circumstantial, sometimes emotional. Sometimes, the causes would be rational (if you're lucky), but often, the causes would be unspeakable (quite literally). So amidst my running (pun) nose, I decided not to believe in break-ups, as heavily as I decided not to believe in a Catholic God (until they recognize homosexuality as an equal act of love, they can keep their crosses to themselves).

I tried breaking up with her, again, and she won't let me. I don't understand how far she's willing to go every time I am willing to go--so illegal things happened, and once again we're back on square one.

I'd rather believe in fairies. I do.

A brief history of time

Once upon a glass, there was an exchange of murmurs only the sharpest of tongues could comprehend. There were sonic waves bouncing against wood, plastic and recycled tin cans which only the ballsy can dare catch sans proper playing gear.

Perhaps because it isn't a game. Sure doesn't feel like one. My feelings are my reality, I always say. Question not the inappropriate clothing, or the nakedness of each opportunity. The important thing is, each window is seized. But...

Do you think of me when you're with her? she asked.

I wish I asked too.

An abrupt end

Dear A,
No amount of refresh can show your name. I can't remember how many times I've tried to convince myself, "Don't push it. Let it breathe." I read in an article once, it's not true that you shouldn't go to sleep without patching things up. Some things take overnight to heal; but I can't convince myself to subscribe to the thought. My body aches on these unsettling grounds. I can't go to sleep when things aren't okay. How could you?
Sometimes I talk to myself to answer the question. Maybe you cried yourself to sleep. It's the only possible way.
But I know you're not the crying kind. Sometimes I wonder, have you cried because of me? I have this slightest hint of memory of you crying because of me... but I look at it with the clarity of the future and is it really because of me? Did you cry because you were hurting? Did you cry because you were afraid? Did you cry because you didn't like what's happening?
My mom said, I shouldn't cry so much, that only the weak cry. Tears are signs of weakness. Pain is not equivalent to tears. Losses are not equivalent to tears. Those who are strong are able to hold back the tears and keep their head high. I believe strength is in honesty, my mom believes strength is in not allowing yourself to be broken.
Have you always been strong? Is that why I can't remember you cry? I have so many questions in my head, so many I could make a list. I feel like whipping out a paper so I can have a script. When I meet you for the first time again, I can take it out. All I have to do is read my questions so I won't forget to ask. Our days are numbered. We should make each count.
Some people I got to talk to told me, I

Above is a drafted letter-blog that remained unfinished. Funny how confused and lost I was then. That's all the hurt talking--blabbering even. Months after, here I stand now, still confused over a few things, but with a clear conscience.

Every relationship has a way of ending--as much as it has its own amusing way of beginning in the first place. We can never rule out that possibility of losing somebody, or even just the spark. The best we can do is immerse ourselves in the heat while the fire dances with our hearts.

All we have is the now. What we make of it, makes us.

I love laughing.

Good morning!!!!!!!!

Yes, you can read that as outrageously perked up as it seems to be. I am painfully a morning, afternoon, evening, midnight person--although when it comes to the witching hours of 1 to 3PM, I have to admit to some fatal drowsiness.

The other day I posted "Sleep when you're dead" because I was sleepy as fuck, the clearest way of putting things down. Today, oh, on this beautiful Tuesday morning, I rise and proclaim that fuck yeah, I'm still sleepy!

But boy... was Monday beautiful.

Most people hate Mondays for the painful beginning it represents: to some, slavery, to some, a murderous commute.

But boy... was Monday exactly what I had hoped it to be

I didn't set myself up for any great expectation but pleasures aside, I was quite a satisfied woman. Don't you just love it when the Universe listens? The Universe is on my side, I tell you, on.my.side.

I still bark like a greyhound (do they bark? I imagine them as more of the howling-kind). I feel like I'm going to break my eardrums any minute now, but I can't help but feel okay despite not being okay. I wish my cough sets me down to peace soon, I would really love to cease being a walking human virus; but I will try not to wish for so many things right now--especially after having one superficial wish granted with the most eloquent execution that I laughed so hard, it wasn't funny anymore... it was bliss.

I love happy bubbles. Well... not as much as I realized I love invisible fire!

Sleep when you're dead.

I like it best when I write when my body (so to speak) is very sleepy when my head (or mind) is on fire. It's like chasing after lightning... you just don't know who's after who.

Right now, I have to say, I am sleepy as fuck. I just tweeted that, in fact, and no better place to judge a person that her private other worldly world (ie. secret twitter hideout). It's a sunday, and unlike most people, I am not resting. I am painfully working on weekends, my day off is what most people hate to call as Monday. I am hoping to change these things with "smart" choices that I, likewise, should be capable of executing with grace. I don't really know what's ahead--which leaves me frozen scared of each passing minute.

I try to move as fast as I can just so I would run out of air and run out of energy, perhaps in perfect sync as I run out of time. Chances are, I will fail miserably at this. Then again, I should be silly enough to wager on myself, right? I should be my own believer.

I'm so sleepy, I'm running after the blurred letters of my laptop. Surprisingly, I have not committed my seriel typography--oh wait. I knew it was too early to say something!

So I decided to write her because it's been one week into this supposedly amazing 2013. Nothing amazing has yet to happen, and I am struck with disappointment because my expectations were high beginning the first. It's been a week into this year of opportunities and here I am sleepy.

I hope tomorrow will be beautiful. My fingers are also crossed hoping that the iron will be ready, and that someone will strike. I feel like I need that jolt of life. Well, actually. right now I just want a home.

My mom is nagging me for PIN codes for two ATM accounts that I turned over to her because I needed to break free from the free access to those accounts (suffice it to say, I ended up with a 60k debt when I had access). She's insisting that I can remember that those are passwords that I can remember. I already told her I forgot. I gave my best try and provided the possible combinations I could've assigned those accounts, but I really am not sure. The accounts are at risk at being closed/captures if noone can remember the PIN codes. Is it my fault for forgetting after I have turned the responsibility over? Was it my fault to expect that relinquishing the responsibility gave me freedom to forget? I don't feel bad at all. I just feel a bit temperamental over the hopelessness of the situation. I'm a responsible person so I hate when irresponsible people rub off on me.

I just need a home--I fear that I have to build that from scratch and on my own. But a home is a right every person should be able to invoke.

This is why we broke up 3

I wanted to preserve the loud thumping within my chest. It was a drumming rhythm that defined how I walked this earth--march right left right. I know you've heard it once, when you rested your head on my breast. I saw you smile, you closed your eyes, "I can feel your heart," feel not hear, you even clarified. And that, my darling beloved, anchored me on the premise of wanting so surely. Everything that spins, is you, so I spin to the beat of lunacy.

I wanted to be a part of something big, explosive even, and that scared you. You said something about me being destructive and careless and more words you can't afford. How much are you willing to risk to navigate around my mind, I can now just assume. We had points A to Z between arms, like a soldier's rifle waiting to be triggered. This urged me to listen to your tales of wastage while you reprimand me for the pressing wreckage. If only you allowed me to show you. I just wanted the cleanliness of our blast. Like a supernova--so frightening, but most often than not, for the best of us.

That blinding light that caused you to jerk a quick left against a street post--to save your leg or another life--those were the quick radical questions that pounced on me as I decided to go. I will never learn to drive, I made it clear, but you said I still should try. So there we were, with a crash piercing through the silence of not talking. I wanted to blame my lack of skill but you forced me to be everything else but me. No horns could have halted the pages from turning. We turned until there was none left to lift--not even each other.

As I press on the mold to imprint my thoughts on you, I become the word with dropped letters--forming different worlds darker than the tunnels of your heart. I just wanted to preserve the sparkling need to be loved by you and only you; then I met someone new. I met someone new. I met someone new.

I stopped wanting you.

We deny ourselves as much as we lose what we stand to gain.

This is why we broke up 2

Today is supposedly the end of the world. If by any chance, it would count for anything, I would like to write on this page, perhaps one last time, should the said Mayan prediction come true.

our soiled sheets carry
the scent of your legs
and my mind,
oh, how it wandered aimlessly

other than silence
we held on a beating
that troubled us,
over the moon and arched backs.

ostensive fingers delight
my confused pharynx
to turn purple butterflies
onyx and dry

I made a list you might feverishly fail to nullify. I used your words to build this towering lie.

This is why we broke up 1

Wolves howled from under my shirt
a declaration of the phases of your moon
I found myself lost between my skirt
awaiting a reckless slow burning doom.

I have ten other reasons written on my journal, but today, that shall do. I can't let you burn me out. You wanted, too much.

"Life is happening."

We all have our shares of once in a lifetime experiences. Yesterday, was one. It was 12.12.12 (December 12, 2012)--I refer to it as destiny day. I made a huge deal out of it. Awesome things happened.

The funny thing about life is, it has its way of taking things back at our most inconvenient time.

1. Stability - you know that feeling when you just got yourself back to your feet and you can finally walk a straight line without wobbling? Have yourself suddenly shoved out of control in between steps. That happened yesterday when A's Christmas gifts arrived. I knew she sent me gifts, and she told me what she sent, but I was floored over how my whole being reacted to receiving the items. The gesture felt more real than ever. I felt her through the bubble wrap. I imagined her carefully securing everything. I imagined her happy to send me hope. I imagined her hurting she couldn't send herself instead. Stability... it's not a very constant thing. We're all built to be tipped off balance even with the slightest breeze so I'm not surprised it was taken away from me. I should have seen it coming. I could go on all day taking the blame.

2. Trust - people we can trust, or at least feel that we can trust, are blessings to me. I value them more than anything because I know how rare it is to feel a certain level of connection with someone--the type that can knock on my closed hatchet of self. Today, trust was taken away from me in the absence of acceptance. I feel judged and hurt. Y laid down a few things she didn't like about our relationship as if it were an enumeration exam. There were even a few more that she refuses to tell me because she hopes I will figure those few things on my own--by being a little bit more sensitive --pt being, I'm insensitive apparently. I've never felt more unwanted in my life. I'm thinking... if you don't want me, why not go? And no, it doesn't feel good to hear an answer that goes "Exactly, I'm staying. Does that not count for anything?" Staying because it's what you want to do and staying because you can tolerate are two sides of the same coin.

3. Respect - it's sad to admit that I feel like I have lost the respect I have for some of the most important people in my life.. likewise, I fear and feel that I had lost their respect for me as well. Respect is something earned and it will always be tragic to lose it. Sad because it's not even due to broken bones and wounded hearts. I've lost the respect for and of the most important people in my life because life is happening and there are mistakes that are too huge of a deal to overlook--and overcome.

Life has its way of reclaiming what it has generously provided. The best thing we can do, as always, is to live in each moment.

One very smart person (S, you) once told me that life is happening. As much as it is simply stating the obvious, I must say, I have never concurred as hard.

Love Letters

Dear non-friend,

I just want you to know that the past few days have been dreadfully painful and heavy... and I wouldn't be smiling right now if it weren't for your consistent effort to make me smile. Last night, you asked me to take care of you. I hope you know, I am beholden to your presence, my love.

Dear partner,

I hate myself for causing you so much misery, unimaginable and unintentional. Things changed, mostly me, and I hate to admit that most of the blow, you received. I admitted to you that I have not cried for us until now. I hope you didn't jump into the conclusion that I am not hurt. I feel too hurt to have let you go, for my own selfish worldly sake, that tears do not suffice to release the pain. You are my dream realized--and yet as prisoners of circumstance, I decided to bid us goodbye.

Dear self,

Happiness is never lost. It is always waiting to be shared. Never lose hope.

Craziness

I woke up this morning pretending that although you are somewhere else in the world, you were dreaming of me. I hate to admit to myself that I am attached to you--how could I possibly be, we haven't met--but I read you and I saw you and I feel like I don't want to read anything else.

It is crazy, to be smitten to feel like you weigh on me as heavily as you've been weighing on me now; and I need to calm my nerves and walk this earth with utmost care not to scare you, but I am scared. I am scared of you. I am scared to frighten you. I am afraid I will never know more--when I want to know more.

If it's even possible, I think you're a missing piece.

Perhaps, you're even the jagged edge that I would dare fit into my perforated body. I want to claim you, claim me.

Is my Anti-Virus Homophobic?

As I begin this humble lesbian blog, I am dumbfounded by how my search engine would always bring me to a pornography site--or at least one that my authentic Kaspersky anti-virus would flag as a threat. Is it me or is my anti-virus homophobic?

At one point of your life, when you're struck by the confusion brought about your unique sexual preference, you would consult Google for answers. Well, at the time I needed some soul searching (via web), I consulted Yahoo! Those were the days, man.

Even when I search the hashtag #lesbian on twitter, I end up seeing girlongirl sex accounts that just feels so wrong for me, not as a woman, but as a lesbian specifically. Yes people, like you, I get horny too. But I'm not horny all day--okay, unless it's a particular day of the month--but you get what I mean. Is it sheer ignorance of epic naivete that people outside the LGBT community resigns themselves to the most absurd definition of being gay: that is being sexual.

Heck, even when I search about the Greek region called Lesbos, I am prohibited. Maybe my parents put up military strict firewalls on this computer because they know I use it and my little sister also uses it. Even inside my house, I experience a sort of quarantine, subtle ways of quarantine that is.

If I ask you what a lesbian is, what would you say? Cause personally, a lesbian is simply a woman who prefers to be emotionally and of course, inevitably sexually involved, with a woman as well. Consider me biased, but I really don't see anything wrong with that.

Do you?

Why we love women

Words are always limiting; but there's pleasure in knowing where to begin. I have loved women all my life and though my life is yet to be that long, I am young, I have already gained a list of reasons why it is women which I love. To begin with... I love a woman's body. Perversion aside, I love caressing a woman's body. There's always strength between her sighs and her softness is but the beginning of pleasure. That's why I love women. How about you? -TP

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