Random Realizations/ Revelations

I realize now I am a house of secrets, and I feel the creak of an opening door may bring the whole thing crashing down. If. that is, you open the right door.

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With the last few memories of a fading skill she had learnt in her girlhood, my mother had shown me what my handwriting said about me. The elongated and spacey tails of my y's, p's, q's, and g's said I had much patience to spare, while my irregular placemet of my t's cross bor -- sometimes above, middle, or below -- said I had trouble making up my mind. The sharp forward leaning of my handwriting's slant revealed a forward thinker.

As for my signature, a large J in constart to tiny (if not completely absent) A and V spoke of me as someone who thought more of the Jonette rather than the Apoderado or the Valenciano. Horrid as it sounds, Mama explained to me it meant I saw myself as the central figure of my life, and my family as extensions, or externals. I'd like to think that's the basic construct of evey person's psyche, once you get deep down inside if them. At least, that's what my Social Science I taught me.

A hush-hush clause to this insightful tour of my by-way ink: The contracted a's and e's and c's and other roundish small letters betrayed me for someone with a storehouse of secrets kept under lock and key. But sometimes, storehouses, like strained dams, can burst at the seams when they can't hold out much longer.

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I once knew how to read palms whne I was in High School. I couldn't see into the future -- heaven's no! I was too near-sighted for my own good --. but rather I used the skill to share with people how the lines and mounds and crescents and stars etched into their hands spelled something of their character. The peer-counselling club I was in was famous for their annual paranormal workshop, and thought it a bright idea to use my pal-reading practice to rake in new members year by year. It was fun, really, until unanswered questions like "will my crush get serious with me soon?", or "Will I pass the chem exam?", or even a much more touchy "Will I get to finish high school?" soon enough lost me my "clients". Unfortunately, I had lost the tiny manual, and so lost my pal-reading skill.

Now, once I manage to wrangle time enough to pay good attention to it, I'd really want to learn how to read Tarot with a full 77-card deck.

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Wen I was little, I called my mother "Mama". And for some reason, called my au pair "Nanay".

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(I haven't written anything of significant merit in a long, long time.

I honsetly don't know if I still have it in me. Although I know it's silly and stupid to think so, well... I can't feel it. I feel guilty with the idea of not being able to churn out story after story or essay after essay like I did in my smarter, lustier heydays. It doesn't exactly help how I keep second-guessing myself.

At present, the situation I thrust myself into -- Mom family-, Dad family-, thesis-life, and the ever-elusive upcoming graduate-working-life, isn't helping either.

To the people's entries where I can only sit back, and applaud: you don't know how lucky you are to actually be able do something like that.

I am also well aware my whining about it won't help it.

But please understand. Writers sometimes get suicidal over these things. )

I
will
not
whine about my craft.

Ever.

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On one of my trips to Quiapo, I ran up to te NBI to pick up my, well, NBI. I had some corrections done that same day, and had to wait it out until a few hours later 'til I could pick it up. I whiled away the time checking the jewelry supply stores my mom frequented to see if I could pick up anything she had missed, grabbing a good deal on discounted gaming and internet cards by the bulk, and super-cheap plain white CD-Rs.

Tip: When killing time in Quiapo and Catholic, it won't hurt to hear mass in Quiapo church.

One fo the spots I chose to lose myself in was a crosstich nook tucked alongthe same row of jewelry supplies, secondhand mechanisms, and random gift items,hidden behind a dotty strip of humble pinoy dried fish, vegetables, and household-brand seasonings. All I was really supposed to do was kill time by looking over the cross-stitch designs, pick out nice ideas, querry about prices, and move on.

But then again, it's rather difficult to get going once you've seen a cross-stitch pattern you never intended in the first place to fall in love with, and did anyway.

It was a mother-and-child pair., seated on an islet in the water. The mother was fair and gentle of face, had long flowing hair twined with skeins of blossoms. In her strong, able arms, she cradled her little bundle of joy; a baby girl with a wreath of what seemed to be pink baby's breath on her hair. Aside from her mother's eyes and her smile, the baby girl had shared with her mother, above all, a shining iridiscent mermaid tail on each, gleaming in the sun.

Yes. I'm a sucker for mush in fantasy.

I exchanged the one-yard dream on paper for P130, sans thread and needle and cloth. I had planned in me head: if I can't start working on this beauty right now, I'll work on it when I work. Or better yet, when I'm having my first baby. I hope James likes the idea.

The tails would look lovely with iridiscent beads.