My little black book

The following are a few entries I had written in a black velvet journal with a spiral, red dragon stitched on its cover. They speak on lost love or moments of despair because I found myself stuck in an endless cycle of bullshit. A lot has to deal with me growing up, getting in and out of a bad situation, and with every word I finally came to my senses. I never thought of sharing it until now:

"Cry"

The cold wind swept through the broken window

and lifted the curtains up

like ghostly figures glowing in the dark.
The thin branches of the old oak tree clattered against the wood frame.

The dying leaves wet from the rain showers flew in and soaked their lives into my carpet floor.

I sat there, in tears, and did the same.

I wrote this on Jan. 14, 1997 as part of a creative writing exercise. The teacher would give us one sentence, "The cold wind swept through the..." and we were supposed to expand on it. She thought I could've added a little more, but to me for what I was feeling at the time this was just right.

"Please Look at Me"

I walk...by you slowly.

Hoping you will see me.

Holding my breath with every tiny step.

I walk...straight ahead.

With my arms crossed.

Trying my best to enhance my features

(and hide my many flaws).

Maybe then you'll notice me.

But...

I walk...away.

When I see that your eyes are following someone else.

My mind constantly uttering the words:

"Please look at me."

I was inspired to write this while literally walking by this boy I had a crush on. He didn't even know me, but I would purposely walk by him just to see if even through the slightest curiousity he would glance at my direction and say, "Hi." He never did.

"A Place to Put Yours"

I space out...daydreaming about something else.

Something better.

Anything but this.

I realize that when I wake you will still be at it.

And I will wish for more sleep.

We do not talk anymore.

No 'sweet nothings' are whispered in my ear.

We do not hold anymore.

Your embrace remains cold and insecure.

We do not create love...

This is not love.

I space out just to keep my sanity;

to pretend to feel.

Something...anything at all.

Until now.

I realize that I am simply

just a place to put yours.

This is what it is. I was actually thinking these very words during...well...

"Painful Love"

I stay with you for reasons.

It's not just because of love.

Yes, I love you for reasons.

But it's not just out of love.

I feel like I can do whatever I wanna do with you.

Be silly, act like a baby.

Burst into tears or laugh out loud.

I feel comfortable to be around you.

To eat, sleep, and bitch because I want to.

These are my reasons.

My everyday, ordinary reasons

of why I can't leave...

Even when your words can shatter me.

And your force can abuse me.

And your mind can forget me.

And your heart can control me.

We were together for reasons.

And I took your pain ONLY because of my desire to have love.

I was crying when I wrote this. I cut a heart out of tissue paper and put a bandaid over it and placed it next to this entry in my journal.

"END"

I needed someone who needed me.

I thought you were the one.

I tried to keep you like you kept me.

Whenever I needed you,

I'd just take you out of my little hiding place and tell you all of my secrets.

I wanted someone who wanted me.

I thought that someone was you.

I tried to reveal what I felt,

but you'd just runaway and hide.

I wished for someone who wished for me.

You made a wish for something else.

I tried to make you change your mind.

But...I'd just wait.

I longed for someone who longed for me.

I thought for one moment it seemed it was you.

But you fell too short and still hid.

I hoped for someone who hoped for me just as much.

I opened my eyes too soon to see you.

But you just closed yours so you can't see anything anymore.

So now your blind and alone.

The next time you realize that I am here...I won't be.

And if you miss me, when your eyes can finally see...

Just close them again.

Nice and tight.

And dream.

This is the very LAST entry. I fought with him that morning and he just left me there in his house. I didn't know how to drive at the time and I had too much pride and not enough common sense to find another way home. So...as I was waiting there in his living room I wrote this on a piece of scratch paper and left it on top of his mantle. When he came back, I brushed him off and had his brother take me home instead.

A New Orleans Moment

I hate flying. I know it sounds childish, but it feels surreal to me that such a heavy machine is floating in air. Nothing above or below it is holding it up and every now and then it would shake and we’re supposed to remain calm? Think happy thoughts: “Away from work, away from work, away from work.”

We squeezed our way down the narrow aisles to the very back row and sat next to someone we would later refer to as ‘Jasper’. Dressed in a long-sleeve plaid shirt, and topped with a black leather vest, he had shaggy brown hair and a rugged face. “Take me home!” he hollered as the captain prepared us for take off.

It was hot and moist when we first stepped off of the plane. Hand in hand, my boyfriend glanced over his shoulder at me to say, “Finally, a vacation.”

The smell of history, the taste of the Old South, a place I had never been to before is staring me right in the face and welcoming me to explore. He was calmly excited as we walked through the airport to the baggage claim area. As we got our bags, I made my quick phone calls home to tell them we arrived safely still in shock that I got away for the first time in a long while. As we were about to exit the airport, an elderly African-American man with a black, driver’s cap came up to us asking us if we needed a ride. There were no cabs around and he had an air-conditioned Suburban. No hesitation there. Little did we know that this man would be our tour guide. He knew the ins and outs of this city and began giving us a history lesson as we drove alongside the highway. The streets dipped slightly and in both directions a Cemetery stood. I held my breath as we crossed.

The hotel looked nothing like the pictures: small, squished building in the heart of the city with a heavy glass door and brass handle. It smelled like a new car, a refreshing change from the heat. The lobby had a Victorian motif, a vintage sofa with olive green cushioning, large mirrors with gold trimming and marble floors. A refurbished, decorative gate hung against the back wall. We hopped onto the elevator and made our way up to our room. A comfortable and quaint setting tucked away in the corner. A shear, white sheet was neatly pinned as the backdrop against the bed frame and the television set conveniently hid within a tall, wooden dresser. A wall of windows was draped with thick, green curtains. A writer’s desk with a glass top overlooked the city. Across the way, graffiti marked the perfect word for our adventure, “ESCAPE.”
A sour stench of fresh garbage thrown onto the backs of rusted trucks, a mixture of overcooked seafood lingered in the air. Sewage water spilled beneath 17th century Spanish-style homes where the front displayed the back, large shutters against a stained wall. Horse manure lined the cobble-stoned paths of the French Quarter as the carriage made its way around this battered city. The dampness of New Orleans displayed an overcast of misfortune, but it was here, under a new sky, in the midst of strangers, that I found my heaven.

Alone and Disoriented.

She sits. Alone and disoriented. Unable to move her frail body. Trapped in a steady wheelchair, watching the world pass her by. She remembers very little. Faces of loved ones long gone. Faces she sees, but can no longer recognize.

Why are they so sad? Some in tears, looking down at their feet. Why are they so angry at each other? Others yelling at the top of their lungs, stretching their vocal chords to a range she has never heard before. She knows how they are feeling, but cannot find a reason for their pain.

Seven children. Two boys and five girls. Raised by one woman, proud to call herself a true mother. Never perfect, but present in their lives by her own willful strength and determination. She taught them how to cook, clean, and care for themselves. She enforced strict rules and regulations that they all must abide by to maintain proper order in the household. To avoid any bickering, she gave each child their own things by labeling items with their names. Everything. From bathing products to underwear, branded with their initials. Missing the fact that although this teaches independence, it fails to show the importance of teamwork and the willingness to share.

Suddenly, as if struck by lightning the reason comes to her. It pierces her heart and pulls her downward causing her to hunch over. She stares at her scrawny legs and pencil-thin arms helpless in her physical condition to fight back the memories lashing out at her. She closes her eyes as moments of their childhood play in her head. She did not allow them to work out their differences. They never had to achieve great communication skills to get their points across. They never had to learn how to deal with the drama in their family because she was always there to protect them. Her solution had always been her.

Now she was too weak to even stand up; too weak to tell them all to shut-up.

With their calendars and notepads, itineraries and checklists, each highlighted square indicating who will be at her dying side. She can't help, but think back to her struggles and how extremely easy it would've been if she could create an agenda where six other mothers could her care for a single child.

She shakes her head at the thought of this. What happened? Why is her weakness causing those around her to weaken? Why, as her mind falls to pieces, are they losing their piece of mind? She blames herself. Even though her eldest son tries so desperately to defend her. "Remember what she used to say?" he asked. "Kapag binato mo na bato, ibato ng tinapay (if someone throws rocks at you, you throw back bread). But it fell on deaf ears. Fire fought with fire. And in this case, everyone burned.

She watched as one-by-one, her children fled. Running away from the rubble that once felt like "home," a disasterous mess that used to be called a family. Wondering why it is so complicated for them to come to an understanding with one another. She knew she raised them well, but their stubborn independence has caused them to act selfish. Rather than brainstorming together to resolve something so simple, they created numerous other challenges to make things worse.

"You disrespected me!" one daughter screams.

"It's my house!" the other stormed back.

"You're not listening!" the youngest retorted.

Round and round they go, stuck in a whirl of anger. Unable to break free and like their mother in a wheelchair, they are stuck.

Alone and disoriented.