Kids are fond of myths and fairy tales. Every time I ate ham with my father, I was very happy.
Father told me “Ham comes from the dragon. It is a dragon.” And so I was filled with awe. I thought I could be stronger and have powers because I ate ham and a dragon that blows fire. “Could I blow fire?”
Cartoons on television like “Mighty Thor (god of thunder and rain), and some flying horses and genies (spirits believed by Muslims) inspired me and made me curious to see what’s in the other world. Growing up with old people and their stories made me see the world as magical, beautiful and full of challenges. The heroes in fiction and myths help people understand that the good always triumphed, and that without courage, man could not get to his dreams and goals in life.
Imagining what’s inside Pandora’s Box and glass castles, and zooming in carpets that fly make life bigger for kids. In the progress of culture, those stories come even bigger for games, and cinema’s adult audience like “XMen, Superman, Avatar (2010), Ragnarok, and Gotterdammerung (Twilight of the Gods), among others.
Check this out. Myth Gods
1. hydra-headed means hard to eliminate or destroyed; the lesson is applied to a condition or an evil which apparently put down in one place and springs up in another; many branches, multifarious
One of the twelve labors of Hercules, was the killing of the Hydra – a water monster with nine heads
2. Janus-faced, Januslike (Roman god of beginnings and also of portals and doors, represented with 2 faces looking in opposite directions
“Respice, Adspice, Prospice,” means “Look upon the past, look at the present, look to the future.”
Janus-faced can also mean looking in two directions, meaning versatile or two-faced meaning deceitful
3. Pandora’s Box According to Greek Mythology, Pandora was the first woman. In Paradise Lost, Milton tells how she received her name.
Pan means all and dora means gifts.
A Pandora’s box must not be opened. Every god has contributed a gift to make Pandora a perfect being, but there was one box which she was warned not to open (a source of all evil), but unable to curb her curiosity, she did open it.
Avatar is a film by James Cameron that showed a Planet Pandora in a fiction story. A blockbuster film in 2010, surpassing Titanic.
4. Stygian netherworld, implies gloom and darkness
5. Titan (ic) children of heaven and earth, were deities of tremendous strength who fought with Zeus but were vanquished
A Titan is any giant in any field of endeavor (used to call someone with outstanding ability)
6. Adonis A young shepherd, beloved by Aphrodite (Venus); extremely handsome
7. Amazon a strong woman; female warriors
8. ambrosia Ambrosia meaning “deathless”; was the food of the gods. It is usually coupled with nectar (divine drink); thus, an expression: “ambrosia and nectar” (a dish fit for the gods)
9.argus-eyed vigilant, all observant; Argus was a monster with many eyes; some of which never close
10. protean changing, varying, versatile
Rosalinda Flores - Martinez, 2010
ishallwrite
iwrotefiction
http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com
http://rosevoc2.wordpress.com
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Satur Ocampo?
I share a plight with Satur Ocampo, he has worked and lived with the poor!
May God bless the poor, and those who serve the poor.
Good evening and greetings of peace.
http://rfvietnamrose09.blogspot.com
http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com
May God bless the poor, and those who serve the poor.
Good evening and greetings of peace.
http://rfvietnamrose09.blogspot.com
http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Death Row
February 23, 2010
Death Row
Wall of Egypt in Haiti
Crumbles
From one space in the corner
Time and tide wait
For healing of sores
And fresh wounds
Dripping blood arouse
Gleaming sirens
That fright even weeds
To hide
Scream the corpses,
Prepare the Heaven,
Open!
Sooner or later,
Death will come
The ghost of Scrooge wilts
In pain.
Rose flores martinez, 2010
2.24.2010
rose flores martinez
2.23.2010
http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com
for PoemHunter.com
Death Row
Wall of Egypt in Haiti
Crumbles
From one space in the corner
Time and tide wait
For healing of sores
And fresh wounds
Dripping blood arouse
Gleaming sirens
That fright even weeds
To hide
Scream the corpses,
Prepare the Heaven,
Open!
Sooner or later,
Death will come
The ghost of Scrooge wilts
In pain.
Rose flores martinez, 2010
2.24.2010
rose flores martinez
2.23.2010
http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com
for PoemHunter.com
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
One Last Cry
ONE LAST CRY
It was the moment I was so afraid to come. It was the moment of truth.
You, whom I loved so much will go away and never come back. But I trust GOD would hold you. That is how I accept things. It’s the dead end, when its time letting go, we hold nothing but the light and love of GOD.
The sickness that wearied your body made you leave me and separate, in some way to find some time for yourself and your remorse. Maybe, like St Peter. I realize in your actions the love you had for me and your gaze so far and deep could not explain in words all that you wanted to tell me in the words: because I love you. I knew it. It knew it.
Our wills never met, except in the love of GOD. Our bodies never entwined because your body wanted someone else.
I heard you cried softly in your agonies. You always came to me and told me about the love you had for Zita. Zita who wouldn’t love you because she thought you stole her virginity where she was blooming a dainty pink rose. She thought you even raped her because you can be as old as her father. Yes, you were old as her father. She was your nurse and every time she went to your house to check on your health, I knew you lusted for her.
Remember you once told me you wanted virgins? And you were dreaming of Zita to be your next prey. You were a rich man and you could pay the price of your desired commodity. I thought Zita was one of them. And so it happened when you always gave her presents like the signature watches, bracelets, expensive clothing and dined her to the finest restaurants. I may say she had some amazement in those things you offered her and she thought she was smart enough trading her virginity. She got you under her wicked spell.
You knew her mom was a single parent and raised Zita just by selling gambling tickets. I gave you a warning how her family could be indecent.
Zita. I envied her because you told me you wanted her so much. I wished I were her and I wasn’t your bestfriend who was like a mother or a sister. I wished you saw that I loved my body, too, and wanted sex. We didn’t keep secrets.
You were blushing as you spanked my butt every time I said,“Yes, I wanted sex.” But the time I wanted to do it with an attempting lover, I couldn’t. Maybe I only ached for a moaning hug and a whining stretch of muscles.
“Here, hug me,” you would always say.
And we laughed together.
You told me I might be sick of frigidity. Though how much I tried to want sex, deep in my thoughts, it was sort of a lie. My curiosity zoomed in. I wondered what a kiss meant with someone you adored, when Zita and you smacked in front of me. I wondered how it felt to kiss someone you love so much. My few kissing experiences with my ex–boyfriends couldn’t satisfy my desires. I just couldn’t move my mouth and stick my tongue. I felt nothing turned me on. I just had the knowledge about it in books. Yes, you knew I was a virgin and my hymen was not broken. Several times I told you that. Yes, how I dreamed someone would break it…
“Someday, I want to break my hymen and bleed for love.”
“Really…?” Your eyes were twinkling and asking. You held my hands and I could feel the blood gushed in your manly veins. Your anatomy and discipline, the stability of your age and stature were more than big muscles to me, more than the careless vibrant youth who knew nothing , but just sweat it out in a burst of animal instincts.
When we’re both submerged in this kind of talk, we stopped.
That was nothing to you, you who had countable love affairs. Many times you came to me and whined your emotional discontent. My nights turned miserable while we drank beer and I got hangovers due to those sleepless nights just talking and talking about your sissy girlfriends and how gullible you could be. Well, I remember how you filled my house like a refrigerator with all my favorite goodies! Zita couldn’t do that. She was the woman who hated house chores and cooking. And though she might have loved you now, she had been blinded by your material wealth. She loved your estates, the diamonds she could buy, and how she could look more attractive each day. But it was funny because people saw her like a satirical sketch. Mask and make-up and anime. Your marriage had failed. That was your deadly punch. It had weakened you and brought you low. And I didn’t want that for you.
Oh how I hated Zita! Yet, I always hoped she’d take care of you and try to string back your affections together.
My desire to feel like a woman was never completed. I never knew how it could be completed. If being in love made life colorful, then maybe I had it, or I had not. The fairy tales I read was real perfect and bigger than my life. “Maybe there is no such thing as real bliss, except in ones faith. And a kiss makes a difference books tell. Because Snow White wakes up in a kiss. When you love someone, - it means the whole world, today and tomorrow, yesterday and forever – The sky is the roof, you can run in the forests – naked , and the stars watch over.” You understood my fantasies would never be real.
“Your fantasies are impossible! Only if there’s magic, and there’s a fairy godmother or an angel who goes down from heaven. Or a real prince charming. Mwhahahahah,” your laughter would fill all the space around us.
“Zita is so different from you. She’s wild and lives in reality.”
”Please don’t compare me. I am only your bestfriend, I’m not your wife.”
Yes, Zita was naughty. Men thought naughty girls were attractive. She even showed me the sex gadgets, the rings and helmets you were using, one afternoon while I waited for you. She was too forward to tell me things I didn’t want to know. My flesh shivered, and deep inside I was so afraid. In her actions and insincere smile, I saw she was jealous of our very old friendship. I wanted to scream at her and tell her to stop, but I was being civil because I esteemed your household. She told me how you did things and how she enjoyed your every thrust until your release.
The last time you came to me you were so sick. You gave me white roses and boxes of assorted flavored cakes for my birthday. I said you were so sick because you didn’t talk about Zita but just held my hand and told me ”You aren’t ZIta because you are way above my wife. You are the fairy tale that reminds me the sun will shine, and there’s Atlantis. You’re the strong tower I look up to, bigger than my buildings. You remind me of kindness and just by holding hands, you give me security. Zita can never be like you.”
Your words satisfied my day. I thought you were acting out a drama to please me.
From hereon, I never saw you and Zita. The next day you buzzed me you would be going to America for a heart operation. It was too soon.
For months, we haven’t got any communication, except when I visited your parents in the province where we grew up. Your parents liked me a lot. Mama thought we could be nice as couples but you didn’t like that idea. We grew up like siblings.
“Yuck. Maristela cannot be my wife. Look at her!”
I didn’t know what’s your yuck for because I also got what other females could show. I’ve got contoured measurements and breasts that are so full. Only I acted roughly, and never feminine like other women.
“What do you want of me to be your wife?” Thoughts kept playing up on me.
I missed you then. I worried. I wished I were there with you. Not Zita. I dreamed I was your wife…
One day the news hit the loop. It stunned me. It says your ZIta left you in America for a richer merchant, once your friend. It made me flare up in rage, but I couldn’t do anything. I cursed Zita for her sin. I wanted her nailed inside a coffin. I hurried to the province to check for your condition.
Mama confirmed the news to me. She cried on my shoulders. I became restless.
The next morning you had to go back to Manila. They said that you were okay after the operation but still recuperating.
Before I could meet you at the airport you were buzzing my doorbell, loudly.
“That is Howard!”
I ran to the door and you hugged me tight.
“How are you?”
“You don’t look like you’ve undergone an operation.”
“I’m fine.”
I hugged you and kissed your cheeks. I adored you so much.
You swooned me to the kitchen and you let out your tongue in my mouth. I was gasping for my breath. I forgot my sanity. There I knew the meaning of a kiss. There I knew a kiss is GODs precious gift to people who love each other. There I knew a kiss could be for everyone. There I knew a kiss could be sacred where a man and a woman becomes one.
You knew I heard about the news. I didn’t ask. We just ate. You had chocolates for me. I could see you cut out on your food intake. You were not so strong, and your were hiding it from me.
“Can I sleep here tonight?”
“Yes.”
You slept in the sofa while I watched my favorite cartoon films.
You looked so tired but peaceful. You were forcing to close your eyes for some reason. I could see the innocence of your soul in the situation your were hiding from me. You were avoiding a conversation - that Zita left you for another man.
Good night my Maristela. I pray your fantasies would come true.
Pray?
Ok. That word seemed strange for you. Maybe you learned your lessons. But I was too busy on my cartoons though I felt happy with your utterance.
Finally, I got tired and was getting up to my bedroom.
“Howard we would sleep. Would you like to use my bed? I could use the other room. Howard…”
I was shouting.
Your hands were cold. You wouldn’t open your eyes. You appeared so tired. Instead, I tried to pull you down the sofa so you would hit the mat floor hard and feel your body ache and you would wake up… you were into deep sleep.
I curled my body next to your body, my fingers felt your senses. I was shivering. I rested my head on your chest, unbuttoned your shirt, and unzipped your pants. And then kissed you from your head, your ribs, down to your feet. And then kissed you all over. My body pressed against your body. It felt nice and warm. My breasts were full adoring you, my beloved.
The kiss of a goddess. I kissed your lips again and let my tongue get into your mouth. I thought of your last breath. But your eyes wouldn’t open. I wanted to wail like a child because I demanded the fairytales, and Snow White or the Frog Prince, and the happy endings would come true. It didn’t. But it was Pieta, or the Lady of Sorrows…
Here it worked. And so I raised your head, covered you neatly with a white cloth, and let you hold rosary beads of your first communion, in which you traded your rosary for my high school antique pen.
“You are more than my wife…”
”I am more than your wife…”
Thinking about this conversation, I got back my roughness and gait. I would call your Father Confessor. I would call Mama in the province. I would call the funeral service for a white coffin.
My tears rolled down softly. The sky was dark, it was raining outside.
Rose Flores – Martinez, Oct.8, 2008
Revised, Sept. 17, 2009
Posted http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com, 2010
It was the moment I was so afraid to come. It was the moment of truth.
You, whom I loved so much will go away and never come back. But I trust GOD would hold you. That is how I accept things. It’s the dead end, when its time letting go, we hold nothing but the light and love of GOD.
The sickness that wearied your body made you leave me and separate, in some way to find some time for yourself and your remorse. Maybe, like St Peter. I realize in your actions the love you had for me and your gaze so far and deep could not explain in words all that you wanted to tell me in the words: because I love you. I knew it. It knew it.
Our wills never met, except in the love of GOD. Our bodies never entwined because your body wanted someone else.
I heard you cried softly in your agonies. You always came to me and told me about the love you had for Zita. Zita who wouldn’t love you because she thought you stole her virginity where she was blooming a dainty pink rose. She thought you even raped her because you can be as old as her father. Yes, you were old as her father. She was your nurse and every time she went to your house to check on your health, I knew you lusted for her.
Remember you once told me you wanted virgins? And you were dreaming of Zita to be your next prey. You were a rich man and you could pay the price of your desired commodity. I thought Zita was one of them. And so it happened when you always gave her presents like the signature watches, bracelets, expensive clothing and dined her to the finest restaurants. I may say she had some amazement in those things you offered her and she thought she was smart enough trading her virginity. She got you under her wicked spell.
You knew her mom was a single parent and raised Zita just by selling gambling tickets. I gave you a warning how her family could be indecent.
Zita. I envied her because you told me you wanted her so much. I wished I were her and I wasn’t your bestfriend who was like a mother or a sister. I wished you saw that I loved my body, too, and wanted sex. We didn’t keep secrets.
You were blushing as you spanked my butt every time I said,“Yes, I wanted sex.” But the time I wanted to do it with an attempting lover, I couldn’t. Maybe I only ached for a moaning hug and a whining stretch of muscles.
“Here, hug me,” you would always say.
And we laughed together.
You told me I might be sick of frigidity. Though how much I tried to want sex, deep in my thoughts, it was sort of a lie. My curiosity zoomed in. I wondered what a kiss meant with someone you adored, when Zita and you smacked in front of me. I wondered how it felt to kiss someone you love so much. My few kissing experiences with my ex–boyfriends couldn’t satisfy my desires. I just couldn’t move my mouth and stick my tongue. I felt nothing turned me on. I just had the knowledge about it in books. Yes, you knew I was a virgin and my hymen was not broken. Several times I told you that. Yes, how I dreamed someone would break it…
“Someday, I want to break my hymen and bleed for love.”
“Really…?” Your eyes were twinkling and asking. You held my hands and I could feel the blood gushed in your manly veins. Your anatomy and discipline, the stability of your age and stature were more than big muscles to me, more than the careless vibrant youth who knew nothing , but just sweat it out in a burst of animal instincts.
When we’re both submerged in this kind of talk, we stopped.
That was nothing to you, you who had countable love affairs. Many times you came to me and whined your emotional discontent. My nights turned miserable while we drank beer and I got hangovers due to those sleepless nights just talking and talking about your sissy girlfriends and how gullible you could be. Well, I remember how you filled my house like a refrigerator with all my favorite goodies! Zita couldn’t do that. She was the woman who hated house chores and cooking. And though she might have loved you now, she had been blinded by your material wealth. She loved your estates, the diamonds she could buy, and how she could look more attractive each day. But it was funny because people saw her like a satirical sketch. Mask and make-up and anime. Your marriage had failed. That was your deadly punch. It had weakened you and brought you low. And I didn’t want that for you.
Oh how I hated Zita! Yet, I always hoped she’d take care of you and try to string back your affections together.
My desire to feel like a woman was never completed. I never knew how it could be completed. If being in love made life colorful, then maybe I had it, or I had not. The fairy tales I read was real perfect and bigger than my life. “Maybe there is no such thing as real bliss, except in ones faith. And a kiss makes a difference books tell. Because Snow White wakes up in a kiss. When you love someone, - it means the whole world, today and tomorrow, yesterday and forever – The sky is the roof, you can run in the forests – naked , and the stars watch over.” You understood my fantasies would never be real.
“Your fantasies are impossible! Only if there’s magic, and there’s a fairy godmother or an angel who goes down from heaven. Or a real prince charming. Mwhahahahah,” your laughter would fill all the space around us.
“Zita is so different from you. She’s wild and lives in reality.”
”Please don’t compare me. I am only your bestfriend, I’m not your wife.”
Yes, Zita was naughty. Men thought naughty girls were attractive. She even showed me the sex gadgets, the rings and helmets you were using, one afternoon while I waited for you. She was too forward to tell me things I didn’t want to know. My flesh shivered, and deep inside I was so afraid. In her actions and insincere smile, I saw she was jealous of our very old friendship. I wanted to scream at her and tell her to stop, but I was being civil because I esteemed your household. She told me how you did things and how she enjoyed your every thrust until your release.
The last time you came to me you were so sick. You gave me white roses and boxes of assorted flavored cakes for my birthday. I said you were so sick because you didn’t talk about Zita but just held my hand and told me ”You aren’t ZIta because you are way above my wife. You are the fairy tale that reminds me the sun will shine, and there’s Atlantis. You’re the strong tower I look up to, bigger than my buildings. You remind me of kindness and just by holding hands, you give me security. Zita can never be like you.”
Your words satisfied my day. I thought you were acting out a drama to please me.
From hereon, I never saw you and Zita. The next day you buzzed me you would be going to America for a heart operation. It was too soon.
For months, we haven’t got any communication, except when I visited your parents in the province where we grew up. Your parents liked me a lot. Mama thought we could be nice as couples but you didn’t like that idea. We grew up like siblings.
“Yuck. Maristela cannot be my wife. Look at her!”
I didn’t know what’s your yuck for because I also got what other females could show. I’ve got contoured measurements and breasts that are so full. Only I acted roughly, and never feminine like other women.
“What do you want of me to be your wife?” Thoughts kept playing up on me.
I missed you then. I worried. I wished I were there with you. Not Zita. I dreamed I was your wife…
One day the news hit the loop. It stunned me. It says your ZIta left you in America for a richer merchant, once your friend. It made me flare up in rage, but I couldn’t do anything. I cursed Zita for her sin. I wanted her nailed inside a coffin. I hurried to the province to check for your condition.
Mama confirmed the news to me. She cried on my shoulders. I became restless.
The next morning you had to go back to Manila. They said that you were okay after the operation but still recuperating.
Before I could meet you at the airport you were buzzing my doorbell, loudly.
“That is Howard!”
I ran to the door and you hugged me tight.
“How are you?”
“You don’t look like you’ve undergone an operation.”
“I’m fine.”
I hugged you and kissed your cheeks. I adored you so much.
You swooned me to the kitchen and you let out your tongue in my mouth. I was gasping for my breath. I forgot my sanity. There I knew the meaning of a kiss. There I knew a kiss is GODs precious gift to people who love each other. There I knew a kiss could be for everyone. There I knew a kiss could be sacred where a man and a woman becomes one.
You knew I heard about the news. I didn’t ask. We just ate. You had chocolates for me. I could see you cut out on your food intake. You were not so strong, and your were hiding it from me.
“Can I sleep here tonight?”
“Yes.”
You slept in the sofa while I watched my favorite cartoon films.
You looked so tired but peaceful. You were forcing to close your eyes for some reason. I could see the innocence of your soul in the situation your were hiding from me. You were avoiding a conversation - that Zita left you for another man.
Good night my Maristela. I pray your fantasies would come true.
Pray?
Ok. That word seemed strange for you. Maybe you learned your lessons. But I was too busy on my cartoons though I felt happy with your utterance.
Finally, I got tired and was getting up to my bedroom.
“Howard we would sleep. Would you like to use my bed? I could use the other room. Howard…”
I was shouting.
Your hands were cold. You wouldn’t open your eyes. You appeared so tired. Instead, I tried to pull you down the sofa so you would hit the mat floor hard and feel your body ache and you would wake up… you were into deep sleep.
I curled my body next to your body, my fingers felt your senses. I was shivering. I rested my head on your chest, unbuttoned your shirt, and unzipped your pants. And then kissed you from your head, your ribs, down to your feet. And then kissed you all over. My body pressed against your body. It felt nice and warm. My breasts were full adoring you, my beloved.
The kiss of a goddess. I kissed your lips again and let my tongue get into your mouth. I thought of your last breath. But your eyes wouldn’t open. I wanted to wail like a child because I demanded the fairytales, and Snow White or the Frog Prince, and the happy endings would come true. It didn’t. But it was Pieta, or the Lady of Sorrows…
Here it worked. And so I raised your head, covered you neatly with a white cloth, and let you hold rosary beads of your first communion, in which you traded your rosary for my high school antique pen.
“You are more than my wife…”
”I am more than your wife…”
Thinking about this conversation, I got back my roughness and gait. I would call your Father Confessor. I would call Mama in the province. I would call the funeral service for a white coffin.
My tears rolled down softly. The sky was dark, it was raining outside.
Rose Flores – Martinez, Oct.8, 2008
Revised, Sept. 17, 2009
Posted http://iwrotefiction.blogspot.com, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
A Writing Experience: The Moment of Truth
Thursday, February 11, 2010
I can’t stop writing.
I can’t stop writing.
I thank GOD for this gift of words.
Writing is pleasant but is it never easy; nothing though is easy. When I couldn’t write I feel very messy and angry. I feel incomplete and crushed.
Truly, I write anything: letters, quotes, easy poems, ordinary stories – real and unreal. I tell you a lot in words. Those that mute me and those I find divulging. But then, the spaces between what I tell you are the more important deals.
A writer knows what ideas to pick and what not. If you are the responsible type, of course, you will know the consequences it will bring everyone. And you dare or you dare not … Inside your stomach the energy fills in like whirling water that want to gush forth. You want to come and reach the climax of the creative genius. This is the writer’s moment of truth. Thinking how to express and convert in words line you with steaming energy the gods emit. It is like you’ve eaten ambrosia and forever eternal. And it makes you crave for all the words to spit slowly or vomit or tongue gently.
Writers, generally, have big hearts; but they are often mad. I am often mad, that is why I am able to write. Well, it doesn’t matter if readers would like my stuff; what matters is I will share something, and in one million readers, at least – a soul would find me. And another, and another – until I spread the light of the creative work.
Right now, I just felt I have to write. I don’t know what to write. My fiction is at halt, my essays are so ordinary, my letters are the language lessons and family/friend updates, my blogs are waiting for an input about popular culture. I’m typing old manuscripts slowly. I’m researching for literary texts (to borrow) and share about special topics. I’m on with monk duties retyping prayers (which I impose on myself). This is my writing life; and still -I have got nothing to write. I do monologues. I talk to the Saints and to GOD, and ask them, “What is Your verdict?”
Chores and in between I long to grab a book, a pen, a paper, and crave the keypads on the PC; in between a litany of Hail Mary’s – I wait that GOD would somehow throw me a kiss, and I would feel the strength and joy of the work I love to do that moment of truth: write!
I read from Hemingway (A Moveable Feast), that after writing his story, he felt always empty and both sad and happy, as though he made love.
Well, I could not be Hemingway, I am just like anyone, You, sometimes existing, sometimes missing: “The Moments of Being of Virginia Woolf.” During the write process, I can also see, no barriers stepping into the mine fields, as if, I will let it explode and get the experience of a war. The war in me. The war inside me.
And then, I will end my stories. And I will be ready for the next one of the nothingness or the moment of truth or what Kierkegaard calls a "leap of faith." (an interview of the writing master Edith Tiempo by famous poet Marjorie Evasco)
And so I try to write, and keep remembering the letters of Rilke in his “Letters to a Young Poet” (Translated by Stephen Mitchell) saying, “A piece of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.”
Here I thought I am doomed; but no, I am not: black and white, irony, paradox, advocate, “que sera sera.” Thank God and thank God, I am given in this way. Hence, we all experience moments of grace where God tells us to find meaning.
We would share these special moments.
Rosalinda Flores Martinez, 2010
11:30am
I can’t stop writing.
I can’t stop writing.
I thank GOD for this gift of words.
Writing is pleasant but is it never easy; nothing though is easy. When I couldn’t write I feel very messy and angry. I feel incomplete and crushed.
Truly, I write anything: letters, quotes, easy poems, ordinary stories – real and unreal. I tell you a lot in words. Those that mute me and those I find divulging. But then, the spaces between what I tell you are the more important deals.
A writer knows what ideas to pick and what not. If you are the responsible type, of course, you will know the consequences it will bring everyone. And you dare or you dare not … Inside your stomach the energy fills in like whirling water that want to gush forth. You want to come and reach the climax of the creative genius. This is the writer’s moment of truth. Thinking how to express and convert in words line you with steaming energy the gods emit. It is like you’ve eaten ambrosia and forever eternal. And it makes you crave for all the words to spit slowly or vomit or tongue gently.
Writers, generally, have big hearts; but they are often mad. I am often mad, that is why I am able to write. Well, it doesn’t matter if readers would like my stuff; what matters is I will share something, and in one million readers, at least – a soul would find me. And another, and another – until I spread the light of the creative work.
Right now, I just felt I have to write. I don’t know what to write. My fiction is at halt, my essays are so ordinary, my letters are the language lessons and family/friend updates, my blogs are waiting for an input about popular culture. I’m typing old manuscripts slowly. I’m researching for literary texts (to borrow) and share about special topics. I’m on with monk duties retyping prayers (which I impose on myself). This is my writing life; and still -I have got nothing to write. I do monologues. I talk to the Saints and to GOD, and ask them, “What is Your verdict?”
Chores and in between I long to grab a book, a pen, a paper, and crave the keypads on the PC; in between a litany of Hail Mary’s – I wait that GOD would somehow throw me a kiss, and I would feel the strength and joy of the work I love to do that moment of truth: write!
I read from Hemingway (A Moveable Feast), that after writing his story, he felt always empty and both sad and happy, as though he made love.
Well, I could not be Hemingway, I am just like anyone, You, sometimes existing, sometimes missing: “The Moments of Being of Virginia Woolf.” During the write process, I can also see, no barriers stepping into the mine fields, as if, I will let it explode and get the experience of a war. The war in me. The war inside me.
And then, I will end my stories. And I will be ready for the next one of the nothingness or the moment of truth or what Kierkegaard calls a "leap of faith." (an interview of the writing master Edith Tiempo by famous poet Marjorie Evasco)
And so I try to write, and keep remembering the letters of Rilke in his “Letters to a Young Poet” (Translated by Stephen Mitchell) saying, “A piece of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.”
Here I thought I am doomed; but no, I am not: black and white, irony, paradox, advocate, “que sera sera.” Thank God and thank God, I am given in this way. Hence, we all experience moments of grace where God tells us to find meaning.
We would share these special moments.
Rosalinda Flores Martinez, 2010
11:30am
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