Self portrait

Maybe it was the fear of dying young, losing all the possibilities of everything that defines one’s true self; and in the process something had been kept dormant erupted. If it’d caused any hurt or damages, it’s too late to apologize and one does not regret it. Best thing to do is to let it run its course and eventually, one hopes, it will be solidified into dust.

Nothing useful or wise could ever be said about one’s foolishness. Isn’t it enough that there is breath in and out of oneself? Isn’t it enough that one is walking on one’s own free will? Isn’t it suffice to wade through life, hike up one’s skirt or just let it fall and be wet and cold, all the while watching others slip and fall? Honesty makes one vulnerable; but one is not weak.

Why did the Joseph Mallord William Turner's painting can be so bright and warm at first glance; but when you stop and stare, it seems so lonely? How does one live in the house made of dawn but one’s feeling linger in the depth of hell? Why would one weep for others but couldn’t shed tears when the tragedy strikes oneself? Why do one loath one’s own image but is delighted to see the faces of one’s children? How could one pine for something belongs to someone else yet is reluctant to accept the possibility of denial? Why is the wakening happened when one has crossed the threshold of adolescent and youth and why is the longing never ceased?

One contemplates cutting off one chamber of one’s heart because it’s hurting too much and it’s festering with useless yearning. While the throbbing of pain grappled one so fiercely, one looks at it with fascination. Could one ever forget? Is it possible to forgive and ask for forgiveness – and truly be at ease with one’s transgression? Can it be that one has the answer all this time; one just chose to ignore it? One is confusing enough, one does not need two.

I planted a garden

An attempt at verses


I planted a garden to get closer to dirt
And dust to bury my delusional roots of
The vegetables I intend to harvest the fruits
Of my own labor

I planted a garden to be near the worms
Who swarm in and out of the dirt and
Leave their shit to fertilize the vegetables
Which I intend to make dinner out of

I planted a garden to pretend that I understand
There is an effort in the living plants to strengthen
And nourish other living beings even though
The dirt is voluptuous and yielding by itself

I planted a garden to see how much weeds
I can grow with the assistance of
My own intellectual power and
The constant longing for vegetables

Dear Oliver

(A short story inspired by OneRepublic's Apologize and All This Time)


Dear Oliver:

Only 14 months old, your life has been more difficult than most adults although your tiny face does not show it. They told me that you can’t hear. And I wonder if it’s because you don’t want to for you’ve seen so much sadness and there is no need to hear more noises. They told me that you don’t eat well. And I wonder if it’s because you are exhausted from all the wretchedness surrounding you that you have no energy to take in any nutrients. They told me that you can’t walk. And I wonder if it’s because you don’t wish to be out in the sun or in the mud. They told me that you need a new home. And I wonder if it’s because you are expecting an apology.

Your big blue eyes look at me quizzically. Do you doubt me, sweet Oliver, if I will keep you? They told me you were born in the prison where your mother is. They told me that the two people brought you into this world met in the prison; each is serving their sentences for the wrongs they've done to the society. Is that why you know, from the beginning, that your innocence cannot make up for the sideways glances and the tsk-tsk sound others make when they heard about your beginning? You are restless in my arms and I wonder if it’s because you are testing my strength. Are you afraid that I would drop you too?

I put your head close to my face and smell you deliberately. I am not a superstitious woman but I want to make sure that you are not sharing the same fate as Grenouille. And you smell of the baby shampoo which I bathed you with; of baby sweat and the mild laundry detergent I used for washing your clothes. You smell…just right. I pulled you back and looked at your face; touched your nose with my index finger and smiled a smile that I hope you perceived as pleasure and warmth. You didn’t smile back and I wonder if it’s because you are waiting for the right moment. The moment when you think others have done their judging and gawking. The moment when you think you can belong to someone or someplace.  The moment when we both can love freely and without fear.  The moment when I can call you mine and me yours.  


Are you young enough to forget the first 14 months of your life?  Am I brave enough to think that my affection and devotion can make you whole?  I put you close to my breast, you turn your face. I wonder if it's because you don't understand what I am offering. I wonder if it's because you don't know what a mother is.  Would you be my angel, Oliver?  Would you stay with this woman who is dusty and weary from walking this life with heartaches and doubts?  Would you drink from my cup so you will taste my blood?  Would you eat from my palm then you will see that my heart has no shape?


Would you take a chance with me, Oliver?  Is that a "yes" when your tiny hands grasp mine and you pull yourself up standing? Is that a "yes" when you swallow the concoction I made from fruit purees and rice? Is that a "yes" when you are held by someone else but your eyes darting around searching, searching for me?  It is not too late, is it, Oliver? We do have a chance together.  And one day, one day, Oliver, you will have your apologies in the purest form from the people hurt you the most.  And I will be there holding your hand.


Your mommy for now and eternity.

Killer Perfume - there is no end to the haunting.

SPOILER ALERT!  IF YOU WISH TO READ THIS BOOK, DO NOT READ THIS POST!!

I’ve finished the book for a couple of days now and the book is still haunting me relentlessly. How does he know? How does he know that one tiny drop of his “perfume”, which was made of 25 exquisitely beautiful virgins just coming into their womanhood, that would make the populace of Grassee loved him, adore him and were mesmerized by him. It is a spell he casted over them so cunningly, so underhanded. Then with the rest of the vial, he doused himself in the horrendously smelling cemetery of Paris that he would be eaten alive, literally, by a mob for they loved him so much that they wanted to possess him – to have a piece of him. How does he know that too much love would turn one into a monster? He had freely admitted that he cannot love, he knew only hatred – how to hate and be hated. Is it because the line between love and hate is so very thin and blurry?

Grenouille created the perfume in hope to create love – not just to be loved as his original intent– but also to have the ability to love. What a crushing discovery it was for him that, yes, others can love and do love him by his deceitful tricks; and that, yes, he can appear to others as an ultimate desirable being; yes, he can play with the whole world’s emotions just by one droplet of his creation. But what good does it do him when he has no capacity to love them in return? “To hell with it…” he said. To hell with it he went, with his perfume.

At what point love can become excessive? Is that really a possibility? If it does get to the “point”, is it still “love”? I hinder no hatred or disgust for Grenouille; rather, I carry this heavy load of sadness for him. Oh, and the contempt for the people!! Do we not see it still? People’s admiration and adoration for certain public figures sometimes are dauntingly stupid; or there is no reason or explanation why some people linger on with certain partners or mates of theirs when others would’ve packed up and leave?  How beastly people behaved when Grenouille showed himself to be this all-desirable being - or was that really what human nature is - to succumb to the primal needs of the act of loving? I don't know, I don't know...

Cursed Perfume. Part II.

Two thirds into the book, our protagonist  killed one with his own hands; though, that is not the only death so far. Every person that he has contact with; every one of them - either the one who took care of him out of obligation (Madame Gaillard); or the one who used him because his indifference to the most distressing and disgusting tasks (Grimal, the tanner); or the one who utilized him for his unique and extraordinary talent (Baldini); or the one who paraded his recovery and return from solitude as a personal victory of his own foolish notions (Marquis Taillade-Espinasse) - none of them survived or lived not very long after their encounter with Grenouille (Madame Gaillard may be an exception; however, her end was not as rosy as she had planned and Suskind took care to make sure the reader know that.)  Or should I say that, having certain connection or association with Grenouille - however pathetic it might had been - has somehow placed a curse on these folks that their immediate and tragic death are almost unavoidable whether by their own actions or purely accidental.  It is not clear if Grenouille ever found out that, these people who are a bit more than casual acquaintance of his, even the one had shown him some sort of kindness (the motivation was strictly selfish nonetheless decency it was), strange and tragic death awaited them - no exceptions.

So were they cursed by Grenouille or is Grenouille cursed that he is not meant to have relationships of any kind - however pathetic and insignificant - with the human race? Is he truly evil, a devil as the wet nurse Bussie proclaimed? Or is the author preparing us to accept the fact that he is death himself - whether or not he directly caused the death of others - before AND after he starts his quest? A pathetic little guy starting out his life in the most unimaginable circumstances; growing up in various difficulties without even meaning to survive.  He lives simply because he keeps breathing: brutal birth, fatal illness... as if without a scent, he is not attracted to death and in a way, invincible.

I think Grenioulle is cursed.  I am reluctant to make the conclusion that he is evil.  A truly evil person, in my opinion, has to have the ability to ascertain good and bad, to understand what love and compassion is; and, on his own choice, preform sinful acts and disregard basic human benevolence. Let me try it another way, Grenioulle does indeed have a certain sense of "self"; an awareness of his own being; though, I get the idea that he does not have a "soul" or "consciousness", so to speak, there is no moral compass install in him. Not sure if it's because the external influence - the way he grew up - or he was born without it as he was born without the scent of his own. (Which he discovered in one chapter and it was a fascinating read.  I would venture to say if any of us realizes that we do not have a "soul", we'd probably have the similar reaction and eventually just go on with life doing what feels right to our own logical, natural conclusions and the dictation of our own desires.)

~to be continued~

Stinky Perfume. Part I.

I picked up this book on a whim.  Always on a lookout for interesting books, I've found this one from a friend's blog under "favorite books."  The title was intriguing "Perfume, The Story of a Murderer."  For one thing I obviously trust this friend's taste in books; secondly, the synopsis of the story is about a person who possess extraordinary olfactory ability although he himself does not have any scent, odor or smell.  After finishing Picoult's 500 plus-page "House Rules," followed by a quick read of "Rebekah" by Orson Scott Card, I was in a reading lull.  Granted, I have not finished the "Brand New World"by Huxley; and still have Larsson's "The Girl..." trilogy waiting on my bed side table - thanks to Tana's generosity - the minute I spotted this book at B&N, there was no other book that seemed to be more interesting, more readable.

I was offended, gagged, creeped out and I wasn't even through the first three chapters of the book.  Suskind's ability to describe the smell, combined with the description of the object or matter which caused the scent is simply astounding, amazing and rare.  He placed the pictures of 18th century Paris, where indoor plumbing, running water and the idea of sanitation were nonexistant, in my head with vivid, ugly, gloomy scenery and absolutely disgusting scents that I was feeling physically ill to the point of gagging.  It is true that I am a bit delicate and sensitive when it comes to smells, but I've never been disgusted, physically disgusted, by something I read.

Why was I offended? Babies.  No, babies do not offend me; quite contrary, I love babies.  My feelings were hurt very badly when I read about Grenouille's babyhood, how his life begins.  A baby cannot be loved; an infant who would make an old man shiver just by breathing deeply; a tiny bundle that puts a woman in fear.  I have never ever seen a baby that I cannot love or adore.  Every tiny wrinkled face, the soft fuzz on the small head, the sweet little fingers and toes...even without the sugary, lovable scent of a babe, how could it not be loved??  Perhaps that is Suskind's way of justifying or as an explanation to what and how he is as an adult? I don't know because I have not finished the book yet and, by the title of the book, it's quite clear that he is not going to turn out like Gandhi.

All I can say, right now, is that if the story weren't so fascinating, I would've put the book on the bottom drawer of a desk or kick it under my bed and eventually forget about it.

~to be continued~

"I lost 185 lb. I will. I can. I did."

No, I did not lose 185 pounds because it couldn't be done scientifically.  The nature dictates that no material can be in existence in minus form.   For example, you cannot prove something that does not exist.  I wouldn't be able to write any thing on this blog if my weight is minus something. (Ah, this is not a place for a lady to disclose her poundage.)  Food for thoughts, huh?  But this is not a blog about science, I was just merely trying to tell you that I saw the title of this post during the Pear Blossom run; and I truly think that's how someone can run.  Sure, there are plenty of people who run because they are blessed with the genes, the body types, the endurance and the commitment to be all they can be.  No, they are not US Army; they are professional athletes.  And there are people who run for recreational purposes (even as I write this, "recreational" does sound like a load of crap.) or for healthful purposes or as a hobby (only crazy people have running as a hobby.) The point is, unless you are a professional athlete and are compensated with a huge amount of money for your performance, most people run because they want to and that they can.

Of all the people I've observed during the Pear Blossom Run, and there were quite a few interesting ones: the guy with the lime green tutu (absolutely charming!); the lady who ran in her bare feet (I wonder how much she is charged if she ever wants a pedicure?); the guy running in his blue jeans (If he were anything like the Levi's male models, I'd say that he's getting paid for doing that; but... and I shall stop here.); the petite mother/daughter team, one in a bright orange t-shirt and another one in bright pink t-shirt who weaving in and out of the line; the group that would shout out encouragement to each other and to the onlookers; I admire the person who has this quote on the back of his/her t-shirt the most.  (I'm sorry I didn't even try to see the face of the person.  I was huffing and puffing and was in total disbelief that he/she is ahead of me.)

How true are those six words: I will. I can. I did.  This is not going to be a post praising the benefits of running; because if you can list ten good things, I can easily counter with ten bad things.  Really, really.  It's kind of like what Haruki Murakami said in his book "What I am talking about when I talk about running" that he wrote the book not to encourage others to run; rather, he wrote it as a journal of his experience in running - the good, the bad and the glory - which I appreciate very much.  Putting my usual response "Because my husband fancies taking a runner to bed" aside when people asked me "why do you run? what makes you start running"..etc.,  I started running because I needed to know if I can and that I desperately needed some "alone-time" or "me-time".  To my amazement, I can and I've enjoyed those times when I was by myself, listening to the music that I adore and feeling free - not quite as a bird but close...more like a Bambi - and content.  Free and content, aren't these two words so hard to come by as we get older?  Even the sweats, the aches, the pains and the smell were tolerable (to me. I can't speak for my kids and some of you who had to endure me after a quick run : ) and, at times, they were welcomed and considered a validation of my effort.

My journey with running is not going to end yet.  I'm getting back on track for a half-marathon in September.  And you know what? I am actually excited about it.  And maybe I will lose the 185 lb, eh?