LATE NIGHT SCRAMBLED EGGS

LATE NIGHT SCRAMBLED EGGS

By: Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

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The cliché that “the best things in life are free” must have surfaced from a general nodding of heads from people who have been in love or have experienced love. In my experience, it was him suddenly lying on my lap one lazy afternoon with just a book and a fruit shake in hand at Ayala Triangle. We had light conversations in between his naps and my reading, the feeling that those conversations gave me was the same feeling you get when you are used to eating burgers and red meat and you suddenly shift your diet to vegetable salads and sliced fruits. We sat on that spot until the moon was gazing at the world with lazy eyes, hesitant to leave its spot but itching to end its shift like a perfume sales man on a slow day or a prisoner guard. That day, the jokes we shared about couples in Luneta Park or Manila Bay became ubiquitous, we understood them all of a sudden because we were in the moment – we were in their shoes, in their state of mind. What happened that afternoon gave me an illusion and hope that maybe I could spend the last of my years with this man, on an old porch, sitting on a rocking chair, white hair, thick glasses, a large floral dress and a knitting project in my hands.

 

Recent developments made it clear that those romantic misgivings were indeed illusions and false hopes. Only the both of us hold the secrets of our affair and its demise, I always say our love grew in cunning, in silence and in quiet. As much as I would have wanted to share our story in full animation and gusto, I cannot bring myself to do that. My mind and heart trails to lucid moments of torrid kissing and tight grabs of once unknown places in my body that I am left in a resigned mood, left to the overwhelming gush of longing those passionate moments bring — those once unknown places in my body that became the territory of his hands and postmarked by the sweet juice of his kisses. I hug myself at the memory. I had to pause my writing this hug myself at the thought…

 

The thoughts of him bring vivid sensory recollections. I can still feel the reverberation of his voice in my ears when he tries to make a point, or the sound of his soft snoring wand heavy breathing after a tiring day. His eyes, seductive and expressive, sheds a fine light when he is engrossed in what he is reading or when we enjoy a morning stroll and the first rays of sun passes through it in a diagonal fashion. His eyes were the color of grape seeds; they were always teary and sad, like newly varnished mahogany. The deep pools of brown in his eyes came out even more when he wears his black scarf, he wears that scarf and he looks so regal and feels cozier to hug. His hugs say a lot about his feelings, most of the time it makes me feel like a starfish being taken to deeper seas by a big wave, a brainless starfish not knowing what to do. That feeling of engulfment is eased when I feel the details of his thumb mark on my cheek and all worries and woes melt into a blur – as if the world is so simple and nothing can ever hurt me. I miss the mossy smell of his apartment and the very distinct manly smell which sticks to his bed that I keep whiffing off his pillows and sheets when he is away, sometimes even when he is just taking a shower. I randomly get a whiff of his Issey Miyake perfume when walking at a mall or the streets and that is when I badly miss him, that is the height of my sadness and I feel all of a sudden that the buildings or the crowd would eat me a live – very nauseating, my legs throb and weaken and feel like it is giving away.

 

That same crowd that used to double over when we walk the streets, that gave a slight smile when overhearing our little arguments or funny takes on random things over dinner or drinks, that same crowd that stared when he pulled me in for a kiss good-bye and that followed me with its eyes on mornings when I have just emerged from his place with my hair in a rut and in man clothes – the crowd that gave justice to walking the walk of shame in those mornings.

 

His place, his apartment is the backdrop to the memories we have created together. That dingy old apartment: where quiz papers from fourth grade with perfect scores and smileys in red ink are scattered along laced panties and used condoms. A wooden ashtray that fills up as the night deepens and the morning enters, dusty books with frail pages seemingly salvaged and dried from a rainy day and an un-stringed Fender acoustic guitar that sits on its corner were a few of its remarkable features. His place was my refuge from storms and graying skies complete with hot chocolate and slow rainy day sex, my secret place for watching movies and fucked up documentaries that cause my impatience to go home from the office, his place was the breeding ground for our love and eventual pains with its four walls privy to our whispers. The same four walls banged by neighbors when we have raucous sex, the same four walls that are stained black from his cooking.

 

I lie about not eating scrambled eggs ever. I ate scrambled eggs because it reminds me of post-coital breakfast food he cooks deep in the night. It was cooked to perfection, a little milk and just enough salt that it turns out fluffy and tasting exactly the way I want it to taste.

 

Late night scrambled eggs that have been demoted to late night scrambled thoughts…

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QUIET

QUIET

By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

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I prefer to remain silent about us, to not divulge the love ensuing between us two people very much alike and at the same time very much distant. Our love is the low flame on a stove, safe yet warming…

But at the same time, on good days with you, it is an influx of unidentified feelings that cannot be encapsulated in words conjured up by man to make another understand, all I know is that it is a conflagration… On good days.

On bad days, on normal days, I am adamant to feel the other side, the darker side because I have grown in the fear of hurting and losing myself again, I am inept of emotion, or maybe I prefer to be that way — unfeeling and oblivious.

As much as I want to talk about you, brag about you and tell them of the moments we share that make good stories, I prefer to hush and keep it to my memory… It is a beautiful secret…. And we are sheathed by their unknowing because what is habit and what is ordinary is often time missed – they will never notice because we are just together, a placement in the eternal parabola of time, a streak to the blind side. Seeming ordinary like a common thing that goes unnoticed in our everyday, like a toothbrush, a towel or a wrist watch that when lost would be a disturbance to the natural flow of things – that is our love.

P.S. Today, like the long days that have passed without you, I realize that the pain is losing you is remarkably different from the ones that I have felt in the past. Pain was one full blast of emotions that erupt from a break-up and recedes away as time passes. But the pain of being away from you is one that goes on a steady crescendo with time’s passing. I wonder if it would stop at a certain point. 

 

SEA AND SILENCE

SEA AND SILENCE
By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

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It has been a long time since I have written but I trusted that the knack for it would come eventually. I have traveled quite a lot the past two months, a lot in my standards as I am a corporate rat and a miser working towards a dream. It has put my soul to rest, hence the silence of my thoughts and the purification of my soul’s unknown turbulence.

I would like to tell you of a ride in a boat with four friends. I was expecting cajoling and loud conversation as we embarked on that short trip towards the opposite island…

The conversation hushed gradually as we went further and deeper down the edges of the Pacific Ocean with only the sound of the friction of the boat against the water, its motor and the wind. And then, as the water turned from a light shade of blue green to a deep blue, hard to distinguish from black… Everyone was left to their contemplative moods and dreams…

It was beautiful seeing the peace in my friends’ faces as we fathomed the depth of the ocean and how our lives were at actual risk being there… That anytime a big wave could approach and set our boat and its passengers to the bottom of the ocean, lifeless and peacefully floating, and that the most painful kind of death is from drowning…

All the while I thought of life, love, dreams, sea, travel and the beauty that remains undiscovered in the country… I want badly to bring the person I would truly love to this island paradise and experience the silence of the boat ride with him. I stared at the lone lighthouse on an outlying island and had fantasies of going atop it when I visit the place again. At the fast paced lifestyles everyone else is busied with, it is imperative to put the camera down and relish the experience, it is much different captured artificially than when you are there at the moment.

The longest thought that occupied my mind was the realization that the greatest artists, poets and thinkers of then and now must have been inspired by the sea and by lost paradises; and I think that maybe one would not fathom the depth in black and white unless they see the sun reflected at the deepest pockets of the ocean…

 

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ON A RAINY DAY, ON A SUNDAY

ON A RAINY DAY, ON A SUNDAY

By: Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

I remember a couple of peculiar things about you:

You always told me you loved to make love to me on rainy days –

With the soft pitter-patter of rain on your window sill,

And the gray of clouds hovering outside and dimming your room,

Chills from the cold meeting our skins,

And you wrap your strong arms around my waist and pull me close…

It made me feel loved,

It made me feel home…

You make love to me romantically and softly on normal days,

Passionately and hard on special ones…

I feel your manliness,

Your familiar rough,

The scent of your skin,

And its incandescent glow right after you release…

One thing about you is you kiss my tears of pleasure away,

Right after I reach my climax,

And softly blow on the back of my neck,

That it makes me crazy,

Damn,

You were so good…

But sex and attraction aside,

Come nighttime,

When I pretend to be asleep at your side,

You pull your fleece blanket right below my chin,

And I feel you observing me…

You think I am asleep…

And I am warmed when you give me a kiss,

On the lips,

And on the forehead,

Right before you saunter to your side of the bed,

And I hear your silenced breathing and cute snores…

The best thing happens when I wake up before you do in the morning,

That picture of the moment

When the first rays of the sun enter your window

And touch your skin…

You are at your most vulnerable,

Yet it is a vision,

A breathtaking moment it was.

With that soft glow from the first rays of sunrise entering your window,

And touching your skin,

You emit the man you are,

And for some reason,

The air I inhale refuses to leave my lungs,

And I fall in love you again,

That picture of you never left my mind…

On Sundays after a busy week,

When we stay in bed and talk of the most deep, innocent and mundane things,

Whispers of sweet words at noon time,

While I prance around only in your soft white shirt draping my body,

We laugh and we make love again,

Wait for our pulses to slow,

And make love even more,

Up until our backs and thighs are hardened and sore from it all…

We stare into the nothingness of space in between orgasms,

Heaving deep breaths of air,

Smiling at our accumulated skill,

We were untamed beasts,

And at the same time frail kittens when in bed,

Loving and fucking,

Weary from the physical toil,

But very content,

We are living proof that ‘the best things in life are free’…

I love who I am when I am with you,

The woman that I become in your presence,

When you tirelessly sniff on the chasm where my ears and neck meet,

Right where I spray on my perfume,

Or when you lie on my stomach and I feel motherly and peaceful,

And when you kiss my fingers even with its cracked polish…

So on a rainy day,

On a Sunday,

Make love to me again,

And on that rainy day,

On that Sunday,

I might fall in love even more…

FIBA WORLD CUP 2013: A TESTAMENT TO OUR LOVE OF BASKETBALL

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FIBA WORLD CUP 2013: A TESTAMENT TO OUR LOVE OF BASKETBALL

By: Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

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The world stops in the Philippines when there is a Manny Pacquiao fight: there is no traffic, the malls are less crowded, streets are less congested and you can actually sit in the train and buses and in the small neighborhoods and barangays, young and old are cloistered and glued to their television sets – cajoling, shouting and betting. The same scenario was true for the FIBA 2013 World Cup where almost everyone held their breaths as we hosted the games, hoping that doubts of us being hosts would not come to life and that we hear commendations and good tidings from our neighbors.

The peak came when standard-bearer SMART-Gilas was pitted against the giants of Iran’s team. The social networks were flooded with well-wishes, updates and cheers for the local team and comments on Iran’s Hadadi’s enormity. Iran was indeed competition despite the fact that their A-sport is soccer. Philippines emerged as a successful FIBA Asia team with a silver medal for this year sans Kelly Williams and Asi Taulava – Japeth Aguilar took on the center stage like David against the Goliath which is Hadadi. To date, our country is still the most successful FIBA Asia team for having the most gold medals. Although China and Korea are making ruckus in the basketball world, they only became successful recently. We could trace our long-standing success in basketball to the great influence of Western culture and that we had national leagues earlier than everybody else. Although losing in the finals, Gilas made it to the Olympics which gives us something greater to look forward to as we again showcase our basketball acumen to the world stage – it may even be a blessing in disguise that we lost the finals as we didn’t even make the cut for the Olympics last time.

The whole world may find it odd that given our short built and other physical characteristics said to be apt for soccer rather than basketball, we take pride in being probably the only country in our continent in love with basketball. Yes, we are making our mark in football, but a Filipino can never forget its first love. If you ask some of our fellows what our national sport is, some of them would respond BASKETBALL, sometimes despite knowing what the national sport is, it comes out au natural.  It driven us to the edge of our seats once more but we proved and prided our nation that despite objections and dissent, our passion and inherent love for the sport could lead us to greater places. And, just an answer to recent developments and issues, the P1 million grant of our government is well-deserved; they did work hard for it and represented our country well.

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An Untitled Love Poem

AN UNTITLED LOVE POEM

By: Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V

 

– My good friend L found this love poem somewhere in the nooks and crannies of their house, it is an old poem I wrote dated April 17, 2011… Go figure… Man’s words are really sweetened by love and here is firsthand evidence…

 

Still enthralled with each stride you take as you enter

A crowded room,

You are a vision:

You wake me up from the drone

Of cigarette smoke,

Of vague chatter,

Of colored lights,

And,

Of melodious rhythms.

How do you do your magic?

Of stopping time as each hand of the clock tick to the next second,

Of calming the fire of passion in my nerves with a single touch,

Consoling a broken heart with just a peck on the cheek,

Of muting noise and sound,

And of tugging heartstrings of a heart embittered, cold and frozen

Warming it in your palms

Melting the thick clumps of ice

Mending unknown wounds

Making it love

Unconditionally…

Love has gathered up

Pent up

Underneath the crevasses of a heart

Not meaning to do so

Not believing it will

But it did…

You made it do so.

Like I said

You did magic,

You are magic.

A miracle, almost.

I want all of it not to become a memory

Because memories fade

And we look for what was

When those memories are beautiful ones

I want us to last.

One day at a time

Each fond moment unraveling at its pace.

Democritus said that

“Everything came from nothing”

It relates to us

“Who would have known?”

We were two lone strangers

Empty.

Broken.

But it happened…

I’m glad it did.

Dreaming and hoping to spend the rest of my days with you,

Of watching our tresses turn ivory together

The laughter of grandchildren in our lawn

Conversations on a fireplace over home-cooked dinner

Breakfasts lit by the majestic sunrise of each morning

Rainy days cozying up to slow soulful jazz saxophone…

Always I would fancy

Having that turn in my stomach

The stoppage in my breathing

The lightness of feeling

AS if I metamorphosed into a firefly’s diaphanous wing

Every time you walk in the room…

I cannot imagine life with another nor the same musings

because of another man.

I guess you got me,

And I LOVE YOU for doing so.

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Silvia Pellisero (aka Agnes-Cecile) is a water color artist based in Rome, self-taught and possesses raw talent. I always wanted to write about her, her works and paintings but I never really found the right words because her paintings are too beautiful for words to describe. Modern art is democratic, I mean anyone can become an artist nowadays but Pellisero is one of the artists I have a deep regard for as she maintains her identity and style in all of her paintings which evoke fluidity, subtlety, and mystery. I always have a folder of her paintings kept in my laptop, tablet and computer – a constant because her art is the anti-thesis to mine as mine is bold, dark and “anal”. It is a plus that Pellisero is a good-looking woman herself, it is reflected by her paintings which evoke the beauty of the human form.