California Origami Paper 

Today, I take my heart and wrap it up in origami paper
I make a dipping bird shaped like desire and wishes, I sing and dance
with it, letting it lie flatly on my palm. Tomorrow, I will take my dipping bird
and wrap it up in origami paper. I’ll lift my creation toward the limelight.
It will burn slowly, slowly, like a crane landing on a tree at dusk.

If it takes a thousand years to make a heart out of origami paper,
I’ll try it every day, every morning, every night, just to get the beak right,
just to make the wings as vast as redness. I’ll make hearts out of paper
every day, morning, and night, until the sky is filled with streaks of lukewarm heat.

My heart is made out of origami paper; it rips easily, it tears like old photographs.

One day, my heart will burn in the hillside of Pasadena. I’ll walk to the hills with my songs,
my dances, the memories of my people who travel to California on boats and legs.
We’ll sing a kundiman to the sea and forget that our hearts are no longer here, no longer anywhere.
We’ll lift our hearts lift to the sky and tell God our hearts are now made of origami paper.
We’ll forget how to make dipping cranes and paper birds, forget the redness in our chests. But we’ll sing.
We have hearts of origami paper. We’re home.

Today, I walk to the hillside with my paper heart. It’s on fire, it’s dipping into dusk.
Tomorrow, I’ll wrap it up with grass from the hills, to prolong the burning.
I’ll lift my hands to the sky, singing alone in the center of the sun.

“A skillful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents—he then combines such events—as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the out-bringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first step. In the whole composition there should be no word written of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not to the one preëstablished design. And by such means, with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it with a kindred art a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The idea of the tale has been presented unblemished because undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the novel.” — Edgar Allen Poe

Reblogged from Caffeinated & Random:

Dear Barney, Robin, Lily, Marshall & Ted: You used to make me laugh every week. We had some great moments, you and me. Those times I almost peed my pants. The episodes I watched over and over again. The Pineapple, the Duel, the Slutty Pumpkin, the Goat… Sandcastles in the Sand and Let’s Go to the Mall had me rolling on the floor. All the hints and flash forwards kept me interested, trying to figure out if we had met the mother yet and who she could be. Every week I would be so excited for the new …

My exact feelings for #HIMYM

“I don’t have a lot of advice to give. The one thing I would say to a young writer who wanted counsel is to be patient. Time, which is your enemy in almost everything in life, is your friend in writing. It is. If you can relax into time, not fight it, not fret at its passing, you will become better. You probably won’t be very good at the beginning, but you will become better, and eventually you may actually become good. But it doesn’t help to be afraid of time, or to measure yourself against prodigies like Conrad or Crane or Rimbaud. There’s always going to be somebody who did it better than you, faster than you, and you don’t want to make comparisons that will discourage you in your work. In fact, most fiction writers tend to graybread their way into their best work.”

– Tobias Wolff (The Paris Review, Fall 2004, Number 171).

I read this last night in a Tobias Wolff interview. It was in an old Paris Review journal I found at work. A kind soul left a box filled with literary journals in the lunch room, with a tag that said, “These need a new home!” I took a ton of them! They were fantastic journals, a lot of Ploughshares, Five Points, Crazyhorse, and Paris Review. The box was a treasure trove for me. It was like a gift from the world.

This blog may sound rather confessional and expressionistic, and I apologize for that.

Reading the Wolff interview helped me gain some perspective and clarity during this MFA application process. I realize now that I may have I applied prematurely and for validation. Sadly, both reasons make it a failure and a mistake. I shouldn’t have applied for validation. These past weeks have been difficult because I’ve questioned myself constantly and compared myself to others without context. I needed to stop myself and realize: I am a late bloomer in writing, and that is okay. I have many excuses (a lack of an adequate education or what not). But I do not write because I’m particularly skilled in the English language. It’s something I have to learn, something I have grasp and take hold of, something I must master. I started to write because I’ve experienced the world and it has left me wanting. I filled that want with reading, which taught me that I wasn’t alone in what I lacked or desired. I started to write because there are countless of stories in my soul, my belly, and I have to get them out. I write for myself, for I believe (foolishly believe) I have something of value to tell the world.

I have a greater hill to climb than other writers. I learn things slower. I pick up things slowly. I see structure and form in my own time. It took me a long time to admit this to myself, because I was so prideful. But, I’ve finally realized I shouldn’t be ashamed of my lack of precocity, because its absence forms who I am. I work hard for something because I believe in it, without apology. I may fall, countlessly, but I pick myself up. That is who I am. I may be weak. And there may be people out there who will constantly berate me for that. I’ve met them, and their words still keep me up at night. Their fighting words have sparked something in me to prove them wrong, prove myself wrong. I am relentless when it comes to something I love. I do not give up. I may never become a Hemingway, O’Connor, Carver, or Eliot. But through my failures, I see something about the world that others may miss. I see it and I embrace it, and that is why I write.

“Bummer re: (****) but they are highly experimental and maybe not the most natural fit–plus, they’re in flux right now with faculty. I know waiting is kind of a nightmare, but keep the faith. It is all competitive, but you are a very appealing applicant. No need to apologize!! I got my fair share of rejections too–I know how the whole deal works and a lot of it is just not up to you/out of your hands.”

– Aimee Bender, a sweetheart, mentor, and friend.

I’m losing faith slowly, yet I’m still afloat, still standing. After revisiting my sample, I see the many holes and superfluous passages in my stories, and I can only wish this process could be over so I may start again. But, last night’s writing session was better than the other day’s, and tonight’s will be better than yesterday’s. I am determined to write, taking it one step at a time. I’m a writer, despite my weaknesses, flaws, and self-doubt. <3

Lastly, with the awareness that I may come across as whiny, these past few weeks have been rather difficult. But they have taught me a lot about writing, why I write, why this matters so much to me. One day, I will get where I want to be as a writer. Even when I get there, I’ll still have a long road to continue walking on. As a writer, and as a person, I know I’ll never stop growing. I know there is so much to learn and to say, because we easily forget. There will be so much to read and to digest and to distill and to gain. Though I feel foolish because I applied to schools prematurely, I have learned what the pitfalls are when it comes to this highly subjective application process. The number one sin (at least, one of my sins) was my pride coupled with my fear. I should have had more writers, colleagues who I trusted, look at my writing sample and statement of purpose. But, it’s out of my hands now.

And it’s okay, it’s okay–this is what I have to repeat to myself every 50 seconds. Writing is incredibly subjective, this whole application is incredibly based on taste and fit into a certain program, and at least I know what I did wrong and what I need to do to fix my mistakes. I need to grow more as a writer. I know what I have to critique and to perfect, and I’m entirely grateful because I’m part of a community, part of a family of writers, who won’t let me fail.

Onto good news: I am love with Edwidge Danticat; she is such an idyllic writer (read “Water Child,” “Lélé,” “Create Dangerously,” and anything else of hers.)

Other greater news: I have been graciously offered a scholarship-mentorship program with Kweli Journal and will be working under Laura Pegram for a year. She will help me perfect my craft and my writing, teaching me how to read like a writer and write with intent. I’m so, so excited.

Part of the program is my reading list below. For funsies, I’ll post it here:

1. What You Pawn I Will Redeem by Sherman Alexie
2. Love Medicine by Louise Erdrich
3. Old Boys, Old Girls by Edward P. Jones
4. The Seamstress by Frances De Pontes Peebles (Novel Excerpt)
5. The Madonnas of Echo Park by Brando Skyhorse
6. A Temporary Matter by Jhumpa Lahiri
7. The Water Child by Edwidge Danticat
8. The First Day by Edward P. Jones
9. Fat by Raymond Carver
10. The Lottery by Shirley Jackson

Au revoir, and I hope your MFA process is going a lot better than mine! <3

 

“I decided long ago never to walk in anyone’s shadow. If I fail, if I succeed, at least I lived as I believed. No matter what they take from me, they can’t take away my dignity.”

— The Greatest Love of All

Whitney, I sang this song over and over the first time a boy I loved broke my heart. I remember dancing around my small room I shared with my sister, hairbrush in hair and dressed in an oversized Minnoe Mouse shirt, and yelling at the top of my lungs because I wanted so much to believe in myself. You were my inspiration, all your songs were, your entire life was. At family parties or even when I was by myself, I would muster enough courage and sing your songs on the karaoke even though I knew my voice would crack at every line. But the heart of your songs was in me, planted in me since I was a young girl. I know things didn’t end up as you wanted, and I know you struggled so much with addiction and disappointment, but I still can’t thank you enough for giving a part of yourself to us, your fans, in your songs. Thank you for helping a little girl like me believe in herself. Thank you for living, for breathing, for giving. You are dearly, dearly missed, and will forever be remembered.

My lola knew I would sound like a bastard child
when I tried to color my tongue Tagalog

These words fill my ears like water overflowing a cup
I am in the middle, in muddy water, I stay there and listen
I cannot get out, the water keeps coming, and the words stay
I am drowning in these words and I repeat them

My lola knew I would sound like a bastard child
when I tried to color my tongue Tagalog

I drown, I drown, like a child tongue tied
I color like a child in school, I color the walls
and the water becomes green, blue, yellow, red
All the colors of the sky, all the colors of Tagalog
I repeat the words like a song stuck in my head, my ears

And I forget that I am drowning in this cup of water
So filled with anger, so filled with heat, my tongue now dry

“You cannot wrap a fire with paper: the truth will come out.”
— Chinese aphorism

Words are Paper

Take an origami heart and clasp your hands over it.
Let it be swallowed by your warmth.
A fire will burn within if you do not hear it.
If it does, do not lose heart—it is only saying
you have forgotten how to put up a parol on Christmas,
how to gaze at the limelight of thin paper.

Take an origami heart and clasp your hands over it.
Words are paper, thin, transparent. They will burn you.

“I Won’t Give Up” by Jason Mraz

‘Cause even the stars they burn
Some even fall to the earth
We’ve got a lot to learn
God knows we’re worth it
No, I won’t give up

I don’t wanna be someone who walks away so easily
I’m here to stay and make the difference that I can make
Our differences they do a lot to teach us how to use
The tools and gifts we got yeah, we got a lot at stake
And in the end, you’re still my friend at least we did intend
For us to work we didn’t break, we didn’t burn
We had to learn how to bend without the world caving in
I had to learn what I’ve got, and what I’m not
And who I am

I won’t give up on us
Even if the skies get rough
I’m giving you all my love
I’m still looking up
Still looking up.

I won’t give up on us (no I’m not giving up)
God knows I’m tough enough (I am tough, I am loved)
We’ve got a lot to learn (we’re alive, we are loved)
God knows we’re worth it (and we’re worth it)

Everyday, I wake up to Josh’s smiling face as he showers me with kisses. I laugh and he smiles, and I tell him to get off me and go to work. He never listens. After about 10 minutes, he finally gets off me and does his morning routine—washing up and working out. He eats his breakfast and I stay in bed, enclosed in a warm, warm blanket. He leaves at 6 a.m. on the dot.

This morning, I couldn’t help but be nostalgic. It’s the new year, one brimming with feelings of change, and I already feel giddy. I had a long chat last night with my good friend from back home. We talked about how crazy and quickly life changes. When I look back at my relationship, my marriage, with Josh, I can’t help but smile with a mix of cloudy eyes. We’ve been through a lot.

For us, 2010 was our lowest point. He joined the Navy. He lied to me about his past. I found out through other means, a jealous girl who was still angry. My father almost got deported because of his immigration issues. We lost our blue house on Neptune Street. Josh’s family lost their yellow house on 234th Street, one they’ve had for 22 years. We were apart for days, months. We got married, but the lies from his past caught up with us. The lies didn’t stop in 2010, and it kept overflowing.

We finally reached a breaking point. We finally reached the point where our love was tested beyond our means, and I had to decide whether or not I could live with Josh’s scarred past. The lies were too much to bear, and they overspilled on his family (with me becoming the scapegoat in the beginning). I was torn between the lies he told me and the lies he told his family. The miscommunication between so many parties became like a sea, and I was drowning. I drown.

But there was still this belief in goodness I held on tightly. I still believed in God, still believed the love I was taught when I was child. When it came to my decision to leave or stay, I said something similar to what Marshall told Lily (from HIMYM): “When I married you, I married your problems too. Even the ones I didn’t know about.”

I was really broken in 2011. We both were. It took a long time for me to fix myself. It took a long time for Josh and I to fix the beautiful mess we made.

And even though our marriage has been through a year of tribulation, it’s been a beautiful one. We’re happy. I’m smiling as I write this because I know our relationship is so personal and I write of it so freely on this public space. But I want to go shout on a mountain and tell the world: I’m happy. I’m in love. I’m still in love with my best friend, and I don’t give a damn what the world thinks.

This is why I believe in second chances. This is why I still believe in love and goodness and forgiveness. We made mistakes, big ones, but we were forgiven. We made mistakes with others, to family, but we were given love. Though the military and married life don’t go hand-in-hand, if you married your best friend, it’s possible to make it, even with the terrible distance and mistakes. I look at my past now and I smile, thankful for everything that has happened to me. I am sincerely grateful for every person that has been in my life. The choices that people in my life made in the past has casually affected who I want to be today. I may fall down sometimes, but it’s okay. Life, like love, is a learning process. Life, like love, gets better day by day. Life, like love, is all about finding the good in this world, in people.

Though 2010 was a hard year, it was still a good one. My ground was broken, everything I had believed in crashed down like a charred raccoon from a chimney (Dance in America reference). But I picked myself up from the rubble, and in 2011, I started piecing back everything I held dear in life. And the blessing is, I didn’t have to do it alone. I did it with the help of my best friend–my husband–and my family: my loving father, my motherly sister, my proud grandmother, and my loving friends back home. In 2010, I broke down but relentlessly tried to find meaning in my life, and in 2011, I was broken and found it–and it was love, the love given to me by the people who surround me. They are either by my side or are back home in Los Angeles, and I still feel their bond, their love, even if I do live 2,500 miles away. I believe that 2012 will be a wonderful, difficult, beautiful year too–one of transition and change. Throughout all of this, throughout all of the difficult things I’ve been through in my brief life, I’m so thankful to have love, all the variations of it.

In 2012, I hope you won’t give up, dear reader. Even if 2011 was your lowest point, believe me when I say it gets better. As for me, I too won’t give up on love. I won’t give up on giving people second chances. Finally, I feel like I’m at that place where I can look at the world in the eyes and tell it: thank you for making me stronger. After that, I feel like giving the world a big, long, loving hug.

I’ll end this personal blog with a quotation from a writer friend’s blogpost on the new year. When I read it, it moved me and reminded me of all the things I’ve conquered and experienced. I hope this moves you too:

“Also–I am more than aware that 2011 was an agonizing and horrifying and awful year for many of you. For me, the ‘worst year of my life by a mile’ was 2007. It ousted any of the years previous I’d spent depressed or dismayed or discouraged or broke.

But every year since then, I/we know that statistically speaking, nothing can be as bad as 2007. And that too, has made all the difference–to know where your bottom is, and to know you’ve survived that bottom (whether graciously or not, because in the end all that matter is that you survived), to have been broken and healed, and to know you’ve learned lessons, and to know you can make it through anything, go forward.

So for those of you who have had an awful 2011, I give you that hope. And now it’s 2012–and I hope 2011, now in the past, leaves you in the present with valuable lessons and knowledge and resilience.

My awful year gave me urgency, too. There’s nothing like a bad year to tell you what it is you really really want out of life. And you’ll spend subsequent years reaching for it.

I hope in 2012 you reach for it–and get it.”

— Christine Zilka’s blog 80,000 words.

For my poem, feel free to check out this article on Joyce Carol Vincent and the documentary on her mysterious life. It moved me so much… Thank you for reading, and please enjoy this unedited poem. I plan to revise it soon.

—

If I Am Remembered Like Joyce Carol Vincent

When I read about Joyce Carol Vincent, I found myself repeating Lianne La Havas’ melodies over and over. I imagined her hypnotic voice resembled Joyce’s. I imagined Joyce was Lianne, both of them more beautiful than the sky. I imagined I could touch Joyce’s face through Lianne’s voice. I imagined Joyce smiled.

Joyce’s skeleton was found decomposed and forgotten. What I imagined was fiction, and it brought me to tears. I stood at my window, then paced the room until I collapsed in a heat of anger. I was angry. I couldn’t tell myself why.

Joyce’s death went unnoticed for three years. My departure from home to another coast went unnoticed for one. My absence to my family was like the nodding of the head; a simple stillness. When I left Los Angeles, my father had left years before, getting married in the homeland without telling my sister or me. He still frequents Los Angeles and the Philippines, staying here and there for this month and that month, working back home and living on islands. He is a skeleton in Los Angeles. He lives only in the heat of anger. I realized that years ago.

When I graduated from college, I had realized I would have no home to return to. The blue house on Neptune Avenue had been foreclosed, and my father told me he was married on the afternoon we lost it. When I graduated from college with half a mountain of debt, I married without telling my father. I moved to another coast because of the military. I transitioned into the same life—a skeleton in Los Angeles, living in the heat of anger on another coast.

I read the article on Joyce’s death again. I had stopped the tantrums, the heaving. I had gotten up and begun swaying in the living room’s light. My husband had not come home yet. If I had died in that moment, I told myself repeatedly I would die in the heat of anger. I will die in the heat of anger. I will die like Joyce Carol Vincent, in the heat of anger against the world.