Drowned in Translation

When I was a little girl, I was made to believe

that there was only one way to fall in love:

only one person to love true and forever,

get married, have children, and die side by side.

Then came a divorce that tore my childhood asunder,

and the tears spilt in the aftermath washed the fantasy away.

That first blood of ruthless reality erased

the idea of a white wedding and a happily ever after.

But I still clung to the timeless idea

that I would need only one love to feel complete.

So the white turned to crimson, and the Ave Maria

turned to an Imperial March. Tha fantasy endured. 

But the moment of truth came unexpectedly,

when the “love of my life” talked of children galore.

The seeds of disdain for the status quo had been scattered

and took root in my soul, burrowing a labyrinth of doubt. 

So I fled, bit by bit receding from this nightmare,

once my past dream of home and a necklace of pearls. 

The idea of marriage and true love eternal

started metamorphosing into a more liberal concept.

The plans made thereafter were fuzzy at best,

defeated by deception time and time again. 

At the end, nothing but pain could await me in such life,

and I’d seen the horror and despair in others’ eyes. 

Lastly, I found love and acceptance 

in a corner of life, under stones left unturned. 

And in the next ten years after, I got to learn,

the hard way, of course, what love shouldn’t be. 

It should not mean possession or being the owner

of those who hold your hand to walk the path of life. 

After learning such lessons, I’ve come to realize

that there are a thousand and one ways 

to fall in love throughout your life. 

And most of them defeat by far

the one I learned when I was a child. 

I’ve fallen in love with all of my heart

with guys who would’ve pimped me

if it meant an extra dime. 

I’ve fallen in love with more than one gay man

and learned that love sometimes comes

from unexpected places. 

I’ve fallen in love with close friends 

and turned them away with protests

and quarrels, without even being lovers.

I’ve fallen in love and kept silent.

I’ve fallen in love and screamed it

from the top of my blog, my virtual mountain. 

I’ve fallen in love for two minutes and ten seconds,

and it felt just as true as the love that lasted a lifetime. 

I’ve fallen in love without even knowing it,

and it’s only brought regret, that I never saw.

I’ve fallen in love and gave my heart completely, 

surrendered my body and soul, sometimes undeservedly. 

And sometimes, I think, I might have fallen in love

halfway, in fear of what the deep end could yield. 

I’ve fallen in love without expecting anything in return,

without wanting anything more than to let my feelings

be.

Just be.

I’ve fallen in love with my mind, with my twat, with my brain

with my heart.

The only problem was

that I never knew better.

That what I was missing all this time

was to fall in love with my self. 

Once you do, everything else,

all 1,001 ways of falling in love,

will feel just as true and valid

as the one way I was taught

when I was a child. 

As a direct response to the countdown (10 Scariest Movie Scenes) that’s going on at this very moment in the film-themed podcast Cinemanico, I find myself compelled to tell about the very few movie-related scares I’ve had in my life. 

There is a very clear Before/After line, somewhere around my 13th birthday, that divides my way of viewing horror movies. I remember one of my first scares: that one scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom (you know the one I mean).

I watched this shit when I was 8 years old. This, plus all the other icky scenes in the film (a chamber filled with creepy crawlers? a dinner featuring scarabs and monkey brains? c’mon!!!), were seared into my brain forever. 

Other movies affected me in this same manner, although none has become a rewatch favorite like Temple of Doom (sorry, killer-bee flick, you’ve become badly dated!).

What made the difference, at the threshold of my teenage years, was my father. I distinctly remember seeing all these striking scenes in a local TV trailer announcing the premiere(?) showing of The Exorcist. My curiosity was immediately piqued, and upon consulting my mother about it, she adamantly denied me permission to see the movie. Later on, I talked with my dad about it. He told me, as way of amusing anecdote, about the first time my mother watched the movie back in the 70s, when they were just dating. She had apparently been extremely scared by the movie, and slept with the lights on for weeks afterwards. I refused to be a scaredy-cat, I insisted on watching the movie. So my father did what he understood to be best: he rented the movie for me, and gave me the following advice before popping the tape into the VHS. He told me, “Always keep in mind that this is just a movie. If you find yourself getting too engrossed in the action, subtract yourself, remind yourself of your surroundings. This way, you will never become too scared of what the screen shows you.”

So I did. I watched The Exorcist. Hell, I enjoyed it! And thus a love for horror movies was born. Since then, I’ve been a fan of all things horror, terror and suspense. Creepy things delight me, from those kitschy gore-fests from the 70s and 80s to the cinema verité styles that are so popular today. And I have even learned to let myself go for the duration of the movie, always ready to reel myself back in as soon as the credits roll. 

But … but! The moments that have truly scared me are the moments in which fiction bleeds into real life. This has happened twice in my life. 

Hellraiser: Bloodline

I am aware that this is not the best movie of the Hellraiser saga. And I am ashamed to say that it is the only one I’ve watched. And while I watched it, it only seemed like an extremely vivid “nightmaresturbation”, nothing that would stay with me. But it apparently at a subconscious level. When I returned home that evening (I was only 18, so I was still living with mom, and my brother and sister), all lights were out. I walked in silently, so as not to wake anyone, and when I turned from the front door to the hallway that led to the bedrooms, my heart got caught on my throat. There, at the end of the dimly lit hallway, was a white-robed figure. I was ready to scream, and then … my little sister turned on the bathroom light. ¬_¬

Thanks, Chichi!

The second time…

The Ring

I watched this movie long after it was out of the theatres and had become just standard movie rental fare. I loved the short film inside the film, so pretentious and nonsense, such a delight to watch! I started playing this DVD one late afternoon, and I remember thinking that the light that shone through the big red leaves of that creepy tree in the movie looked a lot like the sunset light that was hitting the greenery by my bedroom window. The movie ended when the sun was already gone, not quite dark, but not daytime either. Credits rolled… and then the phone rang. And oh my lord, how I almost SHIT myself. I answered in a tremulous voice, “H–hello?”

…

“Mom! Never DO that again!” ¬_¬

PS: I still love horror movies to death. I particularly like the Japanese concept of terror. It’s creepy as fuck. Creepy enough to have affected my nightmares in a way such that now I can only see this type of face when I have a bad dream: 

Thanks, Japan. ¬_¬

The nightmares are mercifully scarce, and I will forgive you because of Hayao Miyazaki.

XOXO =^_-=