Flipped Serendipity

finding peace

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A TV Show

We’ve had our ups and downs;
that’s how pilots go—and season ones.
We’d hold off the happy ending,
and leave some tension hanging.

For season two, we’d each have a lover
until one of us finds themselves sober:
that, for the other, they’d already fallen
and only waiting for love to happen.

Season three, they’ll become single
and try to move on but they’d struggle.
They’d go away, try to stay away.
They’d hope love will find a way.

And if the show ever gets cancelled,
so will they end up in farewells.
The happy ending that could have been
is left held off and never to be seen.

Look Around

poetry

Which path to take isn’t easy to choose;
there’s plenty of other point of views.
Some are annoying, some adverse,
and others can be jovial in reverse.

So climb a tree, because there’s a lot to see;
from down below, the sky is kind of hollow.
Despite the vast blue and the scattered clouds too,
you’ll find the sky’s empty and the earth’s aplenty.

Look forward, look back, look all around.
There are myriads of choices sprinkled about.
Which ones are correct, which are wrong,
Doesn’t matter, just choose again and move along.

Writer’s Block

poetry

When you have the whispers of poetry dying on your lips,
you stutter on the rhymes—the lines—as if with a lisp.
You grasp about, fumbling over yourself like catching smoky wisps
until you’re beaten to shape by Apollo’s poetic quips.

On the Movie: Flipped

by

on movies

Flipped begins with two unreliable narrators: our two protagonists. More than narrating the events, our young couple narrates from their misguided and unknowing perspectives.

We have Bryce who wants nothing to with Julie and whose judgement may be a bit skewed and outright horrible. Then, we have Julie who sees nothing of Bryce’s apparent discomfort and dislike of attention. However, in retrospect, I’ve come to believe that Julie had a more accurate understanding of the situation.

Julie was a girl with a bright outlook. She appreciated her surroundings and explored the world she lived in. There was a love of life in her every action; from her egg hatching experiment to her lovely sycamore tree. She saw the world like a flower in bloom.

Bryce, on the other hand, was cynical. There was fear and aversion in how he lived his life. I think it’s why he didn’t Julie who was like the sun who lit everything up. He thought he preferred the shallow but pretty Sherry Stalls; he thought he had a best friend in Garett who would betray his intentions and seek his own benefit instead. Despite that, he wouldn’t see through the fog until the end of the movie.

It was easy to think Bryce was more reasonable in the beginning; Julie had been somewhat overbearing. But as the plot develops, Bryce becomes more unreliable and his personal issues become apparent. It was so when he left Julie to fend for her sycamore tree on her own, and especially so when he refused to eat the eggs Julie gifted.

Bryce wasn’t to blame. Even as Julie’s background is revealed, how her uncle is in a private care facility and how their family lives humbly, how Bryce behaved wasn’t a product of his principles but the screwed up mentality of his father’s who believes that whatever misfortune he has encountered must be shared and perpetuated so it won’t be unfair to himself. That he couldn’t continue a music career, that he couldn’t be happy, for some reason, it is the fault of the world and its people.

Bryce wasn’t a jerk; the influence of his father brought up his insensitivity and apathy toward the wellbeing of others. It took Bryce until the dinner with the Loskys that that wasn’t how he wanted to be.

It was at that moment that Julie’s view of their first meeting truly made sense. It only affirmed the fact that it was Julie who was the reliable narrator from the beginning.

It was difficult to see but Bryce would become someone more than some of his parts. He would tower over the negative portion that he received from his father and rise over his horrible past. He’d start with his first true mistake: Julie’s beloved sycamore tree.

Maybe then, the two of them would grow as tall and as cherished by Julie. And this time, beloved and held dear by Bryce as well.

Roots

poetry

Books thrown aside, under layers of clothes
scattered without thought, with drawers overturned
and emptied of documents and photos and

a kneeling man amidst prayer, arms held around him
self, holding close to his chest something
taken from amongst the mess and the reason
for which he had tossed aside other fantasies.

A Smile Towards the End

by

prose, short story

Peter ended the call; his food was downstairs and he needed to receive it. He looked at the busy screen in front of him, hesitating a bit, but quickly realized it was a simple decision. He locked the screen, took his keys, and went out of the apartment. He locked the door, and took the short walk to the elevators. After a short while, the elevator doors opened and he went in.

It was a short 20-second trip, but on the fifth second, there was a sharp twang and the elevator lurched. The single second that it held steady enough to quickly assure himself, except that was all it was: a single second of calm.

When Peter heard the second twang, he knew. Suddenly, he was weightless and the elevator began its free fall.

His life flashed past his eyes. The past years working as an analyst; his time in college with his friends both in his program and those in his organization; he remembered his years in high school, then grade school, nursery.

Peter remembered his last day: his small breakfast, the unproductive morning, a quick lunch, the calls he had in the afternoon, and his little spat with his girlfriend. It all seemed irrelevant when he was at death’s door.

He closed his eyes, smiled, and let it all go.

Don’t worry about it, buddy. It’s not your time yet. A voice seemed to say.
(more…)

Good Mornings

poetry

I wanted to end my days with you
But you’d rather start yours with me.
I wanted to be the star in your dreams
Yet you show up like the sun that’d wake me.

Author’s Notes

By Candle Light

poetry

The cold of the glass melds into the cold of the air
as the night deepens and the candle light glistens
on the concave of the enclosing glass protecting it.

The warmth of the candle flame melts the cool breeze
of the late winter night with a gentle rising sheen
on the mouth of the glass like sunrise over the horizon.

The slowly retreating buffer of the cold glass with
the ever pressing warmth of the flame creeps onto my
shrinking grasp of the now unwelcoming warm glass.

The slight burns, the precarious grip, the everturning
inclination whether to keep holding on or to finally,
at long last, decide ever slightly letting go.

Incompatibility

poetry

Two positive charges push each other away;
it's the opposite that attracts the other.
Jigsaws have tabs to their slots, keys to their
locks. It's not the similar that fit and stay.

Red String

poetry

There’s a red string between the two of us.
I don’t know if you can see it, buts it’s clear
you and I are connected. It’s fate, my dear;
I see love’s pink hue shining on both of us.

Author’s Notes