thescentofmemories.blogspot.com
The Scent of Memories: 03/17/08
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The Scent of Memories. How is one stirred by the scent of moth-eaten sepia portraits, unearthed from a grandmother's treasure chest? A passing fragrance that transforms a bus station into a mango orchard? The crispness of mornings after an eternal drizzle at dawn? 9835; . in a restless world. Such as this is. Before it's begun. ♫ ♪. I remember how, after hearing the Loboc Children's Choir. Practicing that song by the old church in Bohol. And crushed me without any warning. His eyes. He had stared but...
out-of-eden.blogspot.com
Magdalene's Cross: November 2010
http://out-of-eden.blogspot.com/2010_11_01_archive.html
Cyclones of madness blown into biblical proportions. blasphemous. raw. my rage. my thorns. my unholy cross. The Apple of Adam's Eye. He wants a novel. He wants a happily-ever-after. For my tears to fall and crystallize as diamonds that will sparkle in his shadow, lighting up his forgotten passions. To let anyone conquer and contain that untamed flame would be to destroy the very life cycle of my world. One thoughtless, unguarded moment; one careless, inconsiderate touch. and everything can turn i...And s...
out-of-eden.blogspot.com
Magdalene's Cross: January 2011
http://out-of-eden.blogspot.com/2011_01_01_archive.html
Cyclones of madness blown into biblical proportions. blasphemous. raw. my rage. my thorns. my unholy cross. Now that we have drifted. On each, our own. Far beyond our genesis. This path of myth and metaphor. Between our alpha and omega. From grace and righteousness. Our names askew;. Flickering on the neonized tombstone. At the tip of a sharp bend,. Who foolishly tread on our path. A warning as timely. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom). I can only be responsible. For my own heart. You offer your own.
out-of-eden.blogspot.com
Magdalene's Cross: Out Of Eden
http://out-of-eden.blogspot.com/2011/02/out-of-eden.html
Cyclones of madness blown into biblical proportions. blasphemous. raw. my rage. my thorns. my unholy cross. Now that we have drifted. On each, our own. Far beyond our genesis. This path of myth and metaphor. Between our alpha and omega. From grace and righteousness. Our names askew;. Flickering on the neonized tombstone. At the tip of a sharp bend,. Who foolishly tread on our path. A warning as timely. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). I can only be responsible. For my own heart. You offer your own.
thescentofmemories.blogspot.com
The Scent of Memories: 09/06/10
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The Scent of Memories. How is one stirred by the scent of moth-eaten sepia portraits, unearthed from a grandmother's treasure chest? A passing fragrance that transforms a bus station into a mango orchard? The crispness of mornings after an eternal drizzle at dawn? Chasing Dragons at Twilight. I could almost taste the free Hersheys the Thomasites gave the gradeschool children whose textbook grammars, she was certain, were far better than the broken English this poor generation boasted of. My weekly dose o...
thescentofmemories.blogspot.com
The Scent of Memories: 07/21/07
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The Scent of Memories. How is one stirred by the scent of moth-eaten sepia portraits, unearthed from a grandmother's treasure chest? A passing fragrance that transforms a bus station into a mango orchard? The crispness of mornings after an eternal drizzle at dawn? Dreaming of the River Piedra. With apologies to Paulo]. I read in one of Coelho's that everything that falls into the coldness of the River Piedra. That I loved, and ached. Pathetically. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom).
thescentofmemories.blogspot.com
The Scent of Memories: Origami
http://thescentofmemories.blogspot.com/2011/10/origami.html
The Scent of Memories. How is one stirred by the scent of moth-eaten sepia portraits, unearthed from a grandmother's treasure chest? A passing fragrance that transforms a bus station into a mango orchard? The crispness of mornings after an eternal drizzle at dawn? This love - unspoken; shut. Like the tight, delicate petals. Of a folded flower. Strengthened by a handful of hopes. And wishes with each kiss. Of paper upon paper. Is unmade the same way,. Undone, day by day. One hope; one wish -.
thescentofmemories.blogspot.com
The Scent of Memories: 08/20/07
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The Scent of Memories. How is one stirred by the scent of moth-eaten sepia portraits, unearthed from a grandmother's treasure chest? A passing fragrance that transforms a bus station into a mango orchard? The crispness of mornings after an eternal drizzle at dawn? The Song of The Rose. Sing me a song, I once asked my Little Prince. He was sitting on his chair, the only one on his planet, counting sunsets. It was the day of the 44 sunsets. I tried to catch his gaze but was met by an ocean in his eyes.
