Around The World: from Japan and back

The Sophomore Slump


Join me and some friends on our trip around the world, from Japan and back. Fasten your seat belts.
We are taking you to places in Japan, Italy, India, New York, China, Greece, Germany, Cambodia, Egypt, France, United Kingdom, Spain, Taiwan, and many more…
Sit back and relax. This is going to be a fun ride …

Did you enjoy the trip?






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Today, February 14th, 2017 is Valentine’s day! Happy Hearts Day Everyone!

Today, also, we do not have water in Paranaque City due to a damaged pipe (mishap by contractor) caused by an ongoing pipe reconstruction of Maynilad. This means we do not have water today until the evening… maybe.

So an accident — may God help us all because water is life.

In emergency cases like this where you cannot blame anyone, how would this problem be solved?

I grew up in the city of Manila, at San Andres Bukid. My mother was a public school teacher at Rafael Palma Elementary School. During such times we didn’t have water, if emergency – the city of Manila provided for free water delivery to the Manila residents.

In Paranaque City, I called the Barangay Office, but the admin could not even give a valid answer to my query. I am not putting a blame on anyone; as a concerned citizen I was just asking how they would solve the problem. I was disappointed to the answer that was given to me “Ako nga hindi pa nakaligo din…” Can she even think of taking a bath, if there was no water to drink?” Government staff must be trained to answer the people they are serving – in ALL walks of life.

I tried to call the Municipal Hall of Paranaque, to FYI Mayor Olivarez and a woman in the Radio Room answered… “Sige po Ma’am makakarating po and tawag ninyo…” I think that was a better answer. I pray for the people of Paranaque.

Rose Flores – Martinez. Rosevoc
Merville, Paranaque City

Journal. In 2017. Our Mother of Perpetual Help

Yesterday, I went to pay respect to Mama Mary at Baclaran Church. It was also the feast of the Holy Child Jesus. It was fun going around just like a child even when you’re fifties.

This church has given me a lot of miracles and answer to pleas. I did not ask for anything here, but the Blessed Mother’s guidance. Truly, Mama Mary is our mother.

The start of the year brings a lot of memories, all those events that happened and all new wishes.

I could remember those days with my husband (rip), even before we were married. I shed blood here because of love believing a promise to my youth and forever married.
I could remember those days I knelt down scared like a kid when it was time for work abroad leaving my kids. God answers what we ask for in ways we do not understand if we obey His will and love Him.

I could remember just being there all days I was growing older and visiting Saint Therese, as well, knowing not, what will happen next. The Magnificence of the Lord Jesus Christ in beautiful ways of asking His presence in our lives, though unworthiness, is being revealed in the graces of our Mother of Perpetual Help.

Last 2016 was a busy year of affluence and delving into new centers of life like accounting, paying debts and investing. It was also a summit of opening new doors of the future and dreaming wild. Hopes are there… in the new year 2017!

As to my writing, my muse came through Mama Mary, after just being in this church, lighting some candles and presenting myself, those in my heart, especially the people I love and those who have entrusted me for prayers. Nothing special of me, but the grace and mercy, we all receive every single day of depending in the care of Mary, our Mother of Perpetual Help.

Around the vicinity of the church are vendors selling affordable stuff for everyday use. Also there are yummy Filipino delicacies like boiled corn, green mangoes and lechon.

Well in the new year – the best I had was the fruit cake from my brother Jonathan in the US and the sweet potatoes that was grown in our hometown Caramoan. I ate them with my nephew Christjohn greeting the new year with a blast! Yet I thought, “ Ah… this year seems to be new when all people are out and busy and problems come minimal; it’s extraordinary!

And so I thought, we only have two hands to cup the blessings, a small brain to think of all the struggles, and above all these – God’s love through Mary, our Mother is perpetual. Nothing and no one can contest on that. May Mama Mary be there in all our joy and cares this 2017! Smile.

/rosevoc2. Jan 16, 2017

How To Write Creative Literature

Good literature stands the test of time. Writers, unaware of being called creative writers cannot just stop writing at this.

Let me share about writing, not as a creative writer, but as one writer like the rest of us and one writer who earns the right to represent her own experiences in her work (Paul Horgan). Creative writing is a gift you never have to ask for, it is something embedded in your life. As you would not like the events or that gift of grieving, it happens as you write, as you live and as you work. It is there. You share a memory of that season, of that place in your heart because it haunts your brain. And when you don’t do that and write about that, you feel empty or incomplete as though, it is only writing that mattered in your life and in that vocation is a responsibility, “noblesse oblige” (to act with honor).

How could you produce creative literature? Write from the heart. Write with all your soul and with all your might! Of course, you have to find out what you’re good at. You make your own niche through hard labor (Sacred Wood, T.S. Eliot). While life goes on, in your time, you serve as a link, involving yourself with nursery rhymes, Shakespeare, Moby Dick, The Holy Bible, Hemingway, the writing canons, your writing professors, your co-writers, the search engines, culture and the world. The creative writer feels it, but the muse will not speak, it will write.

Often, writers will not be rich at this field, but only act as an ordinary writer or teacher. They have got nothing to flaunt, but thank those who read them. By that, they feel best and beautiful. By that, art takes place. By what they create, they change something, make more out of life and thank the Holy Creator for that gift of writing and spreading literature. Their words stay powerful in different seasons of time. Even after death they gain readers and friends, who will read and pray for them. Through their creative work, they etch lines of history and light.

Write, but don’t ask for favors. Take the responsibility that goes with your work. Wait for nothing, but something of goodness for the heart. Be brave to be hanged, to be criticized or be dumped. But then, worry not, for the angels and saints are with you. Someone will proclaim about goodness from the rooftops, maybe about your words, those that ignite zeal!

As Charles Bukowski asserts of being a writer, “When it is truly time and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. There is no other way. And there never was.”

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Come My Sons


Come, my sons. Sit by my side and warm my hands with yours. For I fill with pride when one of you is near. Your presence is reassuring.

I have many things to say to each one of you. Lately, I have been preoccupied with thoughts that sneak into my mind. It is for this reason that I have called you by name, interrupting your play, insisting that you come to me.

My sons, you are my greatest offering to a people where many are weary from misused and unused lives. All that you are, all that you will be, it is I who have cleared the path.

You are yet boys. Soon you will be men. And I must set you free. You are my sons, but I do not know you. I can dream great dreams for you, but my dreams are not our dreams. Your life is not my life. Yours’ may end today in ways I have not dared to think. I know this.

My sons, because my voice is clear and steady, do not think I feel nothing. Because my eyes are free from tears, do not think my heart is. Just know there is little I can do when it comes to each of your destinies, that terrible things could come about, it makes me ache inside.

I wish I could be with one of you forever. But my sons, all I can do is cry with you or even for you if you feel pain. And though this may be a cruel thing for me to say and difficult for you to hear, it is true that while I would give my life, would die for you, my sons, I can never live for you.

Come now, we will change this talk. It will end my foolish thoughts and we will never speak of them again. For the lodge that will be yours is now complete. I cannot change it or move it, I can only hope that it will serve you well.

Time has come to speak of things long past. Of countless days filled with endless night. Of time that moved in beauty and with ease. My sons, these things must be heard in meaningful silence. So make your mind wide and clean like the eastern sky at sunrise. Wash your heart earnestly in the tears of the old ones that may be worthy of what I will tell. For it is said their tears have great value. They were red and fell gently like blood. My sons, everyone now has tears of water.

My sons, this is a story that is like a song. A sacred song that can be sung only once. Should we abuse it by changing it is telling and retelling, our story would become worthless and have little meaning. That is the way too many important ideas have been destroyed.

One thought passed around like dry leaves, scattering wildly on windy day, with no planning as to where they will finally rest. The leaves pile us in untied bundles. People take notice for a short while. The leaves of red, yellow, and orange continue to cover our mother earth like warm blanket. And only a few rare people understand or care. My sons, do you know that many burn those dying leaves?
That is why we must use some judgment in deciding about people and what they should hear. Take time to find those who deserve to listen. Take time to know those who want to listen.

And though you shall hear this just once, at a time when your minds are young and uncluttered with memories that accompany time, it will be with you always. You will forget it only in brief moments when all the world is yours and you feel that there is nothing you cannot overcome. But something or someone will shake you and remind you of this story. Out of the forgotten days of youth, it will crawl like a beautiful baby you cannot ignore. Yes, my sons, it will haunt you all your lives and echo in your minds and re-echo in the days when life is precious and drawn to its end.

I shall tell it now with love for each of you and with respect for those who were before. It would not be sacred if I told it otherwise. For this is truly their song. They sang it many times, in many ways an eternity ago.
Listen, my sons! Listen to a song for life. The words are good. The song is old. Hear me now! Inside each of you, there beats a drum. Drums that are never silent. They speak and talk of life. When your strong brown hands reach out, the drums swell and move with pride. When your dark laughing eyes are still and bright with thought, the drums are whispering of your promise as men.

I wish that your grandmothers could see you now. I wish they could reach out and touch you. For they were the ones who gave their drums to you.
In the peaceful dark of yesterday they lived strong and proud, wise and beautiful because of their drums. Life was long and well-lived with dignity. The drums were the reason. They made life worth living.

If you should ask me from where the drums came, I have no answer. I know only that they have been for all time. There are stories that exist even today. The stories say that the drums lived with the buffalo at one time. I do not know. I am sure there are none today who really know except the drums. You realize my sons, there are old, dusty, almost forgotten songs that call the buffalo by name. He is called with great respect, the most honored name. He is called “Grandfather.”
Before the Grandfathers ruled is a space in time we never speak of. We know nothing of it. We should not flatter or shame ourselves by pretending to know what we do not. Yes my sons, life was pleasant and rewarding in the days of our grandmothers.

Then all too soon Old Age came to stay. They knew without anyone telling them they must make room for you and me. Now Old Age demanded more and more of their attention. Soon he would make them forget their drums entirely. The handsome drums born to make music must inevitably become silent.

You see my sons, this is what comes of Old Age. By many he is greeted graciously and accepted lovingly. In return he is comforting and protecting, promising nothing, yet offering everything. Unhappily by many more, he is rejected in every possible way. They who are guilty of this to do themselves a great injustice, for Old Age can never be rejected. And he will make that one look foolish who appears to dismiss him. It is then that he pulls himself to his full height, and towering over one, he commands respect. It is to be those that he arrives much sooner than they expect, claiming all the senses and robbing all of life.

Tomorrow when he comes, you should say that you are not prepared. You may ask him to be generous with time. Say that you desperately need to make him a place where he will be proud and one that will do him great honor. You must say these things to him, my sons. He is understanding and patient with only those who are understanding and patient with him.

Now remember, my sons, once he moves in, it is poor taste to ask him to move out. He would not, you know, and there is no way to make him. Old Age, proud and haughty warrior that he is, has a secret as most of us do. He admires and envies life. There is nothing greater than his respect for one who cherishes life. My sons, he, never having life, yearns and rewards it. This would be an honorable thing, to have Old Age move aside and wait on you.

Perhaps of all virtues of old age. The best known is wisdom. Only the very wise could foresee the future of the drums. Old Age looks well dressed in mercy. He took pity on the drums and cared for them.

The grandmothers discussed their fate, calling regularly on him for answers. Soon it was decided that the drums should be given away, but not just to anyone. No, they must be given to a special people.
The old ones knew that someone, someday, would need the power of the drums. So

after solemn prayers for guidance, they decided to whom the drums should be given. A few were given away immediately, for there are always those who are in need of such strength. Many more were saved for others who would follow in the footprints of time.

For those to come in the future, the drums were hidden in the shelter of the buffalo robe, because this is where the drums lived in the beginning. The grandmothers, though weakened by years, remembered this and humbly returned them.
My sons, it is important to remember. It is in remembering that our power lies and our future comes. This is the Indian way.

Little ones, the sun has daily searched the skies. The moon has followed, cautiously seeking places the sun, in anxiety, might have overlooked. Continually the earth was scourged by the piercing eyes of empty years. Then finally, one morning when night lifted her arms and tiptoed away, one by one, you came. The sun, realizing who you were, has since slowed his rapid pace and watches you expectantly. The moon has polished the silver shield she carries to guide your moccasined feet in the direction you choose to follow. She has rubbed clean faces for her children, the stars, that one of your might take notice of them.

My sons, I, along with the family whose home is heaven, have waited for you. And now, too, the grandmothers will rest peacefully, knowing you and others like you have finally arrived.

You understand, my sons, the grandmothers have been patient. Time did not control, and if time does not control, time cannot defeat.
They have borrowed these drums from the living soul of yesterday. They have been examined for quality of tone. Their voices are beautiful. Their melody is lasting.

The grandmothers have placed them in your care. They have chosen the warmest place that they might sing their best. My sons, they rest upon your hearts.
Now for a short time the drums are yours. Beat them loudly and clumsily with your youth. For youth has always given them reason to dance in pure delight.

Beat them tenderly and possessively with cautious flings of middle age. For there are long years between childhood and manhood. Years were questions will rise like smoke curling from the ground around you, clouding your vision and threatening to bring tears.

Most of the questions will be answered by careful reasoning. Your tongue will shout the answer. But you will find, my sons, that the most important questions in life cannot be asked. The answer to those dwells in the heart. And as most of our people know, the heart has no tongue.

So my sons, when your steps take longer yet become shorter, when your back becomes bowed from the years you carry, and when the short dark hair that now hugs your head becomes tired gray threads that hang in strands down your back, you must use the drums even then.

With all your energy for their final song, beat the drums lovingly, extracting only the finest notes with all the skill of learned musicians.

/Contemprary Stories by American Indians
Come My Sons by Anna Lee Walters

/posted by rosevoc. 01112017

No Retreat


When you love someone, that love has no limit,
no measure, because you know in your depeest being
that when that love demands sacrifice,
you will give it without question.
You will not look for reasons, for justification –
the act of giving, of sacrificing,
is a natural compulsion, like breathing,
and it will, in the end, surprise you
because you did it without second thoughts.

/an excerpt from VIBORA, a novel
by F. Sionil Jose



For all that has been done and those tasks to continue

I greet everyone a happy holiday season

And though I haven’t blogged a lot due to other chores

I always remember You and the Internet I Share Community

May love and peace reign in us and the whole world!

Joy to the world, the Lord has come!

Happy days ahead – Mwahs.


/photo by padre lucio, rcj