About RhB

Philosopher with too much to do, but can't help but think (sometimes over think) and write. A freestyle poet.

A Feast of Peaches

Lush if that is the preference

When before the deity stands

A heart, a soul

A yearning for a forgotten

A timeless, a lifetime’s

Unquenched Memory

A prayer sent, a plea

A bargain, a deal

For grace in groves of peaches

In sweetness, in intoxicating

Rivulets of dreams

before the garden

Before the feast

When we in the company

Of immortals gaze

Into eternity…

RhB 20191408 0815A


I have been reading a lot of amateur novels, fan fictions, and the like. Wattpad, Archive, and the probably defunct LiveJournal are usually where I troll for new stories. There are some great writers among the crowd. And there are some that obviously need more living before they can write in a way that would be engaging to someone like me. I do understand that for a lot of them, they are not English speakers naturally. English is their second language and that’s fine. Those I can definitely understand.

English, for me, was my first language, to read, to speak, to internalize. I was not allowed to speak the tongue of my mother’s land. I must be above the rest. So, English is where I am most proficient. And because I, too, am a prolific reader, my own vocabulary is extensive (although it’s not as extensive as some). Enough so that I was told that when I was angry with the children, I used words that they needed the dictionary for. It seems my regular speech was not precisely normal. It was a little more cultivated. But since I spoke less than I wrote, it was, of course, only natural.

However, going back to the topic at hand, with reading these novels, I learned (still learning) a lot about the writer’s voice, the complexity of telling a story, the descriptions necessary to paint a world, the character’s voices as to how they speak, and how they convey their thoughts. I have learned that an extensive vocabulary is necessary. A grasp of the meaning of the word is necessary. A grasp of the language writing in is necessary. That punctuation and attention to capitalizations and place is necessary. That words and voice and context are necessary.

These authors switch voices most times. They expose things that should have been not seen from a first person’s point of view. Because they are amateur writers, they have not yet learned the consistency of taking one point of view and overruling others. Authors must put heading as to which character’s point of view they’re relating if they speak in the character’s point of view. It appears almost convoluted and frankly, juvenile. Especially when they switch from a first point of view to a third point of view voice so they can relay a scene from afar. Then again some of them are probably 13, with very little life experience, and very little English reading experience.

Most of the time, their speech is modern, stilted, the words wrong in context, etc. I have learned to make sure I understand the word meant. And if not familiar with it, I must research it. Take the word ‘cant’. For me it was the way a person speaks, the vocabulary attributed to a certain microcosm. Or a rant that was peppered heavily with curses. It is what most people would use. Umm… well, I found that wrong. Hah! An almost obscure definition was ‘cause to slant, tilt.’ Huh. Well, that makes sense. Since it was taking about bedroom positions, after all. And the story was told in heavy formal speech, with its often flowery descriptions and old English court speech. I found myself objecting to that very flowery, formal way of writing and describing this whole story. It did not seem to jive with the modern atmosphere in which the story was taking place (current events within the last two years or so). It jarred my sense of place. It did not belong in the modern informal world I knew.

The thing is, a lot of people equate this formal speech with great writing. Is it because the writing is riddled with obscure words and formal tone? Is it because it resembles Shakespearean speech that it is equated like so? Perhaps it works and that’s great, right? Don’t get me wrong, the story was great. I just could not see a modern man tell someone that they’re a catamite as an angry insult. But it certainly went well with the heavy formal speech. It was just jarring to me. Their particular cant was not something I would encounter in this modern era. I do not think that it would even be in their speech patterns since anyone who is not particularly verbose would need a dictionary to know that word.

I now understand why translating dialect into Latinize words gave rise to such as “ain’t” and “would of”, (this latter one should be formally “would have”.) The vernacular surely taints our speech. However, they convey the time of place, in a modern world where this is how spoken language is. A reality of where we are. Where someone can use the expletive “Sonofabitch” and we can understand it. Or even if I typed “sheeeeeet!!!!” you, the reader, would understand in what context that long drawn out word was, because it’s an expletive that is current and understandable and in the modern context. Unlike the word(s) above.

As I learn from amateur writers about the technicality of writing, I find out more about my favored style. I found that instead of relying heavily on descriptions, I rely heavily on conversations. As if the surroundings do not matter so much as the conversations between characters. I give a cursory description of where the surroundings are and focus on the conveyance of emotions from the characters. It isn’t great writing, I confess. But in my mind’s eye, I’m looking at a TV console where the movements and the speech is necessary and the rest are background noise. And because I read other things besides these amateur novels, I also try my hand at crafting a story with different things. How would I tell a story without any conversations? Would I be able to do that? Can I adapt the flowery, formal speech for a modern day romance? Where would I drop the formality and insert the informal speech for it becomes necessary in that part of the story. And while it seems cumbersome to read in the that formal, flowery speech, I found someone stating that I ought to write in that vein more often. What? Now, mind you, that is only one reader. I have yet to follow that direction.

I find that for my own writing, I like the informal speech. Both for the writer’s voice as well as the character’s voice. I have yet to write in the point of view of one of the characters. I have stuck to 3rd person’s point of view, but always being mindful of focusing on one character’s point of view instead of multiple ones. It’s distracting to keep stating “meanwhile…” This does limit what I can show as it means I can only see from this character’s point of view. No matter if the other is really taking a speck out of the eye, the main character whose view I have can only see that it seems as if there may have been a kiss. And based on that point of view and voice, I reason the rest and take them on adventures. It is a difficult thing to do, believe me. As I coddle these characters, I want them to be able to see, to drop hints, to remove any obstacles out of their way. But a story cannot progress as such, no? Without any stress and anticipation for something. Perhaps because I craft other things besides stories do I know about voice and in which context one should write it.

I found that consistency of voice is important, both the author’s and the characters’. A heavy formal tone with heavy prose are best kept for courtly endeavors, I find. Shakespearean plays and what not. Or dramas of heavy gravity. While the more mundane vernacular should be for a fast moving, action packed twister. A modern rom-com should have a more current vernacular-way of talking. At least, that’s what it should be like to me. It makes for an engaging story. And it does not jar the senses.

Then there are the individual readers themselves. Most are authors as well. They go trolling these sites and because of some words or others ask that we take down a word that is of great offense to them. Like rape, murder, or something else. Well. The speech of the story requires the word ‘rape’ instead of ‘forceful violation’ or even ‘molest with intent to force affections’. In fact, it was not even something that happened within the story itself. It was a word that the character had thought because it was something he wanted to do as his desire was too much… He didn’t. But it was a thought. After all, what other word would describe that dirty longing and wish to violate most forcefully an object of their affection? And no one would think of all the words I had just strung together in a second. They would think ‘rape’ because it is in the modern vernacular and it was this speech that my characters were most familiar with. These same readers then would threaten to discredit the story written when the author (me) would refuse. Stating it wasn’t that great a story anyway. And in my mind, “Oh, okay. Sure.” I did not write the story for this specific person after all. And just because it’s something she objects to, is not my problem. I, too, have triggers I would rather not encounter. I haven’t yet successfully written a suicide scene. I have written a rape scene. It is all sorts of emotional and I have not put it out there for the netizens to read and pore through. (Because the story is not yet finished and writing the suicide scene is not exactly going how I want to.) I have not yet written a scene about domestic violence. Nor have I written any stories where deep deviations have featured in them. I find that I’m not very familiar nor comfortable with both at the moment. Perhaps I ought to dig deep and bring out all my emotions and write about them someday. But it won’t be today.

Today, I want to experiment more on stories that have no conversations, only descriptions. Unfortunately, these kind of stories won’t be found under my livejournal page, nor my Archive page. (As for wattpad, I have never posted there yet. I wonder if I ever will.) It is something to bear in my mind.

Perhaps I’ll post them here, someday. When the story is written well, and written to my satisfaction. I have stories that are as of yet, unshared. Why? Because they did not go the way I envisioned them. Unfortunately, quite like my live children, these stories are unruly children. The characters refusing to cooperate. They do not want me to make them the villain of the piece. Or that one particular couple refuses to allow me to describe their bedroom scenes. Is this not a thing that all authors struggle with? How precisely do you whip them into place and let them fit the mold you would adhere to them? Ah… I swear, sometimes, my own creations take me for a ride. And then abandon me on the road to discovery stating they do not want me to go any further than that. Ugh.

I will go and corral my unruly children. At the moment, I must negotiate and perhaps plead. Do not think to highly of this author. This author is not above prostrating herself before her unruly characters. And even then, spoiled children that they are, they ignore my pain.

Birding Around

On a hot Saturday, since it is summer, this was in the backyard.

It huddled alone among the dead weeds on the parched land. What in the world? A white crow? Co siders g all the stress I was having I wondered if it was a sign from above. Black crows are a harbinger of death. White crows… who knows.

Well….It is a little egret. Not a big heron like the ones that soar majestically above our heads as they gracefully land into the river behind our house. Nope. It is small. This one hopped around even with the noise of the weeder going. I figured something was wrong with it. It couldn’t fly away.

We caught it. It is currently resting in the tub. Here is my dilemma. There are no Audubon wildlife society clinics here. There are no vets designated for wild birds here. There are no wildlife rehabilitators anywhere near here. And the Department of Fish and Game? Not picking up their phones. What the hell are we gonna do?

We plan to release the bird into a sanctuary. After it rests, that is. We have to go and buy small gold fishes for it for now. At the very least, we have nearby sanctuaries where the bird can have places to hide, a place to find grub and drink. And let nature take its course to heal it. We hope. Because we can see no visible injury. It just can’t fly. And we have currently no one to guide us.

Update: bird was released into the Delta. Or at least a place near the Delta called The Reserve. It’s by a golf course so it is pretty well protected. There are places it can hide, it’s near water and it has plenty of grub. Everything the bird needs to give it a chance.


There used to be motion

Endless notions


Stirrings of everything

That could have been possible

There used to be flowing

Between ideas and creation

Wafting of verdant imagination

Of tales untold bursting

At straining seams

Then life took hold of limited space

Filled with responsibilities

And upward mobilities

Social climbing

Regardless of rising ages

And failing faculties

And at this pinnacle

Or deep deep valley

Standing still or sitting

The air is still,



Like the flow of ideas

And gravitational motivation





0412P 20190701 RhB

New York State of Mind

I read somewhere that a travel story should have a ‘story’. Something that connects the whole thing. A comprehensive thing. A quest… things noted… things observed… things… well… that and a whole lot more.

The problem was, I went to NY with no goal in mind except to see the city. No clue how to do it. And the reasons for it was even not mine. Geo was having a milestone birthday and NYC was cheap at the time he had gone looking.

On the first night there, dinner needed to be secured. That was five long blocks from our hotel on 55th – the Carvi Hotel – to where these halal guys were (that’s what they were really called – The Halal Guys!). I was tired and hungry. I could have happily taken a bag of food back to our hotel from one of the eateries near the place. And then plopped down on the bed and slept. (The food was delicious! Worth the long line! And pretty cheap!!!!)

Then he asked what my list was in the things I wanted to see in NYC. The lady was out of the question as it requires reservations months and months ahead. However, I still wanted to see her. Even if it’s faraway. As long as a glimpse of the lady was seen.

So my list went like this: The lady, the bull, Wall street, Central Park (Alice, castle, Imagine), 30 Rock, Prometheus, ice skating in front of 30 Rock, Brooklyn Bridge, 911 memorial, Times Square, Grand Central Station. Jelle added that I ought to taste NYC pizza and hotdogs.

What did I know of any of them? Nothing. Not one darn thing. Did not read up on them except superficially. I had no time since I was too busy.

We walked to 30 Rock the night we landed, after the halal guys. And found Prometheus. In front of the skating rink we never set foot on. (Another day). We also went looking for Atlas on the other side of the Rockefeller building, in front of the church – St. Patrick’s. Since it was Sunday and I missed the service, I asked to go in to pray.

It was a bit difficult as Geo liked to talk and kept regaling me with the shallow history of the place as compared to even the churches in Italy. All I wanted was to be able to bow my head, feel the peace of the place, and let the prayer in my heart burst forth. I finally asked quietly if I could take a few seconds to pray. And finally left alone to my thoughts, I prayed. So, this was New York City.

Prayer done, we walked the length of 5th avenue, as he pointed out landmarks in case I got lost. It was a teeming city and probably very easy to get lost in. I suppose I could always turn on google maps and it would take me back to home base. But this author’s ears were like a channel. In one ear and out the other. Nothing was sticking to my tired brain.

The next day, he took me to see the lady. Our first stop was metro passes. He again wished we had gotten the unlimited option when we had gotten off the plane. I would so recommend it. Still, he filled our metro cards with $30 each.

We got off on Battery Park and walked up. So this was Battery Park. Huh. Not really much to look at. But there was a hotdog cart, Nathans. $7?!?! For a hotdog? Seriously? George laughed and said, “Should have just bought the $5.00 one from the airport. That one came with a drink.” I shook my head and sighed. No New York hotdog for me I guess if they cost that much!

We took the Staten Island ferry to see the lady, and took another ferry back right away. We weren’t the only ones rushing to the other ferry either! It seemed like we were part of a herd. Even one passenger had a self-deprecating laugh about it. “I thought I was the only one who knew about this,” he laughed as he kept pace with us. We got in just in the nick of time. The ferry employees were about to close the gates, much to their amusement, as they cut the herd in half.

Back on ground, we walked to the bull and touched its considerable masculinity. “This didn’t use to be such an attraction. Now, there are so many people here,” he reminisced.

“I thought he’d be in front of the NYSE,” I muttered. My tour guide laughed and told me that the artist dropped it off in the middle of Wall Street in the dead of night..

After some photos, we walked the length of Wall Street to see NYSE… as well as Federal Hall with Geo Washington guarding it. Apparently, New York City was the birthplace of the United States.

Dusk had fallen and the light show was starting. It’s usually when the city comes to life. Rivers of light spread before us, opening one section at a time. We took time to allow my feet some rest. And Geo to take pictures. Then we followed a well worn path towards the tavern where the Declaration was signed. And could not find it. And we walked towards another destination. The Stark white Oculus came into view (I told Geo it looked like a big female genitalia from my standpoint. He laughed.) and next to that, one Peace plaza. Then the two waterfalls…

And again I heard legends from my whispering tour guide. “You know, there’s a hole for each person that died,” he said. “So this memorial is supposed to represent their endless tears.”

Huh? Oh. Each hole where the water gushes out of represents one person that died in the 911 attack. I see.

It was the 2nd day that had me swearing to find more comfortable shoes to pack next time. Shoes to walk in 24 hours of the day because that’s what it seemed like we were doing. Early in the morning, we walked. We walked fast. Like the business people weaving their way around tourists and others too slow. We stopped to pick up a bagel and coffee from a cart vendor.

“They’re only here around this time. 5AM until maybe 10. After that, you’ll see the lunch carts,” he said. The bagels were still a buck fifty, like he remembered from years ago. And the coffee? $1. Cheap breakfast in a city that thrives on making things expensive. Except… I’m used to getting my bagel toasted.

We got in line for standby tickets at 30 Rock. For Seth Meyers. (Yes, we did get in to see the show. But that’s another tale entirely.) And once we secured our tickets for tickets, we went on our way. To Grand Central Station.

“There’s a place here where if you talk to the corner, the person in the other corner will hear you,” my guide said.

“Really?” I said. “And you know where this corner is?”

“It was during the prohibition,” he continued his story. “The wine harkers would have a lookout for the police and that was how they used that to warn the others when police was coming. I still haven’t found it though.”

In my mind, it would probably have to be somewhere near the food court then. But what do I know? I’m not the guide and more than once, I can attest that I know nothing and he can definitely prove it. So I let him lead me to where he thought it would be. Although it seemed a little strange to me since it was by ateliers and boutiques more than food. At just that moment, two guide workers came by and laughed.

“You can’t do that here,” the man said.

The woman came and said, “Oi, you don’t wanna do that here! People be thinking some crazy woman is talking to the corner!”

“You know what we’re trying to do?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, but it’s not there,” the man said.

“Would you know where it is?” I asked.

“Down by the food court. You go straight this way and turn left,” the lady instructed.

I thanked them profusely for their care of my reputation and for the information.

I laughed at George and we walked down towards the direction they said. And lo and behold, there it was. A four cornered marble arched way before the food court. And we’re not the only one who knew of it. There were others there, testing this phenomenon. Of course, we too, tried it. We faced two opposite corners and spoke to each other, marveling how clear we both sounded and that the other opposite corners could not hear our conversation as well, nor could we hear theirs. Though for something so remarkable, I’m surprised not too many people were lined up trying this. A smattering at the most.

From there, we went to the NYC library. And didn’t stay. My guide knew nothing of the library and didn’t really want to know, I suppose. So we went looking for a subway.

“Look for a structure with green balls,” he instructed.

I saw it, the balls.

“Balls,” I said, pointing to a wall.

Plastered to what seemed like the wall of the NYC’s library’s right side. Either he didn’t hear me or he dismissed those balls. They were green and white. He continued looking all around the area of the four corner crossing. I saw people entering the wall. And getting out of it.

“Hey,” I finally said, louder. “Is it that one?”


“Behind us. People were going in and getting out of it,” I said.

He looked up and saw the green and white balls from the ornate fencing posts.

“That’s it! I told you, didn’t I? Green balls? Sometimes its green and white,” he said, marching off to the subway. “Sometimes, it’s red also.”

Uh-huh. So subway entrances are built into the buildings and they look like they’re part of the building. They’re signaled by balls. Hmmm… This is NYC.

We got off at the Brooklyn Bridge. What did I know of the bridge? Only that it is one of the most sold read “scammed” bridges in the US.

“It was completed by a woman,” my tour guide told me. “They got the name caisson’s disease from diving deep down and they didn’t understand the bends at that time. The architect died of the bends, then his son died for the same reasons, and I think the original architect’s wife was the one that completed the bridge. This was before they understood that a person needs to decompress slowly.” (He was wrong. It was the son’s wife that completed the bridge.)

I pointed out that a plaque by Tiffany had a grammatical error.

We walked across the bridge and at the end, turned around. We marveled at the webbing effect the wires made when we photograph the bridge at a certain angle.

I marveled at the people. I marveled at the fact that I was walking across wooden planks right on top of the car traffic below as they zoomed on by. He spoke of DUMBO. And that we could probably walk to there. (We left that for another day. It was lunch time, I was hungry and we still needed to get back to 30 rock before 3:30 – I thought.)

On our way out of the bridge, we met a couple (both male), dressed to the nines, holding hands, with boutonnieres on their black suit jackets. I smiled and called out, “Congratulations!” The groom closest to me answered with a smile, “Thanks!”

George sidled close to me and asked, “What did you say to them?”

“I said congratulations,” I replied.


“They just got married,” I said.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

Was it not obvious to him? Two men in suits with white dress shirts, holding hands, a red rose boutonniere on both of their lapels… obvious! They just got hitched. But I think it was just obvious to me.

We went to Times square and walked the length of it, just as the sun was about to go down. And it was a lively venue. We ate dirty water hotdogs and pretzels. We walked around Broadway and found the venues for the musicals. So that was Times Square.

“Why do you think they call it Times Square?” he asked.

“I’m thinking because once upon a time, one of the buildings was owned by the NY Times?”

“Good guess!” he said. “That was the New York Times headquarters.” He pointed to a building standing on the tip of a triangular strip of land.

He went on to tell me about the New Year’s ball dropping and just how big this ball happens to be from the ground. It wasn’t big at all. And glory of all glories! It was there! High up on the tower! Just not lit up.

Times Square was full of people. People in costumes. Pikachu, Iron Man, Mickey… etc. Characters anyone would know. There was also a man dressed like the Statue of Liberty. They expected payment for a picture with them. There were shoppers there as well, since up and down the street were shops of every kind. Up above the shops were adverts in neon and LED TVs. Marquees and street signs. And I didn’t even realize I was chomping down on a dirty water hotdog ($4 for a fingerling thin tube of meat wrapped in a regulation sized bun- no soda) right under the Hard Rock café’s guitar neon sign.

There were street cleaners complete with dustpan and broom. It was like a carnival.

“It wasn’t like this before,” he said. “There were lots of shops of the baser nature kind. Hookers on every turn. It’s like the red light district in San Francisco. And many vagrants. It smelled of urine and human waste.”

“Looks pretty nice now,” I said.

“Guiliani cleaned it up,” he said.

The New York Metropolitan Museum was another adventure. Feet aching, all day venturing edventure. We took advantage of the many free guided tours to learn about the many offerings that it has. The one that truly captured his attention was the European painters. Gaugin, Van Gogh to name the two I knew. There was a sculpture of a girl in a tutu on the cover of something and he pointed to it. “Who did that?” I answered ,”Degas.” And I was correct. Well, then. I guess I knew something about some art.

I treated him to lunch at the museum cafeteria. Salmon for him. Pasta for me. Not quite what I would have given the birthday boy, but my feet were hurting and I didn’t care. There should have been noodles for long life and a cake for a sweet life. Ah, perhaps another year.

Then we went to check out the last tour we could go on. The Egyptian tombs. I would rather wait until a Luxor Cruise came around or something. He and I followed behind the guide, him taking pictures and I listening with half an ear and I was watching for a place to sit. No matter where we were, I was looking to relieve my feet. They ached.

I had stupidly told him about Alice which was in Central Park. That and the Imagine mosaic in the strawberry fields. And a castle. So, we walked. To find Alice in twilight. At the very least, he had a good camera that will capture me and the Mad Hatter even in twilight.

He smoked until someone told him he is not allowed to smoke in the park. Huh. Apparently, you can be cited for it. Hmmm.

We walked on and found Alice. Yes, my feet hurt. We’re not the only one looking for Alice it seemed. There was another couple there. I took their pictures for them.

We walked on inside the Park. And found Hans Christian Andersen. I needed a photo op with him, of course. He was my hero once upon a time.

The boat house is where we stopped. And we shared a Snickers bar and water.

And we contemplated the evening. Then he consulted his phone and looked for the subway. In my infantile mind I asked, ‘Couldn’t we go back where we came from?’

“We can walk across Central Park and there’s one right there,” he said.

So we did. And we walked. And we walked. Did I not complain of aching feet?

The lights started to flicker on across the city.

When we had crossed to where the street was on Central Park West, we kept walking until we reached 72ndavenue.

“John Lennon lived here in one of these buildings,” he said.

We stopped at a park bench along the street.

“Your Imagine is down there, wanna go see it?”

I looked at him and said, “No. Another time. In fact, I’ll just imagine it. My feet hurts too much.”

We had pizza. Nothing to write home about.

We went to see a Broadway play. Chicago. He was disappointed. I enjoyed it. But I think Cats would have been better.

New York wasn’t really about the tourist things we did. It was of George reminiscing about how the city has changed.

“Central Park wasn’t lit up before. It was so dark there once upon a time. There were no path lights like you saw,” he said.

We decided to go and drink at the lounge at 30 Rock. And there we were, Top of the Rock, with that one of a kind view.

“You can’t see Central Park from the Chrysler or the Empire State Building,” he said. “30 Rock blocks it.”

We paid the price of the drink. Not the $35.00 per person it was going to be charging us if all we wanted was to see the view. A little alcohol in you some wind, and a place to kind of sit a bit, it helps.

Upon arriving at our hotel, the concierge was talking to a couple.

“Is it safe here, though?” the man was asking.

“Well, yes. Relatively,” the concierge prevaricated.

I wanted to laugh. New York is a safe city. It’s as safe as San Francisco, or Sacramento. Or Davis for that matter. It’s as safe as Beijing. The thing is, anywhere is pretty safe. It can also be dangerous. I’m sure there was a pickpocket eyeing me somewhere. I just was with George all the time.

“I still haven’t seen the flat iron building,” he said. “And I’ve been here a lot.”

We haven’t seen DUMBO either, nor did we get to Joe’s Pizza or Katz for their $20 sandwiches. Nor did we go to the top of the Chrysler building, the Met Life building, or One Peace Plaza (the tower). The Statue may have to wait a few more years. And Ellis Island as well. The Museum of Natural History, too. And MOMA, although George said he doesn’t really care for it. Even though his Starry Night is housed in MOMA. Van Gogh if anyone was interested. The library would have been nice to explore, I think. It has a treasure trove of art.

As in many things… we will leave it for another day. Another trip. One of these days, those will be the first priority on our list. This trip… we had other items on the agenda. I really needed to touch some bronze bull balls and walk my feet off. The last part was Geo’s agenda. I was hoping for more leisurely walks, not the marathon we seem to do during vacations. Perhaps next time.