"If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it." Anais Nin
In the realm of ideas everything depends on enthusiasm... in the real world all rests on perseverance.--Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
I find inspiration by disconnecting for a moment from Facebook, Twitter, email, TV, etc. and just observing. It could be something as simple as an exchange between a mother and child, a glance between lovers or a flash of anger on a stranger’s face. The world around me without the filter of the internet is a great source of inspiration.-Tanya TaimangloThe focus of my guest blog post is INSPIRATION. Click here to read more at Shannon's website.
To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour.—William Blake
I dabbled – painting five to six canvases over the last sixteen years, but only in June of this year did I start making an effort to paint. With the exception of one painting, I started painting the seven of eight paintings from this collection in June. I was going to do my Exhibit in April of 2014 but CAHA needed someone to fill a gap in their schedule, and the gallery coordinator knew I had finished several pieces already, so they asked me to fill the gap ---- and I did.
Just oil. Ironically, my first three oil paintings I painted over a decade ago were done with watercolor brushes. I didn’t know the difference between an oil and watercolor brush then. I thought to myself, “I don’t think I should paint, I really can’t control these brushes.” A decade later while living in Seattle, I realized I was using the wrong brushes. That's when I started the painting “Faith and Earthquakes,” still, it would take me nine years before I finished it because I was caught up in law school and had put the painting away.3. Describe your show in one sentence? (or more)
It’s my first true effort to paint so you will see more vibrancy and strong application than I intended. To the audience in general, they will see a dark burst of colors trying to portray Guam in the early 1900s (not Spanish era which most people think).
Good question, my next collection I hope to emulate some poems I wrote a decade ago. The poems have strong imagery. One poem took me a year to write, I guess when I start painting I’ll hit the clock and see which gets done faster and with less challenges.
I don’t. They are like kids, even the ugliest one is just as beautiful as the rest of the children.
I don’t think I could let them go, but I am looking towards keeping them with the local museum or public gallery. I guess I have to practice law for awhile to make ends meet.
Like my novel, I have a passion for the Romantic period and in Guam’s case it would be Spanish era and early 1900s before World War 2. I grew up studying this period while in school, so I always thought there was something always poetic about this period that I want to be a part.
I don’t have a set time.
Chagall is at the top only because he has the most amounts of paintings of one artist that I appreciate. And, now with the recent “find” of lost classic works found in Germany (which contains works not catalogued by Chagall), I am excited. I like William Blake but likely only because he was a Poet and Painter, it’s no insult to say his poems were more prized than his paintings. In some ways, I can understand the essence of his creativity.
You have to believe in the sacrifice you are making because like me all your efforts no matter how genuine and admirable may still have you struggling for your next meal or rent, and the only thing that gets you by is knowing that you know you are doing what you were meant to do.
My father remains in my heart,
Taken six years ago, too soon
I regret that he did not meet his
granddaughter, spunky and tough like him
or watch his grandson evolve,
smart and kind like him
He did not see my mother
flourish in his absence, despite her heavy heart
He did not witness
his daughter find her true calling
or his son carry on his passions
For these reasons I miss him so,
I urge those who have their fathers
To cherish the time you have
Six years later, and I’m still reeling
Regretting, remembering….all the things my father was
and all the things my father did not see
Tedy Gamboa Chargualaf, my latte stone
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The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once.
~Albert Einstein
Scott and Jessie are a couple in love. Ashley, their only daughter, is 17-years old and has vanished; leaving behind nothing but a pool of blood. Her strange disappearance is quickly thought to be a homicide. Her cozy, northwest town is stunned when police find the body of another girl at the bottom of the Willamette River. The eerie signature found on the girl links to a monster dubbed the Hail Mary Killer. While Scott searches for Ashley, the FBI feels convinced that she is the killer’s latest victim.
In spite of three other bodies with the same distinct marking, no one prepared themselves for the discovery in southern Oregon. Local hikers stumble upon a car in the mountain brush and a tattooing needle with an evil history surfaces inside. A cabin appears nearby with another gruesome discovery. Scott finds some solace in his friendship with Father Henry as he and Jessie try to salvage their marriage and move on beyond the loss of Ashley. The FBI finally catches a break when they unearth the dark past of the Hail Mary Killer’s family. What emerged in his basement is more terrifying than anyone could have possibly imagined. What happens to the Miller family and Father Henry will shake your soul and keep you reading till the last page.
Two and a half hours alone…kids are in school(s).
First world problems, wish me luck!
"The romance is chivalrous and fairly chaste which is a refreshing change from the current trend."--Julie
"We accept the love we think we deserve."
"I’d say Scotland. I’d like to learn more about kilts and sip tea in J.K. Rowling’s castle, talk shop with her perhaps and dance to some Celtic jams." Tanya Taimanglo
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Secret Shopper was a fun, interesting book. I loved being immersed in the culture of Guam, a place I know little about--I'm a super dork, I had to wiki, and then spent at least an hour clicking around. Taimanglo did an amazing job of incorporating the language, food, and customs of "a good Chamorro girl" into the story without it reading like a guidebook, even blending in a little of Phoenix's Korean heritage via her mother (I want some Phoenix rice, STAT!).
I was fascinated by what I learned, and I think that the comedic voice really made the culture accessible to the reader; every time Phoenix said "like a good Chamorro," I heard my mother-in-law telling a story about her childhood, always including "like a good Polish girl."
Secret Shopper was funny, sweet, and romantic. I was rooting for Phoenix and Thomas all the way and I think I'll continue to root for them in spirit. I hope to see Taimanglo grow and thrive in the romantic comedy genre--she was definitely spot on with this one!
--Erin Roth, The Indie Bookshelf
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Here's a snippet. "I’m proud to be a geek, nerd, fangirl-- because, I appreciate the need to escape, the need to believe in a hero/heroine who can move mountains, because then it makes us believe that we can do the same. That belief is what fuels my writing. I love creating alternate worlds. I like creating my own heroes. Secret Shopper’s main character is Phoenix Lizama Farmer. Her first name is testament to my geekhood."
Book offers island life references, romance: Chamorro author Tanya Taimanglo's 'Secret Shopper'
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If you've read my book (and three lovely women read it in one day or less--which is good, right?), please support potential interest/sales in SECRET SHOPPER by writing a review and rating it on Amazon. I have one great review, posted below. Much appreciated!
I loved the story simply because it's like you can relate to it. I loved how respectful the author was in language. Probably because of her roots. And "Mufasa" had to have been the funniest for me. I laughed my head off for ever.
I would love to read a series on this.
Two thumbs up to Tanya for such an amazing book!
Sharing the link to Guahan Mommy's blog about a Chamorro custom.
Åmen – a term used with small children when directing them to kiss the hand of an elder.
I participated in this study and I'm happy to share. Check it out! Click on the title below.
ÑORA 2013 : A NEW GENERATION OF MOTHERS AND THEIR EFFORTS TO KEEP TRADITIONS ALIVE.
Jeremiah Clay shelved his songwriting aspirations to become the reluctant apprentice to the family business, Clay and Sons Electrical. With two older brothers who have flown the coop, Jeremiah struggles to balance appeasing his demanding father and his desire to make his music dreams a reality on YouTube, all the while dealing with accusations from viewers that he’s using tricks in his videos to boost his fame.
Jeremiah scrapes on the painted lightning bolt of the Clay and Sons sign on his father’s old van. He taps a steady beat using his guitar pick. The bolt is meant to be the “s” at the end of Sons and the chips of yellow paint scatter to the winds. The sign should read Clay and Son since Jeremiah’s older brothers joined the Navy.
Big Joe, his father, owned the business for forty years, hustling for minor electrical jobs in the tiny town of Saintsville. It’s been a sluggish year, which is why Jordan and Jacob Clay made a run for it. Big Joe’s reluctant blessing was enough for the two to set sail.
Big Joe swats his youngest child’s head. “Jeremiah, what the hell are you doing?”
“Nothing.” Jeremiah laughs, running to the other side of the van. “Stop hitting me on the head, I’m not fifteen.”
“You’re twenty five going on fifteen.” Big Joe chuckles. “When we get back, fish out some yellow paint from the shed.” His father cranks the engine.
“Why?” Jeremiah already knows the answer.
“Freshen up the letters and brighten up our lightning bolt.”
“Can I block off the s in Sons?” Jeremiah plays air guitar and hums a tune.
“No. Your brothers might decide they hate the Navy and come home.”
“Or, they’ll love it and keep away.”
“That hurts.” Big Joe laughs. “They’ll be back.”
Jeremiah playfully drums on his father’s rotund belly. “I wouldn’t count on it Big Joe, it’s just you and me.”
Jeremiah was Clay and Sons’ heir apparent, but he would rather be home strumming his guitar, putting words to paper, weaving melodies. He finally perfected his cover of Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah and is ready to debut it on his very own YouTube channel.
“Hello, my name is Jeremiah Clay. This is my cover of Hallelujah.” Warm winds stream into Jeremiah’s room, making his azure curtains dance. His nerves melt as he sings into the red light on his computer.
Jeremiah reviews the video, when he notices the curtains on screen. He hits pause. There is a smudge near his shoulder. He wipes the screen. He drags the video forward and back and no matter what he does, the smoky smear remains.
Irritated, he plays the song again focusing on his fingering and phrasing. Jeremiah uploads the video and lets the music gods work their magic as he rests.
“Damn, wake up, Jeremiah!” Big Joe stands over his son. He flings a cell phone on the bed. “This stupid gadget has been peeping all night. You left it in my coveralls.”
Wiping the sleep out of his eyes, Jeremiah takes hold of his phone as his father stomps away. His phone pings instantly, which means there’s an email. Then it chirps, which means he has a text. He stands by his window and stretches. He reads the first few texts.
-great creepy video, OMG 3.13
-you rock, I’ve got the hee-b-g-bees
-love your singing, but it’s not Halloween
Jeremiah’s blood feels like it’s draining out of his body. He charges up his laptop, eager to find out what the hell everyone’s talking about.
“Damn it!” His laptop boots up too slow for his eager nerves.
Jeremiah forwards the video to 3.13, but he can’t see anything but the smudge. He throws his hands in the air. “Why can’t I see it? Thirty eight comments?” Jeremiah hungrily scrolls down the comments.
*Dude WTF!
*that’s some scary stuff!
*stop it at 3.13 and you see her face.
*man, this is a hoax, good way to get famous Jeremiah.
*What’s with the girl in the dress?
Jeremiah finally calls his father. He cues up the video from the start. Big Joe pulls his boxers over his belly and watches unimpressed. As the singing progresses, he gives his son a thumbs up. Jeremiah watches the scrolling seconds, when it hits 3.13, his father jumps back.
“Dad, what?!”
“You, hey, did you see that?” Big Joe is tense and slowly turns his head to look behind him. Jeremiah follows suit and sees nothing.
“God, dad, I can’t see crap. What did you see?”
“Ah, maybe it’s nothing, great singing.” Big Joe walks out fast for a three hundred pound man.
“Dad!”
Jeremiah pulls the circle on the video counter back to 3.13 and stares at the screen.
He spends the entire morning reading comments, one after the other talking about a little face, a girl, an apparition. A ghost.
“These people are crazy!” Jeremiah says to his computer. Before this goes viral, he removes the video. He keeps his channel active, determined to try again. He watches Big Joe leave to work without him.
Jeremiah cleans his computer and camera. Sustained by coffee, Jeremiah is eager to get another video posted. He tweaks an original song he’s been working on. He sets up in his living room, bookshelves and mom’s old knickknacks in the background. For good measure, he records a few bars and reviews the video. No smudge this time. No ghosts.
Satisfied, he starts recording, “Hello, this is Jeremiah Clay. This is my original song, Moonbeams and Lightning Bolts.”
My mama used to say I had moonbeams in my pocket
My papa used to say I rode lightning bolts just for fun
My brothers and me took adventures in our rockets
And raced mighty Pegasus to the fiery sun….
Jeremiah plays the video multiple times, scrutinizing everything, watching for errant smudges in the background. Big Joe is back. Has the whole day melted away? Jeremiah wonders.
“Hey, dad want to hear my new song?”
“No!” He says harshly. Big Joe stops and looks at his son, weary. “I mean, maybe later son. I had a long day. I need your help tomorrow for a job, so rest up.” Jeremiah watches him retreat upstairs.
“Shoot, I’m doing it.” Jeremiah says to no one. He uploads the song. He checks on his snoring father and takes a shower.
As Jeremiah towels off, his phone pings. He gets dressed and it chirps. He looks at his reflection in the hazy mirror. He needs to trim his blond hair, maybe get a crew cut so he can match his brothers. Ping. His body tenses. He wants to ignore his phone, but after three pings in a row he bolts to his bed. It’s been thirty minutes since he’s uploaded the song. Seven emails notifying that he has comments on his video.
Jeremiah races downstairs. His laptop is still humming. He sits on the couch, his guitar repulses him for the first time. He refreshes his YouTube page. Seven comments cling to the bottom of his video. He takes a breath and reads.
*I love this song! But, why the special effects?
*You’re so hot, but no need to add scary stuff…
*WTF! Tell me you saw that!
*Girl in a blue dress. Around 2.25.
Jeremiah slams his laptop shut. He paces the living room, stopping to stare on occasion at the backdrop of this last video. “God! Am I in the Twilight Zone?” He opens the computer and it comes to life. He starts Moonbeams and Lightning Bolts. His finger shakes, waiting to pause it at 2.25. Click. Jeremiah brings his face close to the warm screen. He looks at his mouth suspended in mid song, the bookshelves, and the curio cabinet with his late mother’s stuff. He doesn’t see, wait. A milky bubble is near Jeremiah’s ear, small, indistinct. “Why are people seeing a face? What here is a girl in a blue dress?”
Jeremiah wants to respond to the now twelve comments, but doesn’t. Instead, with regret, he removes the video. Seeds of doubt plant in his mind. Maybe music is not for him, maybe he’s destined to just be the lone son in Clay and Sons Electrical.
Jeremiah closes his laptop, the irritating pings on his phone stop. He lifts his guitar like it’s a rare flower. Alone in his room, he mounts it on the wall.
Jeremiah wipes his finger over his guitar. He looks at the fine white dust that has collected in the last three months. He pulls on his blue coveralls, the Clay and Sons lightning bolt logo stitched over his heart. Big Joe waits in the van.
“Where to today?” Jeremiah asks dully.
“Mrs. Jensen. She needs a faulty socket checked out, easy. You could stay home if you like. Play some music, do whatever.” Big Joe watches his son. Jeremiah shrugs and looks out the window.
“It’s okay, let’s go.”
They pull into a nearby housing area. Jeremiah used to ride his bike around these streets. A flash of blue catches his eye and he cranes his neck to a row of trees. Nothing.
The pale yellow home is quaint and a young woman watches from the door. He grabs his toolbox and looks at the two story house. A movement above catches his attention. He sees a little girl just tall enough to peer out the window at him. He waves. She smiles and waves too. She brings a toy panda to the window and makes it wave at Jeremiah as well. He chuckles and follows his father.
“Hello, Mrs. Jensen. I’m Big Joe and this knucklehead is my youngest boy, Jeremiah.”
“Please come in. And please call me Ingrid.”
“Ingrid Hutcherson?” Jeremiah stands at the doorway. She turns, her curly brown hair is just as he remembered. She’s hiding her blue eyes behind square framed glasses, but he knows it’s her.
“Yes. Jeremiah? Hey! I remember you. We were in choir camp, right?” Her eyes alight and she smiles. Jeremiah wants to give her a hug, but he doesn’t want to tramp his dirty boots through her home. He helps his father with his booties and covers his shoes as well. The moment lost, he shakes her hand instead.
“Oh my, I last saw you when we were ten, right?” She says. Her wedding photo catches his eye, perched on a piano.
“Yes. That was the last camp Big Joe ever paid for. He thought I wasted my time with music.” Jeremiah mumbles.
“Not true. You’re talented.”
“Yes, I do recall how great you were.” Ingrid adds.
Big Joe coughs. “Let’s see that burned socket, shall we?”
Jeremiah stops smiling at Ingrid and follows his father.
“It’s upstairs, my daughter’s, um, follow me.” Ingrid rushes up the steps. Jeremiah stays behind his slow moving father as he tackles each step. He peers around his dad and smiles again at Ingrid.
“So, you’re married, I see.” Jeremiah asks finally on the landing.
Ingrid frowns, “No. Not any more.” She wiggles her bare left hand for Jeremiah to see.
“Oh, sorry.” He can’t fight a ray of delight that she’s single.
“This is my, well, this was my daughter’s room.” Was?
The room looks lived in. It’s full of toys, books, pink everywhere. “Do you have another daughter?”
Ingrid looks at Jeremiah, puzzled. She blinks away tears. “No, just one. My daughter, Lanalynn, she died a year ago. It’s silly, but I still light her nightlight every night. Faulty, I guess, burned the socket.” She shows them a smiling moon night light, charred.
“I’m so sorry, about your daughter.” Big Joe glares at Jeremiah. “Let me take a look at the fixture.”
Ingrid stands by the window. Jeremiah is stuck in place. “I’m sorry, Ingrid.”
“Oh, don’t be. She was very sick. I miss her so much. But, after she passed, her dad couldn’t handle it. He’s Navy. We split a few months ago. It’s for the best.” Ingrid fidgets with her phone, then hands it to Jeremiah. “This is Lanalynn. My little Sailor Moonbeam.”
Jeremiah’s mouth goes dry. He stares at the phone screen.
Lanalynn wears a blue sailor dress.
She clutches a toy panda.
Her perfect porcelain face smiles at him.
Fact: I wrote Sirena: A Mermaid Legend from Guam in 2010. Fact: My brother, Sonny Chargualaf is the talented artist behind the imagery. ...
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