Own IT, Lovely

I hope someday I will make it out of my doubts,

Even if it takes a few nights or a few thousand years.

I hope one day I can take care of my family and fight the beginnings and ends of all my fears.

Until I stand tall, skin and bones, underneath the sun, up against the wind,

One day I will make it.

Even if I’m broken to pieces, shredded finely to dust, at least I know

I will find myself.

And you, can you really say what it means, “To be Free?”

I will attain my own happiness, to become the woman I was meant to be.

Take your influence, take your judgment.

I am light as a feather, darling.

Till skin and bones, till dust and damned.

No one can touch me.

For I have been taken by the wind,

I am my own.

Isn’t it lovely?


Lindsay Reva


Pray Harder.

Please Please, PLEASE…

She prayed on her knees and despite the pain in her legs from kneeling so long on the hard concrete floor and the drops of tears which collected in a small blotted puddle right in front of her, she continued to pray as if her life depending on it. They always whispered in the streets that great souls were only created in great sorrow.

People in the church passed by the light-skinned girl with dark eyes and wondered what could have caused such beauty so much pain. There was something wrong about seeing a freshly bloomed rose, snapped in half and left in the dirt. If she had been ugly they might have given her a mere glance, but even in the church’s dimness, she was a beacon of light. A brightness that really had nothing to do with how many shadows were cast down around her. The old men staring assumed it was a broken heart by a flesh thirsty boy. The women assumed her dreams were taken from her, in the form of a handsome flesh thirsty boy. How wrong a thousand perspectives could be all at once.

Please Please, PLEASE!, on and on the voice in her being sang.

Hours passed and she stood her ground. People left and people came. Everyone knew her, most dared not interrupt. After all, she was in conversation with someone far more powerful than the rulers of their little town of fewer than 1000 people.

After the first hour, her sobbing stopped. But it wasn’t until the third hour that her eyes were completely dry. Water ran until there was no more. Some children went so far as to touch the end of her hemmed dress. Daring, and yet scared as their tiny little hands caressed an off-white cotton cloth that had been worn far more than should. They called her possessed and tainted before they ran back outside to continue their carefree and havoc-filled play. They were young and understood nothing. Still, she gave no sign of hearing their shrieks. On she prayed. Maybe even harder. The streets outside were bright, and noisy with the main market square just outside of the church. Filled to the brim with life, the town moved with its occupants like a breath in and out. Morning came and in they rushed, the night arrived and out they fled, only a few straggling mots of beings left behind. In a few minutes, the fisherman would be back with their catch of the day, and the women would begin their haggle over a decent fish and an equally decent price. If they were lucky, they would exchange for a favor. In the town square, the church was the pinnacle with its plain but stern cross facing to the West, where the travelers would pour in from old wooden ships. Sometimes they came with goods and treasures. Most of the times with just stories and possibilities of influencing the dreamers. As their captains sailed up to its shores, they spied the cross and felt rather than knew, they had reached God’s hands.

Surrounding the church was a small schoolyard, bookstore, house of herbs, and a place to buy fabrics, the same store which the sad girl had chosen her dresses now stained and worn down material. A present from her deceased mother.

Kasminia prayed with all her energy for the one thing she never had. Till she was skin and bones.

God, please make me beautiful inside.

Beautiful inside… What did it matter to be beautiful inside, if you were cut like fine crystal on the outside? Who would be able to tell except yourself? And even so, no one was perfect. Right?…

She prayed as she remembered the day her mother died with the words on her lips, You girl, are an empty shell. It had struck her immediately but only reverberated in her mind months and months after because she realized that if her mother had used her last strength to send out a curse of an observation, then it must be so. Was she an empty shell? Kasminia carefully watched the other beautiful ones in the village and listened to the words they spoke, how hollow their laughter rings, and how wicked their hearts sang when you truly understood them. It scared her even more that she could understand them. She finally reflected, yes Mother, you were right, we are empty shells.

With this accusation ringing in her years, she tried and tried to correct herself. Studying harder, loving unselfishly, giving until she had nothing. But still, the simple sentence haunted her every thought until she realized that she was trying her hardest to prove the ghost of her mother wrong, instead of simply doing what she thought was the right thing to do; To be good. To be beautiful deep in the recesses on one’s heart not because she wanted to prove her mother wrong, but because she believed.

The sun was lit in the sky burnished with a Sienna glow and Kasminia walked through the large wooden doors which took two men to open every day and decided that she would stop forcing herself and do the only thing she hadn’t tried. She prayed.

No one was left when the beautiful beam of light rose from her shaky bruised knees and walked home in the black of night. No one would see her as she eventually walked to the West with a change of clothes and bread to eat. No one would see the smile on her face when finally she found her answer. No one would ever remember her for her complexion and almond shaped eyes. They would only remember the beauty they felt in their heart when they were with her.

Dear God, thank you. You only heal me.

50 years later in Calcutta India, a fisherman went up to Mother Theresa and made a simple remark that might have confused others.

” Mother, I once knew a girl beautiful in everything she did, from a small village protected by God. She disappeared but when I look into your eyes, I see her.”

The old women smiled and silently let the words turn over, deep in the ashes of her remembrances. You girl, are an empty shell.

No mother, I am God’s beautiful one. Now be gone in peace.


Lindsay Reva

Shadows Blooming

Kiss me on my lips.

Pull my hair;

Anything, as long as I know

Somewhere in your life’s heart beat

There’s a single note of me

To prove a part of you cares.

I am rivers and I am mountains

So why do you stare

As if my existence were the last trickle

From a dried up fountain?

I saw a pink plumeria bloom

Deep in the shadows.

It gave me hope

That one day I could escape

From the beauty of your hollows.

Unraveled unrolled systematic furlough.

The curve of your neck,

Imagining my hands soothing

Every single one of your ticks.

How I’ve tried every single one of my tricks

But I am love-red

You are blue- dead.

Polar opposites, different prospects

In the end does it really matter?

Even if you despise me

You are not mine,

But I’m forever yours.

We are not together,

But when you’re around,

Fulfillment, lust, by wings outstretched

I soar.


Lindsay Reva


Do you miss me?


Oh… That sort of hurts.

It shouldn’t. Because I don’t miss you.

I fiend for you. Remembering the beauty mark above the curve of your lip drives me over the edge. The way your cheeks become two small roses after we make love. How you wash me down cleaner than snow underneath the shower. When we’re in the dark and you please me until I can take it no longer. The sensuality in one simple kiss. The way you feed me, even though I can feed myself. The way you smile at me with your lips. The way you smile at me with your eyes. How smooth your skin feels compared to everyone else. How light you make me feel within your arms. How heavy my heart sinks when you whisper all of your secrets. You could make me cry, not one single drop would be pain. How your fingertip makes me fly. One look and I forget the days I had once prayed to die. We fit, not like a puzzle, more like a blood diamond forever set in titanium metal. Your tongue on my skin, shoots through me like riptides and rapids. When you walk away, I sink like concrete bricks in the sea. Straight to the bottom of the ocean. If it were the contrary, I’m high. An eagle flying, the freest of animals in the blue sky. Intoxication comes with the sound of your laugh. If you were besides me, my hands would be on you. If you were in the same room, my eyes would touch you. If we were in the same building, my mind would never let you go. And yet… you left me despite that I fiend for you, biting the bullet, wishing it weren’t so.

So no. I don’t miss you. I’d have to empty my heart for that to happen. But baby, I need you.



Lindsay Reva

All About That Island Ball Hype

Thank you 2018, NEXT!

Let’s Ring In The New Year By Taking A Walk Into The Blue Lagoon

  • Award Ceremony
  • Photo Ops
  • Polynesian Dancers
  • Endless Entertainment
  • San Diego’s Hottest DJs
  • 1st Class Cuisine-Four Course Meal
  • Midnight Celebration & Champagne Toast
  • Party Favors
  • Decadent Dessert Bar by The SUGAMAMA

Cocktail hour begins at 6:30 PM and dinner will be served at 7:30 PM. Entertainment will begin as soon as the doors open. If you’re late, I will certainly eat your appetizers for you.

Celebrate the night with live entertainment and a twist of the Islands that will leave you feeling like you’ve just stepped foot in the blue lagoons. With fine dining and music lasting into the very first hours of 2019, we are going to have a BALL! Dress code is not enforced but please dress to impress especially with the theme of the year, WALK INTO THE BLUE LAGOON (Formal/Semi-Formal/Island Attire).

For questions please contact us at (858)863-7008 or send an email to Revatahitiproduction@gmail.com.

Or visit our website at REVAevent.com


What are my transportation/parking options for getting to and from the event?

If you are staying at the hotel Please visit revaevent.com for a special block code. Overnight parking is included with room bookings. If you are not staying over, please use Uber or Lyft so you can really enjoy that champagne toast!

What can I bring into the event?

Your smile and the ones you love most. This is a carefree event. Leave your baggage at home.

Who is the Award Ceremony for?

Every year we choose people or organization who have given back to the Pacific Islander Community, through outreach, scholarships, or culture. This year two nominees have been chosen; Tatau Brand Clothing and Kiki Solia.

How can I contact the organizer with any questions?

Feel free to email revatahitiproduction@gmail.com. Lindsay will reply to you within 24hrs.

What’s the refund policy?

Girrrrlll you better stop playing. NO REFUND; WE’RE STUCK TOGETHER LIKE HAWAIIAN POE.

Do I have to bring my printed ticket to the event?

Your name will be on a guest list but it is always recommended to have proof of purchase.

Can I update my registration information?

Yes, just contact Lindsay at revatahitiproduction@gmail.com

Is my registration fee or ticket transferrable?

It is. Because there will be a seating chart, just let us know as soon as possible about the name changes.

Is it ok if the name on my ticket or registration doesn’t match the person who attends?

We will honor the ticket at the door but just know, if two Jr.’s show up, somebody’s getting the boot. However, we know that our guests are honorable to the highest degree. So if you have to make any changes concerning the ticket holders information or a mistake has been made, even if it’s an hour before show time, just give us a call at (858)863-7008. We won’t bite. Unless you bite us first.

What should I expect?

This New Year’s Eve, every single guest attending will have their happiness blossom just like that of an exquisite Tiare Tahiti flower who shines in a perfect ray of light.

2019, you better be ready for us.

See you on the dance floor, mermaid lovers!


Island Ball
Aimee Cebreros, Miss Heiva SD 2017 knows whatsup.



When you throw out the trash, you don’t go back to check on it.

So stop stalking your ex.


Lindsay Reva


The Road Home

They weren’t sure what started the fire. All that was left was a tiny mirror which no one could claim, the occupant was nothing but ashes, as was the wooden cross which had hung for thousands of years on the same burnt and fallen walls. The sisters would pray until told otherwise. Mother would decide how to handle the ceremony eventually, even if she didn’t always agree with the now deceased… A fire was always a bad sign in their eyes. It brought fear in their young hearts and represented the devil. But after every evil, came faith. So as always, they prayed.

Queen of the clouds, it was easy for her to dream. So she dreamt as if they were past lives that only now she remembered.

She had walked a thousand miles. To the Dead Sea, throughout India, in and out of borders, under bridges, wearing a smile that said, I climbed the Great Wall. She dreamt about her walks throughout life and rarely cared about the move too sudden which was bound to come and force her to slip and stumble downwards. Maybe imbalance would be her final fall. Maybe not. After all, she had a strut that could never have been called clumsy or uncertain. Life was her catwalk.

A thousand and one miles walked, men and women she went collecting. Careers were always changing. She fell in love with one man. She slept with hundreds. Eventually, she fell in love with two women. Until she realized that there were some men who could be just as soft, just as hard as her lovely Maria with the long thick auburn hair. A famous actor loved her once he found out he had finally run out of money. Too bad for him that she had a tendency to look more expensive than anyone in a room despite how empty her pockets were, like the womb of a virgin. She fell in love with a priest at a monastery that stretched over the edge of a mountain over the Baltic Sea. It was something she couldn’t have, so she wanted it even more. In return, the priest thought she was the devil, one that he would have died for despite his vows. She had three husbands, two divorced and one lost. If you had known him, the lost bit wouldn’t have surprised you. Some people could never be found, even when they sat right in front of you. She entered a covenant to be a nun when she was at her peak in beauty. Then she realized there were no mirrors that hung on the walls of their modest housing, and Mother confiscated her pocket mirror that had been a present from her older sister Talia. So she ran far away, doing everything in her power to steal back her tiny little mirror. She didn’t think God would agree that she couldn’t appreciate what He had given her. On the contrary, every day was a blessing when she rose from her bed in the morning, stretching like a cat kissed by the sun. Sometimes she was alone. Other times she was a host of other people’s feelings.

She walked a thousand and two miles, and throughout her journeys, she realized that she had a gift. To please others. Sometimes all it took was a kiss on their foreheads, maybe even on the lips. It always took her eyes of course. But that was easy for her. People had to see the fire in the depths of her eyes to feel everything. That one would never go out. She could burn with life, and the people who were surrounded with death and doubt, bores and lameness, absolutely fiend for her heated reflections of everyday toil. They needed to see her believe behind her big clear eyes.

She walked one thousand and three miles and never gave up no matter how many new demons crossed her. She made many mistakes, breaking her own heart as well as the hearts of others. They would never turn their back on her despite her flaws, she wouldn’t have had it. In Temple ruins, singing at the top of her lungs, villagers feared her. At airports, people wondered about her for being barefoot. When she was tired she slept anywhere and everywhere. After 3 am it was highly advised to stay away from her unless you were her lover. Then you couldn’t help but hold her in your arms and pretend it was you that made her warm, although she alone produced her own fuel.

She walked a thousand and four miles and the strength in her cheekbones, the beauty in the curve of her jaw seemed to continue deeper, like the forest she would be lost in, like the fires she built over and over. Even in the dirty swamps, she was fine and clean. Her skin was always clear and it matched her spirit.

She walked a thousand and five miles until a lone feather from above came floating down as she lay in a lavender field naked with her new lover. She smiled as she caught it between her fingers and used it to trail a new path from his navel to his collarbone. He felt lucky as she kissed his neck and didn’t care about where the feather had come from. She believed it could only have come from a special place, higher than he would ever conceive. Her belief was their release.

She walked a thousand and six miles and wondered if the slowness in her pace meant she was finally getting tired. Then she remembered when they took away her pocket mirror. Refusing to believe that things are as they should be, she remembered. Life was as you created it to be, and her fire continued to blaze.

She walked a thousand and seven miles in an arctic land where everyone seemed cold, untouchable. But she knew looks were always deceiving. Especially when one wasn’t ready to break the first layer of ice. Lucky for them she knew how to build a fire.

The trail she left burned in their hearts and she continued on to one thousand and eight miles until she thought she had found perfection in another human beings smiles. It was almost beautiful how they could not speak one word of the same language but instead used their bodies to exchange everything they needed to know about one another. Their last touch was the tips of their noses and forest burned in the rings of their pupils when they exchanged the very last glance.

She walked on and on, one thousand and nine miles straight into desert badlands where people told her to stay away from. She laughed at them secretly when she met the rulers and was invited to sip mint teas and offerings of dried fruit, bread and spicy sauces. A man wearing a turban came up quickly behind her and swiftly placed a jade necklace tightly around her thin and wrinkled neck. She did not turn to look into his eyes but instead took his hands and kissed them gently in the center of each palm. They felt how she could burn when she chose her path. They wanted to feel the warmth of her fire. The heat was amazing when you weren’t close enough to be hurt.

She walked one thousand and ten miles and finally burnt a city down. At least that’s how she felt when she realized that she was walking her last path. The faces of all her lover and friends swept in and out of her cataract dulled eyes and the wind carried in the many smells of lands she had conquered. Her last step led to a small crooked covenant that long ago she herself had scorned. The mother was gone but her spirit was still apparent in the new Mother predecessor. No mirrors hung on the walls as a rule. Whispers and the chirps of birds were dominant. She found peace finally, but every once in a while she slid the large wooden cross which hung above her sleeping mat and took a tiny pocket mirror hidden in the wall to see the woman who she had become. Her hair was coarse, white, and her wrinkles ran like rivers and streams all over her body. Only her eyes were untouchable. Fire rose, like buildings licked by blue flames. Her path would never again alter and she would die in the tiny room many years later. With her fuel, all it took was one spark.

Her fire would forever burn, thousands and thousands of miles later.


Lindsay Reva


A Lovers Stargaze

She loved sitting at the back of a ship.

The sun never felt too strong there and she liked it when her hairs escaped from her bun and flew in front of her vision of the deep open seas. No matter what she did to secure them, the wind would always have its way.

Sometimes she starred up into the skies and pretended the clouds were hieroglyphs that hadn’t yet been decoded. Messages, she believed were written all over the skies, but no one had the time to decipher them. She certainly didn’t either. Still, she pretended. Some clouds made her feel lonely, other made her feel light. So light she wished she were nothing but a floating speck in the center of the cloud instead of a small girl who sat on the back of a huge cruise ship.

The other cruisers wondered about her. Some of the men tried their luck to kiss her. She was too busy trying to read the clouds and wait until the rest of the passengers went to sleep. With nothing to do on the massive cruise ship, this was her favorite time of the day. Pitch black, not a soul in sight, and surrounded by the open sea. The stars dazzled her. Especially because she knew there was nothing like it back home where she would eventually have to go. Pollution and distractions of everyday life clouded the nighttime skies where she was from. Clarity was rare when your thoughts were going a thousand miles per hour but there on the boat, it was a slow tug through the parting waters. Inch by inch, wave after wave.

So every night when the last drunk man had stumbled into his bed, unlucky with ladies and equally in roulettes, she could be found in a sun chair sitting underneath a blanket of brilliant stars in the early hours of the Atlantic Ocean.

She cuddled herself with an oversized coat and tried to piece together her life with the shapes of the constellations above. An I became apparent and she thought about how selfish she was no matter how much she tried to give herself to everyone who asked. She thought she saw a faint heart and remembered that no matter how much she preached love, her own had far too many hues of black and blues. Bruised and in the shadows. A shooting star razed a path and she remembered that her path must always fade, no matter how hard she wished it to burn brighter and brighter. If only we were made to be brilliant forever, she whispered. If only she had the capacity to shine like the stars in their constellations.

The small girl inhaled the wind and waited patiently for the early birds heading to the buffet to rattle her peace, and also until the stars were taken by the devil of dawn. One by one, meaning after meaning. Mouth after mouth.

She smiled in the silence. The stars always came back to her, eventually.

To the back of the ship, I go.


Lindsay Reva

Whispers and Daggers

The water never stopped dripping, even in silence.

He was high.

He was low.

The measurements of his happiness and methodical rhythms of heart could only be measured from an outsiders perspective.

He could never understand how he felt inside. Something deep inside of his mind had been broken. He knew it, and with one sideways glance, the rest of the world knew it too.

Up and down, his emotional rollercoaster went. Round and round. Weak, strong. We are so high-low, his demons would cry. But that’s all they did. What did they mind that there was no link to connect his core values to understanding. He just was.

Broken. Perhaps even beyond.

Walking down a long dirt road he appreciated the world and looked forward to tomorrow. Sunshine and wind kept him alive and he always inhaled greedily as if it were his last breath. He grudgingly opened the front door and suddenly hated mankind. He spat in his neighbors’ yards on his morning walks. When he slept he had nightmares of having his own family. In his daydreams he watched mothers play with their children and wondered if he could have been a good father and husband. What if was his constant plague. His pockets were full of contradictions and meaningless promises. His word was worthless.

And his thoughts were even worse.

Vegans were half humans in his eyes. Wasters ought to get thrown off the highest cliff. Doctors were demons. Chinese restaurants were never to be acknowledged. Peeking at young girls who wore shorts that shown more cheek than leg was his fix for the day. He had never fallen in love. He refused to wash his hands but instead became obsessed with hand sanitizer. It took hostility from passerby’s to realize that he needed a shower. Always alone. Everyone was his enemy. His shrink was a nuisance. His Dentist was a pair of pliers. Yet he felt lucky to be alive. It made him unbelievably happy to open his eyes every morning despite the fact that his every thought was a contradiction to the one before.

God, just give me peace, he prayed.

Drop after drop.

Drip. Drip. Forever high-low, drip after drip.

Hippolytus de Marsiliis (born 1451 Bologna; date of death unknown) was a lawyer and doctor utriusque iuris (Lat. ‘doctor of either law’ — one who studied civil as well as canon law). He received his doctorate in 1480 but the date at which he became a lawyer is unknown. Throughout his life, he wrote many repetitionesand notabilia on many canons and decretals. In addition, he taught Roman law beginning in the year 1482. He is best known for documenting the Chinese water torture method, in which drops of water would consistently fall on a victim’s forehead, causing the victim to go insane. He also was the first person to document sleep deprivation as a means of torture, wherein the interrogators would repeat same questions, shaking the victim at random intervals, pricking him with a sharp pin, or forcing him to march down a hallway endlessly. If the interrogators grew weary, they would switch out with another group, who then would ask the same questions (today police use this method, but it is known as the third degree).

Sammy was a young man when he was captured by enemy soldiers who mistakenly took him for a spy. Now he was just a man ruined. Yet finally freed.

His father thought the shell of a man who had once been his son had been finished by a weak mind. His mothers’ side, he mused after he saw his son’s first breakdown after returning from the war.

It wasn’t the mothers’ side though. It was something much simpler.


The slow wet drip of water, rhythmically falling one by one like a bomb on the soft shell of a human beings fine porcelain skin. Never touching the brain, suffocating the mind entirely.

Dark times my lovelies.


Lindsay Reva

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