(To my muse...)
She, who reigns over my kingdom of gardens,
silent in her beauty and grace,
walks among the poppies and roses.
Her shadow casts long white silk
over the faces of the magnolias and tulips,
shamed by her presence.
The sun rises to light her path,
while the moon weeps from her absence,
the stars wake from their slumber,
waiting for her to pass.
My muse, you who stole my heart,
when may I see your face or,
indulge in your sweetness?
So that I may rest,
from this never ending wandering
lost in my kingdom of gardens,
that praises you.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Friday, August 22, 2008
If I Taught Creative Writing, By Charles Bukowski
now, if you were teaching creative
writing, he asked, what would you
tell them?
I’d tell them to have an unhappy love
affair, hemorrhoids, bad teeth
and to drink cheap wine,
to keep switching the head of their
bed from wall to wall
and then I’d tell them to have
another unhappy love affair
and never to use a silk typewriter
ribbon,
avoid family picnics
or being photographed in a rose
garden;
read Hemingway only once,
skip Faulkner
ignore Gogol
stare at photos of Gertrude Stein
and read Sherwood Anderson in bed
while eating Ritz crackers,
realize that people who keep
talking about sexual liberation
are more frightened than you are.
listen to E. Power Biggs work the
organ on your radio while you’re
rolling Bull Durham in the dark
in a strange town
with one day left on the rent
after having given up
friends, relatives and jobs.
never consider yourself superior and /
or fair
and never try to be.
have another unhappy love affair.
watch a fly on a summer curtain.
never try to succeed.
don’t shoot pool.
be righteously angry when you
find your car has a flat tire.
take vitamins but don’t lift weights or jog.
then after all this
reverse the procedure.
have a good love affair.
and the thing
you might learn
is that nobody knows anything–
not the State, nor the mice
the garden hose or the North Star.
and if you ever catch me
teaching a creative writing class
and you read this back to me
I’ll give you a straight A
right up the pickle
barrel.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
LOCALLY, THE EARTH IS FLAT
Walls, too, scream. If there is one thing a wall is not, it is “silent.” Walls scream in ear-shattering intensity to anyone who would pause and care to listen.
Walls, all throughout history, have always had the ability to speak. From the cave paintings of South America and Mesopotamia, the pharaoh tombs of Egypt, the walls of ruins of Central America and Europe, to the steppes and caverns of Africa, they all shout in a thundering roar that echoes to the present times. Our ancestors wrote and drew on walls even before they learned to write on paper. Civilizations after civilizations communicated through walls. This is why the first things that archaeologists look for in a newly-discovered ancient site are, you guessed it right, the walls. In the future, should Star Trekish deep space travel becomes a reality, Captain John-Luc Picards would be studying the walls of (hopefully fallen) alien civilizations. At present, tucked away in nooks and crannies are, still, stories, snippets of poetry, humor, anger, prophesies, perversions. Wall writing lives!
You may ask: Why do these creepy walls speak? And why should I care? Walls speak to save men from their own destruction. Walls are the medium of untold prophesies. Walls breathe life to ideas, messages, and warnings. Walls are the Macondo of man’s history foretold.
Henceforth, I will be presenting how wall writing has shaped man’s history (or mine only). The following are conceived from long, idle hours on public transports, fourteen years of purposeless walks on the streets of Metro Manila, five years of blissful stay in a dormitory, and for being required to look on nothing else but walls while relieving myself in public comfort rooms.
Let us consider one of my favorite “wall prophets, SALEN-GA. “Locally, the Earth is flat,” so says someone, or something, who goes by this strange name. He (assuming that SALEN-GA is human, or at least humanoid) is one of the most prolific wall writers in the history (and therefore art) of wall writing. His walls convey simple yet thought provoking messages. His mastery of words is far more advanced than accomplished poets. He is the Ernst Hemmingway of wall writing!
To continue, SALEN-GA wrote that “Locally, the Earth is flat.” But the earth is round! Or is it? Could it be that SALEN-GA is just some nut who happens to know a little English? There is a very big probability that he is a nut. I, however, refuse to believe so. Given the choice between “nut” and “great,” I am choosing “great.” I am giving SALEN-GA the presumption of sound mind. Therefore, I say, he is a truth-warrior, those rare breed of men who goes against notions of normalcy. Men like SALEN-GA are purveyors of change. They offer change, but do not sell it.
Unlike the bible, his message is temporary. It is only as good as the next coating of paint. He imparts knowledge for no apparent reason other than to inform. He does not care whether or not the public would even ponder on his message. He merely wants to make a statement. I know why SALEN-GA and others like him write on walls. They write because they want to shout without being noisy. They want to be heard, but they do not ask to be taken seriously.
SALEN-GA could be wrong. He could also be right. Believe it or not, the Earth is round. It has been proven with finality that it is not flat. I repeat; the Earth is not flat. For the purpose of this paper, and to personally determine whether or not the Earth is flat, I turned to the all-knowing – the Internet. There, the Internet says that the Earth is round, oblate spheroid to be exact.
If the Earth is an oblate spheroid, it follows that a lot of people on Earth have the fantastic ability to walk upside down or sideways. By analogy, those living on the Earth’s southern hemisphere walks on ceilings without difficulty. Admittedly, I was doubtful at first, but who am I to argue with scientific evidence. Now here comes SALEN-GA, in purposeful, naked, euphoria, proclaiming that “locally, the earth is flat.” Come to think of it, he is correct. The perception that the earth is round is relative. If you are standing anywhere on Earth, the world would seem flat. Even people who live on the bottom of this round planet, those who walk on ceilings, would think the world is flat.
SALEN-GA’s courage to oppose established facts is admirable. By questioning truth, he challenges truth. By going against the tide, he teases us to think. He is not pretending to be a prophet of truth. He is content just to let others know that some truths may not be gospel truths after all, that not all truths should be taken on face value alone. Truths should be subjected to scrutiny. There are truths that are facts, but there are also truths that arise from perception. The first form is absolute. The second form must be investigated and analyzed. One plus one is always two; but one cow plus one cow is not always two cows.
Not all writings on walls, however, partake of truth. Many, if not all, are merely egoistic, misguided, stupid braggadocios. The most common of all is the “I was here” statement. Messages like this give wall writing a bad name. It does inform, but the information is self-serving. They are not worthy of the wall they are written onto.
Probably the worst form of wall writings is found on the walls of public toilets. Proclaiming to the world the enviable size of one’s penis actually creates an opposite effect, i.e., penis size = font size of “i” in penis. Claiming to have slept with this girl or that girl creates the impression of having come close to sleeping with someone but a pet. Here, the pet is even drugged, or clobbered to submission. Phone numbers written on walls is an invitation for contempt. Only those who have no real friends write their phone numbers on walls. Walls do not like phone numbers written on them; it is simply rude. Alas, walls, though able to speak, is unable to resist.
Nevertheless, the wall is patient. It waits for anyone who would care to scribble a word or two. It does not discriminate. It does not distinguish. It merely accepts. It gives total freedom to the writer.
Walls are the “new paper.” Messages on paper are passive. You have to get hold of one to be able read what is written; and by getting hold of one there is already a preconceived purpose for the act. On the other hand, writings on the wall are there for everyone to see whether they like it or not. It is as naked as three muses bathing. You cannot help but look – and read. Ponder? Maybe not, but the message has already reached the subconscious. There it lurks and never really goes away, like a lost love or a fungal infection.
In this day and age, it is easy to loose oneself in the middle of the multitude. Voices are simply useless. The moment it comes out of the mouth, it is swallowed by the noise. People do not like to be told what to do, or what to think. Oral communication, therefore, is doomed to fail. I for one have mastered the art of listening without hearing, of head-nodding without understanding, of conversing devoid of any mental presence. Some people are just not worth the time to listen to. Writing on paper is also doomed. Who writes on paper nowadays? Gone are the days when paper is the king. It has been replaced by electronic gadgets. Writing, now, is mainly an electronic act. Punch a key, a letter. Punch more keys – a word. Group them all together – a sentence. The art of writing on paper is lost (think calligraphy). This is why I believe that writing on walls is going to be the dominant form of communication in the future.
There are advantages to using walls as a medium to communicate an idea. First, writing on walls is cheap. Anything that leaves a stain could be used as a writing instrument. Mud, red brick, leaves, or blood are good examples. Blood, in particular, is very effective. It evokes a halo of divinity to the writer and a sense of urgency to the message. Blood cloaks one’s message with selflessness. A message written with blood aims for a reader’s heart. It is both shocking and beautiful. It is telling, but not loud. It is more personal compared to, say, mud. By the way, using mud is the least effective, especially during the rainy season. Mud is best thrown to people you particularly hate.
Second, writing on walls is never presumptuous. The public relates well to writings on the wall. Compared to the arrogance of a book, or the flamboyance of a magazine, or the selfishness of journal, it is for public consumption. In fact, wall writings are so effective that the taong grasa – the most explicit, blatant, obvious symbol of our society’s decrepit state, yet the most ignored, unnoticed, disregarded – relies entirely on wall writings for guidance.
Third, it is real. Publications are subject to manipulation by self-serving individuals. Most publications being shoved to the minds of the public have only one purpose – brainwashing. Read a magazine and you would feel less beautiful than you actually are. Read a book and you would be more ignorant. Watch the news and you will be fed with bullshit (excuse the word). They breed lies after lies after lies. What could be more real than Gloria, tuta ng kano!
Fourth, it is powerful. If anyone still harbors doubts as to the power of writings on walls, then you are in for an awakening. The Berlin Wall fell because people on the American-French-British side (West Berlin) as well as people on the Soviet side expressed their loathing against the wall by writing on it. They wrote in blood. Many people are shot even before they can finish writing. Freedo…bang! When the Berlin Wall fell, the Berliners preserved the writings on it as a symbol of its power. In fact, the only reason why the Great Wall of China still stands is not because wall writings there are ineffective. It is because not many people can read Chinese.
Lastly, wall writings are more or less permanent. In a post-Atienza Manila, wall writers of the city are slowly gaining grounds. The former mayor has virtually wiped all wall writings in the city by painting over every wall, bridge, street, lamppost, garbage bins, public urinals, center islands, even tree leaves are painted green. The entire city of Manila then was bathed in ROY G. BIV paint. The city was his canvass. Then, gumamela grows on concrete posts, birds fly in suspended animation on walls, and the image of progress is painted on everything that is blank. In fact, the only writing allowed during his time was Buhayin ang MayniLA. Now, there is a resurgence of the wall writing movement. Wall writers now enjoy a greater freedom to write on walls without being harassed by the paint brigade. Writings on walls are not disturbed and are being given the respect, hence permanence, it deserve.
In the future, when the world is finally destroyed by nuclear weapons, when Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow world is realized, there will be no trace of humanity left, except for the writings on the wall. These writings will serve as silent reminders of how our world was, of how perverted our thinking was, of how doomed we were in the first place.
Walls, too, scream. If there is one thing a wall is not, it is “silent.” Walls scream in ear-shattering intensity to anyone who would pause and care to listen.
Walls, all throughout history, have always had the ability to speak. From the cave paintings of South America and Mesopotamia, the pharaoh tombs of Egypt, the walls of ruins of Central America and Europe, to the steppes and caverns of Africa, they all shout in a thundering roar that echoes to the present times. Our ancestors wrote and drew on walls even before they learned to write on paper. Civilizations after civilizations communicated through walls. This is why the first things that archaeologists look for in a newly-discovered ancient site are, you guessed it right, the walls. In the future, should Star Trekish deep space travel becomes a reality, Captain John-Luc Picards would be studying the walls of (hopefully fallen) alien civilizations. At present, tucked away in nooks and crannies are, still, stories, snippets of poetry, humor, anger, prophesies, perversions. Wall writing lives!
You may ask: Why do these creepy walls speak? And why should I care? Walls speak to save men from their own destruction. Walls are the medium of untold prophesies. Walls breathe life to ideas, messages, and warnings. Walls are the Macondo of man’s history foretold.
Henceforth, I will be presenting how wall writing has shaped man’s history (or mine only). The following are conceived from long, idle hours on public transports, fourteen years of purposeless walks on the streets of Metro Manila, five years of blissful stay in a dormitory, and for being required to look on nothing else but walls while relieving myself in public comfort rooms.
Let us consider one of my favorite “wall prophets, SALEN-GA. “Locally, the Earth is flat,” so says someone, or something, who goes by this strange name. He (assuming that SALEN-GA is human, or at least humanoid) is one of the most prolific wall writers in the history (and therefore art) of wall writing. His walls convey simple yet thought provoking messages. His mastery of words is far more advanced than accomplished poets. He is the Ernst Hemmingway of wall writing!
To continue, SALEN-GA wrote that “Locally, the Earth is flat.” But the earth is round! Or is it? Could it be that SALEN-GA is just some nut who happens to know a little English? There is a very big probability that he is a nut. I, however, refuse to believe so. Given the choice between “nut” and “great,” I am choosing “great.” I am giving SALEN-GA the presumption of sound mind. Therefore, I say, he is a truth-warrior, those rare breed of men who goes against notions of normalcy. Men like SALEN-GA are purveyors of change. They offer change, but do not sell it.
Unlike the bible, his message is temporary. It is only as good as the next coating of paint. He imparts knowledge for no apparent reason other than to inform. He does not care whether or not the public would even ponder on his message. He merely wants to make a statement. I know why SALEN-GA and others like him write on walls. They write because they want to shout without being noisy. They want to be heard, but they do not ask to be taken seriously.
SALEN-GA could be wrong. He could also be right. Believe it or not, the Earth is round. It has been proven with finality that it is not flat. I repeat; the Earth is not flat. For the purpose of this paper, and to personally determine whether or not the Earth is flat, I turned to the all-knowing – the Internet. There, the Internet says that the Earth is round, oblate spheroid to be exact.
If the Earth is an oblate spheroid, it follows that a lot of people on Earth have the fantastic ability to walk upside down or sideways. By analogy, those living on the Earth’s southern hemisphere walks on ceilings without difficulty. Admittedly, I was doubtful at first, but who am I to argue with scientific evidence. Now here comes SALEN-GA, in purposeful, naked, euphoria, proclaiming that “locally, the earth is flat.” Come to think of it, he is correct. The perception that the earth is round is relative. If you are standing anywhere on Earth, the world would seem flat. Even people who live on the bottom of this round planet, those who walk on ceilings, would think the world is flat.
SALEN-GA’s courage to oppose established facts is admirable. By questioning truth, he challenges truth. By going against the tide, he teases us to think. He is not pretending to be a prophet of truth. He is content just to let others know that some truths may not be gospel truths after all, that not all truths should be taken on face value alone. Truths should be subjected to scrutiny. There are truths that are facts, but there are also truths that arise from perception. The first form is absolute. The second form must be investigated and analyzed. One plus one is always two; but one cow plus one cow is not always two cows.
Not all writings on walls, however, partake of truth. Many, if not all, are merely egoistic, misguided, stupid braggadocios. The most common of all is the “I was here” statement. Messages like this give wall writing a bad name. It does inform, but the information is self-serving. They are not worthy of the wall they are written onto.
Probably the worst form of wall writings is found on the walls of public toilets. Proclaiming to the world the enviable size of one’s penis actually creates an opposite effect, i.e., penis size = font size of “i” in penis. Claiming to have slept with this girl or that girl creates the impression of having come close to sleeping with someone but a pet. Here, the pet is even drugged, or clobbered to submission. Phone numbers written on walls is an invitation for contempt. Only those who have no real friends write their phone numbers on walls. Walls do not like phone numbers written on them; it is simply rude. Alas, walls, though able to speak, is unable to resist.
Nevertheless, the wall is patient. It waits for anyone who would care to scribble a word or two. It does not discriminate. It does not distinguish. It merely accepts. It gives total freedom to the writer.
Walls are the “new paper.” Messages on paper are passive. You have to get hold of one to be able read what is written; and by getting hold of one there is already a preconceived purpose for the act. On the other hand, writings on the wall are there for everyone to see whether they like it or not. It is as naked as three muses bathing. You cannot help but look – and read. Ponder? Maybe not, but the message has already reached the subconscious. There it lurks and never really goes away, like a lost love or a fungal infection.
In this day and age, it is easy to loose oneself in the middle of the multitude. Voices are simply useless. The moment it comes out of the mouth, it is swallowed by the noise. People do not like to be told what to do, or what to think. Oral communication, therefore, is doomed to fail. I for one have mastered the art of listening without hearing, of head-nodding without understanding, of conversing devoid of any mental presence. Some people are just not worth the time to listen to. Writing on paper is also doomed. Who writes on paper nowadays? Gone are the days when paper is the king. It has been replaced by electronic gadgets. Writing, now, is mainly an electronic act. Punch a key, a letter. Punch more keys – a word. Group them all together – a sentence. The art of writing on paper is lost (think calligraphy). This is why I believe that writing on walls is going to be the dominant form of communication in the future.
There are advantages to using walls as a medium to communicate an idea. First, writing on walls is cheap. Anything that leaves a stain could be used as a writing instrument. Mud, red brick, leaves, or blood are good examples. Blood, in particular, is very effective. It evokes a halo of divinity to the writer and a sense of urgency to the message. Blood cloaks one’s message with selflessness. A message written with blood aims for a reader’s heart. It is both shocking and beautiful. It is telling, but not loud. It is more personal compared to, say, mud. By the way, using mud is the least effective, especially during the rainy season. Mud is best thrown to people you particularly hate.
Second, writing on walls is never presumptuous. The public relates well to writings on the wall. Compared to the arrogance of a book, or the flamboyance of a magazine, or the selfishness of journal, it is for public consumption. In fact, wall writings are so effective that the taong grasa – the most explicit, blatant, obvious symbol of our society’s decrepit state, yet the most ignored, unnoticed, disregarded – relies entirely on wall writings for guidance.
Third, it is real. Publications are subject to manipulation by self-serving individuals. Most publications being shoved to the minds of the public have only one purpose – brainwashing. Read a magazine and you would feel less beautiful than you actually are. Read a book and you would be more ignorant. Watch the news and you will be fed with bullshit (excuse the word). They breed lies after lies after lies. What could be more real than Gloria, tuta ng kano!
Fourth, it is powerful. If anyone still harbors doubts as to the power of writings on walls, then you are in for an awakening. The Berlin Wall fell because people on the American-French-British side (West Berlin) as well as people on the Soviet side expressed their loathing against the wall by writing on it. They wrote in blood. Many people are shot even before they can finish writing. Freedo…bang! When the Berlin Wall fell, the Berliners preserved the writings on it as a symbol of its power. In fact, the only reason why the Great Wall of China still stands is not because wall writings there are ineffective. It is because not many people can read Chinese.
Lastly, wall writings are more or less permanent. In a post-Atienza Manila, wall writers of the city are slowly gaining grounds. The former mayor has virtually wiped all wall writings in the city by painting over every wall, bridge, street, lamppost, garbage bins, public urinals, center islands, even tree leaves are painted green. The entire city of Manila then was bathed in ROY G. BIV paint. The city was his canvass. Then, gumamela grows on concrete posts, birds fly in suspended animation on walls, and the image of progress is painted on everything that is blank. In fact, the only writing allowed during his time was Buhayin ang MayniLA. Now, there is a resurgence of the wall writing movement. Wall writers now enjoy a greater freedom to write on walls without being harassed by the paint brigade. Writings on walls are not disturbed and are being given the respect, hence permanence, it deserve.
In the future, when the world is finally destroyed by nuclear weapons, when Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow world is realized, there will be no trace of humanity left, except for the writings on the wall. These writings will serve as silent reminders of how our world was, of how perverted our thinking was, of how doomed we were in the first place.
Sonnet LXVI
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Ode to Elliott Smith
Miss Misery misses you,
a fond farewell, she says,
never distort this reality,
that you have left this world sad and lonely.
In a corridor,
she found herself lost,
and close to death,
near-summer angel in the snow.
A question mark hangs on every tree branch;
Between the bars, space seemed odd;
Color bars now are always black-blue-gray,
Everything means nothing to her,
bleeding white from lost of love.
Johnny Walker Reds,
hued a different hue,
In my head, I tell myself I am wrong,
but I wasn't, and you were not wrong either,
so now there's nothing to do, but it's alright.
Miss Misery would rather see you gone,
than see you suffer.
And I do, too.
a fond farewell, she says,
never distort this reality,
that you have left this world sad and lonely.
In a corridor,
she found herself lost,
and close to death,
near-summer angel in the snow.
A question mark hangs on every tree branch;
Between the bars, space seemed odd;
Color bars now are always black-blue-gray,
Everything means nothing to her,
bleeding white from lost of love.
Johnny Walker Reds,
hued a different hue,
In my head, I tell myself I am wrong,
but I wasn't, and you were not wrong either,
so now there's nothing to do, but it's alright.
Miss Misery would rather see you gone,
than see you suffer.
And I do, too.
Mary Right
In the end, no rest waits,
For me who longs for peace,
There rises heavy clouds,
and light rain evaporates.
After I am dead, I just might
glance upon your shadow,
Black as night, deep as deep,
Pin-drop in turbulence.
From here to there is eternity,
A million deaths of suns and stars,
A little less than a thousand-fold,
of an ocean of tears and a teaspoon of love.
Where is the path,
that would lead me to you,
My enemy is the light,
My guide is blind.
But when that time comes when time ends,
please be patient -
for I will come,
to glance at the shadow of my memory of you,
and your disappearing footprint on the sand.
For me who longs for peace,
There rises heavy clouds,
and light rain evaporates.
After I am dead, I just might
glance upon your shadow,
Black as night, deep as deep,
Pin-drop in turbulence.
From here to there is eternity,
A million deaths of suns and stars,
A little less than a thousand-fold,
of an ocean of tears and a teaspoon of love.
Where is the path,
that would lead me to you,
My enemy is the light,
My guide is blind.
But when that time comes when time ends,
please be patient -
for I will come,
to glance at the shadow of my memory of you,
and your disappearing footprint on the sand.
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