Monthly Archives: November 2011

Vonnegut-ing or So Beautiful and So Dead

I think I’m in the wrong decade, or my gods just killed themselves way too early.

I mean look at Kurt Cobain. I would have bought all his records, and I would have attended his concert/s here in Manila, and I would have fought promoters if they make of his music too much of a commodity, but then he goes and shoots himself.

Take Janis Joplin. In one concert, she asked about the crowd’s condition, if they were getting enough water and if they had a good space for sleep. And she told them, it’s just music, people should just enjoy it. I think she was referring to the whole hoopla of buying expensive tickets and lining up a day or two before the gates open for people to secure a good place — all those consequences of commercialism and merchandising. And she said: “If you’re getting more shit than you deserve, you know what to do.”

Don’t even get me started with Amy Winehouse. Or with Jimi Hendrix.

I’m in the wrong decade. I’m in the wrong country.

Don’t die yet, Joni. Don’t die yet, Aimee. And Fiona. And Skin. And Ani. And Sarah B.. And Sara M.. And Michael S.. And Karen O.. And Dave M.. And Thom Y.. And Florence. And Adele. And the rest of the artists peopling my music player. If I could, I would construct a bubble as large as a football stadium and fill it with sustenance and clean air and provisions and all the things to satisfy your whiles and your wants plus shifting seasons customized for your allergies and tastes and complete with state of the art music equipment. You’d just be staying there inside that huge-ass snowglobe living your lives and creating music when and if you want. You’d forever be protected. The globe would be bulletproof, nukeproof, bombproof, biochemical hazard-proof, anthrax and all the invisible killers out there-proof, and end of the world-proof.

It would be a musical Eden. I would only have to slip the earphones on and lose myself in your world.

A TOTALLY UNRELATED POSTSCRIPT (OR P.S.)
I totally hate on people who tend to call me emo even in jest whenever I exhibit distress or weariness. As far back as I can remember, I have been utterly sad since I was five or four years old, and I think I have enough baggage to prove it. That time, emo-ness was still swimming in a primordial soup of base urges. I would say I was way ahead of its time, and I’m not proud of it. It’s just the way things are, and it’s not as if I wallow. Wallowing is several steps away from “the secret house,” from annihilation. I could take the adjective dramatic or blue but not emo. It’s a matter of word choice, and you know how worlds can be contained in a word. Let this be a warning from a person who is onion-skinned.

My ultimate top 2 song (top 1 being Candlebox’s Far Behind) and part of my funeral playlist

Part of my ultimate top 10 songs and, of course, part of my funeral playlist

yes, another post about a tattoo

some time ago, i submitted a photo of my third tat to a website. i forgot about it until the urge to visit the site hit me as i am in search of that jean cocteau quote (that i photographed and that i saved in my phone which was then stolen thus motivating me to hate all the jologs people in the world for taking advantage of my sabaw moment)… where was i?

oh the tat. it was posted by the owners of the blog three weeks ago.
thank you for another foothold.

go here to have a look-see 🙂

like wind to a windsock

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i found (out about) you

“only Alex touches my skin (for tattoos).”

i got sidetracked for my third tattoo on my wrist allowing myself to be inked by another artist, but it is with Alex that I am most comfortable when I get inked.

i know he’s been recognized countless times. beyond that, i enjoy his silence when he is tattooing. Like there is reverence. Like there is inner peace.

or hindi lang talaga siya madaldal. whatever it is, it works well for me.

i chanced upon his site, and lo and behold, my tattoo is there.

luna’s cocky because she’s part of a gallery.

Where's Luna? First row, fourth from left.

Site: http://uragontattoo.com

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For my reference: THESIS discussion

From my beautiful girl who nurses sunshine
What’s the common thing in all your favorite works, how you’ve written them (style) and why you use the style and write the way you do. Kasi it isn’t just the recurring images and themes that matter, but in your case, it’s also abt why you write in a different/’difficult’ way. What attracts you to that style/tendency? Why is that your desire?

Hindi naman unahin iyong form niya (meaning the owner of this blog), pero pansin ko kasi she tends to be ‘difficult’. Why the tendency, given the debate between accessible and difficult poetry? I don’t think she has made her mind up to go whole hog difficult pero in addition to the theme question, she needs to think about why she has this dare-i-say-it ‘modern’-like; tendency or an attraction thereto. In addn to “why write abt THIS” ALSO Why not write like S? L? J?

Who is it I read and why?

From my boy who covers violence and eros
i’m pretty sure there’s a thread running through things somewhere, be it thematic or formal! mas ok sigurong unahin – ang theme (for me). mas fruitful lang (for me). form kasi, there’s only so much you can contrib (o baka for fic lang) – because poetry is so rich di ba? you write in a particular way and your theme/intention perhaps dictates it.

I agree. baka it’s her intention. fruitful i-differentiate siya with S e. the themes are diff din. start from there

Baka naman it’s how the poet she reads writes? then she inserts her thematic concerts and voila, a nice interplay.

project project project

As usual, I don’t know what to do.

This time for my thesis. As early as now (or hell, as early as when I enrolled for pre-requisite subjects), I should have had a project in mind. It should guide you when you choose your electives; it should drive you to start reading up on it and collect essays. It should.

But all I have are images:
– Eggs caked with dirt
– The child Amelie taking photos of animal-shaped clouds
– Bubbles exploding
– Baby turtles fleeing toward the safety of the blue
– Gnarled trees and veined hands
– Leafless trees
– Baobabs
– Eurydice forever leaping back into the void
– Ants carrying a corpse of an insect
– Red doors, hinges, a cat’s tail
– A music video of MGMT
– Demi Moore emerging out of the water in a white bikini (yes, this is included)

So where does this leave me? Lost-ness.

The impracticality of the situation is not lost on me.

I need to focus. Help? Here are my fascinations:

– Doors
– The concept of cruelty and kindness
– Selfishness
– Orphans
– The concept of falling / vertigo / suicide
– Diaspora / or not feeling at home in your skin

Help?

Can you believe I do things to annoy myself?

This week, I

– found out my sister’s extra sensitive when it comes to spirits/presence of the dead. After decades, I just found out (or maybe I’ve known about it and as usual have forgotten these details). After my stepmom’s death, she visited my sister every night for a month. Sister had nightly chills that time. She gets visits from my stepdad, too. And from my aunt who always invited my sister to go with her. Goodness.
– read a story written by Doris Lessing and fell in love with her description of sea water: “flaked silver”.
– received an iPod shuffle as a hand-me-down from my younger brother. World’s baligtad na.
– reread retreat letters received from fourth year classmates. Part of my epiphany: We never change in major ways, we just shift and loll around and move within the radius of our natures. Another thing: I hate papansin people who write letters using fluorescent pens on light-colored paper. Such a waste of words. Stupid people.
– kept letters from some high school classmates who revealed things about me. There’s one from Nat Gamalinda whose letter to me sounded like a poem. Those letters sparked memories. My reply to one letter which the person won’t ever find out: “You could have had me for a song.”
– got some job offers and now I have a dilemma.
– lost my phone. Bag was slashed in three different parts. That bag’s my favorite so it’s in surgery c/o Dr./Mr. Quickie. I lost contacts, special messages, quotes from writers, birthday alerts of writers and musicians (and of course, friends), and photos.
– will attend a formal event.
– received a copy of Metro Society’s latest issue where my article is published. Sister said: Why is your photo in the contributors’ page pang-CV while the rest of the writers submitted travel photos? Simple answer: There’s another E_ _ G_ _ _ _ over on Facebook so I want to claim that article as mine using a photo that clearly shows my face.
– helped in giving care to someone. I was just a hanger-on but it was quite a huge deal because hospitals scare the shizz out of me.

And it’s just the middle of the week. I don’t even want to challenge it and say “BRING IT!!!”

Song for this entry: Frou Frou’s Let Go “these mishaps you bubble wrap”

battle of the words_oct. 16

date played: oct. 16, 2011

word up!

scores:
e – 258
m – 220
verdict – I win! (Finally…)

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battle of the words_october 2011

date played: a day in october 2011

word played

scores:
e (moi) – 273
E – 282
verdict – E wins! (close fight!)

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“bright point”

(this piece was inspired by battery’s song, come to me)
(title was borrowed from a good friend’s tweet)

The trip was a spontaneous exercise in disappearing. I never expected a rehearsal this early.

It was just like it: Disappearing from one life and appearing into another mode. Rarely do I experience eating homecooked meals with a large clan and listening to stories about family trees, about childhood memories, about Lola’s crazy stints with her Big Four friends. It was worlds different from my family. The nice type of different.

I played with kids coming in all degrees of naughtiness and sweetness. What bundle of joys. Times with them were some of my most rewarding moments. It’s been a while since I took care of my babies in the orphanage. I missed them all the more. I killed the OC in me that cringed at the sight of spilled food and little things crammed into little mouths. The temporary death was worth it.

Embracing Lola and being blessed by her brought me back to warm times with my Lola from Goa. How lucky some people are to have theirs still present in their lives — their Lolas’ world-wise hands speaking volumes on skin, their voices singing like pure water.

Addressed in a language I am not familiar with, I felt like an amateur actress in the film Lost in Translation. I relied on context clues, tone of voice, and my scant knowledge of Bicolano to get the bare minimum of the messages. But people remained kind. I was even invited to attend the town fiesta several months away!

Being here, being with others provides anchorage even as I think the undertow is on vacation or is preparing something troublesome and dangerous like a tucked away quicksand. I always say I’m ready for him, but he is quick like a desperate bow looking for its mark.

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