Frankie

Coz he is so worth it.

Poets Lie (both literal meanings)

Today's dose of penned drumfire:

Crispin's tirade. After narrating the story of poet Mutya Dimatahimik, who, during a protest rally against Marcos, lay down in front of an oncoming tank. She was 5 months pregnant. The tank only stopped when it was only a few feet from her. The soldiers inside the tank dragged her aside and beat her unconscious. She nearly lost her child.

"Truly romantic bullshit, in retrospect ... And yet 'No lyric has ever stopped a tank,' so said Seamus Heaney. Auden said that 'poetry makes nothing happen.' Bullshit! I reject all that wholeheartedly! What do they know about the mechanics of tanks! How can anyone estimate the ballistic quality of words? Invisible things happen in intangible moments. What should keep us writing is precisely that possibility of explosions. If not, what then?" - Crispin Salvador, from Ilustrado by Miguel Syjuco, page 205.

KABOOM! Right through the heart.

Liquid Sunshine

A scene straight-out-of-a-movie -- walking the dogs on an empty street, tall lush trees swaying, cold wind making dead leaves rush by our feet, then a softness to the rain, a freshness to everything, a cool mist rolling in over the vibrant green grass as we slowly jog & laugh for cover, the dogs stubbornly holding their ground, not wanting to go anywhere else but there, right in that moment of rain & play, and we give in, relishing the freedom, the magic of that moment, that sweet fleeting moment, the world crisp and sparkling, free of bullshit, fuck-ups, vanity & ghosts … raindrops and me and him and our dogs who we know will always always love us no matter how destitute or pathetic or idiotic we might seem to other people. It started to rain harder, & we started to laugh louder, & the dogs’ ears started to sway higher as we jumped & splashed over puddles … & the horizon, radiant in its aqueousness, bringing to the senses a calmness, a serenity, but also bringing forth a distinct feeling of strange buoyancy, a lightness pregnant with possibilities of flight. A scene straight-out-of-a-movie … but it was real, and it was beautiful. And it is enough. Enough to keep us walking, enough to make us get up stand tall & dance after a slight stumble or a hard fall, enough to make us thankful for every vision of hope the universe sends our way.

Be happy for this moment; this moment is your life….”_-Omar Khayyam

Facades

Today I feel like this:




This art work's title is The Great War on Façades (La Grande Guerre Façades), by Rene Magritte. You might be more familiar with his The Son of Man, which was referenced/featured in films like The Thomas Crown Affair, Stranger Than Fiction and 500 Days of Summer:



Various interpretations of Magritte's art works are available online. If you want to read more on him, click on the following:

http://nomad0307.blogspot.com/2009/01/ceci-nest-pas-une-vie.html
http://www.brain-juice.com/cgi-bin/show_bio.cgi?p_id=22
http://www.artchive.com/artchive/M/magritte.html
http://www.dropbears.com/a/art/biography/Rene_Magritte.html

Today, I feel like the woman on the The Great War of Facades painting. Although I'm thankful I don't ever have to wear that silly frilly dress in real life, today it symbolizes all the preconceived notions of people about me. That flower is my f--- you to those who have boxed me in their labels.

And enough of the bitch-fit. I love Rene Magritte's work. Actually, I love almost all surrealist artists. They are such brave inventors of each of their own unique universes. As Magritte said:

To be a surrealist means barring from your mind all remembrance of what you have seen, and being always on the lookout for what has never been.

She Just Wants To Be ...

These past few months I've been dedicating songs to other people, through text or a call or a facebook note. Today I'm going to be selfish and dedicate a song to ME.

She Just Wants To Be - R.E.M

It's not that she walked away,
her world got smaller.
All the usual places, the same destinations,
only something's changed.

It's not that she wasn't rewarded
with pomegranate afternoons
and Mingus, Chet Baker and chess.

It's not the stampede and fortune
of prim affectations
she's off on her own and she knows now
it's greater than the whole
of the past
it's greater
and now she knows.

She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.

It's not that the transparency
of her earlier incarnations
now looked back on, weren't rich
and loaded
with beautiful vulnerability
and now she knows.

Now is greater
and she knows that.

She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.

Now is greater
now is greater
and she knows that

She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.
She just wants to be somewhere
she just wants to be.

It's not like if angels
could truly look down
stir up the trappings
and light on the ground.
Remind us of what, when,
why or who?
The how's up to us, me and you
and now is greater than the whole
of the past
is greater and now she knows that.

Now she knows.

Another version 1 of something ...

I, Ariadne, You, Minotaur

Attempting to read you, and I’m in a minefield
my teeth chattering against the pin of a hand grenade
you placed in my mouth
you said “I wonder, I wonder how beautiful
it would be to see you explode,
explode like a star, every little bit of you sparkling,
stunning, one last spark, shining so fiercely
weaving one last desperate flight for light
dancing your one last arabesque for the night
and finally fading, fading loudly
violently, until you’ve spent all your fire
all that exquisite pitiful thread of life
until a whimper, a whisper,
fading into nothing.”

I finally see you
Minotaur of my dark dreams
savage beast, monster, eater of flesh
and yet you seek not to devour me
only wishing for my death to shower you with
light and beauty, things that are forbidden to you
because they say, you must remain
the horrible legend that you are.
But I, Ariadne, is nobody’s goddess bride nor prize
I, Ariadne, slayer of might and false light, will rise
Towering with you, a mammoth monstrous swelling
shaking the truth out of their sham fables,
destroying, dismantling, the vulnerable I, the savage you.

Come, it’s time to weave our own labyrinth.
A labyrinth both forgiving and unforgiving
merciful and merciless, terrible and beguiling
soothing and horrid, a mirror of everything and nothing.
I, Ariadne, You, Minotaur.
In our own terms, In our own time.