The Last Day

Consciousness and Peter Russell

http://www.peterrussell.com/SCG/smartin.php

Excerpts from Killing Yourself to Live by Chuck Klosterman

This, MY Body

(I wrote this back in 2007 in my old DirtyStinkySlipper Friendster blog.  I lost most of my entries there but found this one just now, floating around one of my old hard drives.  Even though I wrote this five years ago, I believe it still rings true now.)

Differently Weighted.  Gravitationally Challenged.  Horizontally Challenged.  Horizontally Gifted.  People or Person of Mass.  Person of Substance.  These are politically correct terms for that something which you’re not supposed to be or do not want to be: according to  the world’s current definition of what kind of woman is beautiful, what is acceptable, being FAT, or being a Person of Substance (my most favorite of those politically correct terms for FAT) is definitely not one of them.  And since I can’t seem to fit in any of my favorite jeans right now, is the world going to tell me that I am no longer acceptable, that I am the total opposite of the standard (or should I say commercialized) definition of beautiful?

I was a skinny kid (some politically correct terms: skeletally prominent, metabolic underachiever).  In high school and college, I was no longer skinny, just your small to medium kind of girl.  After college, weight stayed the same.  I started getting bigger when I reached the age of 29.  One factor was I did not have any exercise anymore since Ritchie (my boyfriend) and I, our daily routine would be wake up – work –eat – work – eat – work – eat – sleep.  We didn’t need to drive or walk to work, no physical exertion at all except during coverages.  I was happiest with my weight when I was 31.  I did not eat meat for almost 8 months, went to the gym regularly and played badminton a lot.  Not eating meat was really not because of a diet plan, it was because of a different reason altogether.  But that merits another blog.  Anyway, going back to our topic, since Ritchie and I were always swamped with work, I stopped going to the gym, stopped playing badminton and went back to eating meat because I couldn’t afford to plan my own meals anymore, I had to eat whatever was served to me.  I know I was getting bigger, but it really did not matter to me most of the time.  One thing is I really hate depriving myself of anything that I feel is my right to do or have or can afford, and I hate depriving my self of good food.  Heck I love to eat.  Sometimes though, admittedly,  I do have those moments of negativity,  especially when you keep getting the “wow, you’ve gained a lot of weight” comments with the over-exerted smiles and condescending tones but you know exactly what’s going on in their minds:  oh she’s letting herself waste away, she’s losing it, or plain and simple, She Looks BAD.  One time, an old client, excited and really happy to see Ritchie and me again, exclaimed real loud in front of all her friends (they were I think eight in the group) “Oh my, wow, you’re pregnant!”  I was at first surprised, then getting over the initial shock, laughed and said “Oh goodness, I’m not, I just like looking like I’m pregnant” and then, thankfully, they all laughed with me.  After that however, there was an awkward silence.  At that particular moment, I remember feeling not at all offended but more of … embarrassed because I didn’t really honestly know what to say.  I knew she thought that she might have offended me and wanted to say something but feared that she might offend me more, and I on the other hand did not know what to say also because if I say it’s okay, I’m not offended, it’ll just make it sound like I’m being defensive and was in fact really offended.  Crazy I know.  

One thing I know about myself right now is this:  I do not want to obsess about my weight.  Sometimes though,  we really can’t help it if other people obsess for us.  Like my mom and dad.  I don’t blame them for worrying about my weight for me, I’m sure they love me and I love them back dearly.  And I know that they are worrying about my weight for health reasons, and not for aesthetic ones.  What really angers and saddens me is the fact that up to now, in this age of “progress and forward thinking”, there are still women who are  starving themselves to death or doing all things detrimental to their health just so they remain or become thin or thinner.  It saddens me that the old patriarchal “standards” of beauty are still perpetuated by TV and print advertisements,  certain magazine articles, some movies --  what’s even more upsetting is that some of the instigators of these stereotypes are women themselves.  They keep telling us that what we look like is not okay, that the shape or color or “smoothness” they are promoting is what we should always attempt to be in order to be “beautiful” and alluring to the male species.   I remember really hating this ad where there was a photographer taking pictures of two sisters:  one had smooth, white, porcelain skin, while  the other had darker skin which is actually the common natural skin color of people living in the tropics, what we in the Philippines call kayumanggi or morena.  The photographer would look at the two women and would smile happily at the sister with porcelain skin, and would have this perplexed-not-so-nice expression whenever he looks at the morena one.  Now we all know how the commercial ends: both of the sisters are porcelain-skinned with the photographer looking really happy at the girl who used to be dark-complexioned, and even cements his approval with the statement “Now you’re beautiful”.  As you may have guessed, the commercial is promoting a whitening product.  A lot of this kind of commercials still exists; wherein our minds are conditioned to think that being black or brown is ugly and we should strive to be white, that having a different kind of body type other than thin is bad.  I applaud efforts to change this kind of thinking,  like Dove’s Campaign for Real Beauty.  Yes sure, it’s still not that edgy and as life changing as we dream it to be (it was criticized by some for choosing unrepresentative "real" women—ninety-six year old, described by one marketer as: "the old lady equivalent of a super-model"; a heavily freckled, but enviably cute, twenty-two year old, and so on.) but it’s a START. 

So yes, I am at my heaviest weight now.  But this is for certain:  I want to be healthier because  I want to possess a body that will allow me to be as physically active and adventurous as I want to be.   I will try to achieve that by continuing to still eat the way I want to eat but this time, I will try to eat more of the “healthier” food and less of the “unhealthy” ones.  I will try to exercise again and engage in sweat-inducing sports.  But if after doing all these “healthier” options and my body still persist on adding more bulk, my spirit will not be crushed.  I will refuse to let myself be dragged down into the path of negativity, self-hate, self-pity.  There is so much more to life, so much more to love, so much more to explore, and my body is my biggest ally.  I will never make it my enemy. 

Here’s an excerpt from Eve Ensler’s Preface to her play The Good Body.  Read and be enlightened.

THE GOOD BODY

BY

EVE ENSLER

P r e f a c e

In the midst of a war in Iraq, in a time of escalating global terrorism, when civil liberties are disappearing as fast as the ozone layer, when one out of three women in the world will be beaten or raped in her lifetime, why write a play about my stomach?

Maybe because my stomach is one thing I feel I have control over, or maybe because I have hoped that my stomach is something I could get control over. Maybe because I see how my stomach has come to occupy my attention, I see how other women’s stomachs or butts or thighs or hair or skin have come to occupy their attention, so that we have very little left for the war in Iraq—or much else, for that matter. When a group of ethnically diverse, economically disadvantaged women in the United States was recently asked about the one thing they would change in their lives if they could, the majority of these women said they would lose weight. Maybe I identify with these women because I have bought into the idea that if my stomach were flat, then I would be good, and I would be safe. I would be protected. I would be accepted, admired, important, loved. Maybe because for most of my life I have felt wrong, dirty, guilty, and bad, and my stomach is the carrier, the pouch for all that self-hatred. Maybe because my stomach has become the repository for my sorrow, my childhood scars, my unfulfilled ambition, my unexpressed rage. Like a toxic dump, it is where the explosive trajectories collide—the Judeo- Christian imperative to be good; the patriarchal mandate that women be quiet, be less; the consumer-state imperative to be better, which is based on the assumption that you are born wrong and bad, and that being better always involves spending money, lots of money. Maybe because, as the world rapidly divides into fundamentalist camps, reductive sound bites, and polarizing platitudes, an exploration of my stomach and the life therein has the potential to shatter these dangerous constraints….

The Good Body began with me and my particular obsession with my “imperfect” stomach. I have charted this self-hatred, recorded it, tried to follow it back to its source. Here, unlike the women in The Vagina Monologues, I am my own victim, my own perpetrator. Of course, the tools of my selfvictimization have been made readily available. The pattern of the perfect body has been programmed into me since birth. But whatever the cultural influences and pressures, my preoccupation with my flab, my constant dieting, exercising, worrying, is selfimposed. I pick up the magazines. I buy into the ideal. I believe that blond, flat girls have the secret. What is far more frightening than narcissism is the zeal for self-mutilation that is spreading, infecting the world.

I have been to more than forty countries in the last six years. I have seen the rampant and insidious poisoning: skin-lightening creams sell as fast as tooth paste in Africa and Asia; the mothers of eight-year-olds in America remove their daughters’ ribs so they will not have to worry about dieting; five-year-olds in Manhattan do strict asanas so they won’t embarrass their parents in public by being chubby; girls vomit and starve themselves in China and Fiji and everywhere; Korean women remove Asia from their eyelids . . . the list goes on and on.

I have been in a dialogue with my stomach for the past three years. I have entered my belly—the dark wet underworld—to get at the secrets there. I have talked with women in surgical centers in Beverly Hills; on the sensual beaches of Rio de Janeiro; in the gyms of Mumbai, New York, Moscow; in the hectic and crowded beauty salons of Istanbul, South Africa, and Rome. Except for a rare few, the women I met loathed at least one part of their body. There was almost always one part that they longed to change, that they had a medicine cabinet full of products devoted to transforming or hiding or reducing or straightening or lightening. Just about every woman believed that if she could just get that part right, everything else would work out. Of course, it is an endless heartbreaking campaign.Some of the monologues in The Good Body are based on well-known women like Helen Gurley Brown and Isabella Rossellini. Those monologues, which grew out of a series of conversations with each of these fascinating women, are not recorded interviews, but interpretations of the lives they offered me. Some of the other characters are based on real lives, real stories. Many are invented….

This play is my prayer, my attempt to analyze the mechanisms of our imprisonment, to break free so that we may spend more time running the world than running away from it; so that we may be consumed by the sorrow of the world rather than consuming to avoid that sorrow and suffering. This play is an expression of my hope, my desire, that we will all refuse to be Barbie, that we will say no to the loss of the particular, whether it be to a voluptuous woman in a silk sari, or a woman with defining lines of character in her face, or a distinguishing nose, or olivetoned skin, or wild curly hair.

I am stepping off the capitalist treadmill. I am going to take a deep breath and find a way to survive not being flat or perfect. I am inviting you to join me, to stop trying to be anything, anyone other than who you are. I was moved by women in Africa who lived close to the earth and didn’t understand what it meant to not love their body. I was lifted by older women in India who celebrated their roundness. I was inspired by Marion Woodman, a great Jungian analyst, who gave me confidence to trust what I know. She has said that “instead of transcending ourselves, we must move into ourselves.” Tell the image makers and magazine sellers and the plastic surgeons that you are not afraid. That what you fear the most is the death of imagination and originality and metaphor and passion. Then be bold and LOVE YOUR BODY. STOP FIXING IT. It was never broken.

The Riddle (Part 1 of a long draft)

Part 1: The Riddle

There was a quickening, like when birds land

On a soft branch, and the tree tickled, hastens a blush

Through leaves dancing suffused with the richness of rain

A quickening, my blood feeling as if thunder is

Caught in its current, small explosions of a boiling so

Thick I need to hold on to a post that is not there

My hands catching air, hot, wet, particles from the belly

Of huge machines that huff and puff and blow the clouds away

There was a quickening, like when you stare at

Something so bright for so long, pain shoots up like

A bullet, up through that tender spot in your brain

Causing a bursting forth of colours in psychedelic proportions

As if you’re dead but not really dead

A quickening, a precipitation of tremulous sweat, heart-stops,

Eye-pops, soft mind-booms, rapid fire-breath overlapping

Enfant terrible and sprite, hellion and luminary

A hastening of masks, one after the other

As if I was there, when I was not

As if I was absent, but in truth

I was

I am

Everywhere.

My Favorite Surrealists: Focus on Joan Miro

The Lark's Wing, Encircled with Golden Blue, Rejoins the Heart of the Poppy Sleeping on a Diamond-studded Meadow, 1967, Oil on canvas

Dancer, 1925, Oil on cardboard

Ladders Cross the Blue Sky in a Wheel of Fire, 1953, Oil on canvas

The Farm, 1921-1922, Oil on canvas

Quick trivia for those who are too lazy to read the links below, The Farm was bought by Ernest Hemingway for 5,000 francs.  He loved the painting so much and actually said "I would not trade it for any picture in the world. It has in it all that you feel about Spain when you are there and all that you feel when you are away and cannot go there. No one else has been able to paint those two opposing things."

The Garden, 1925

If you want to learn more about Joan Miro, here are useful links:


http://www.joan-miro.info/
http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2011/mar/20/joan-miro-life-ladder-escape-tate
http://kateri.blog.com/2010/10/25/joan-miro-the-garden-1925-prades-the-village-1917/
http://joanmiro.com/
http://www.arthistoryguide.com/Joan_Miro.aspx
http://fundaciomiro-bcn.org/fundaciojoanmiro.php?idioma=2

Miro:  Sculptor by Michal Boncza
http://www.morningstaronline.co.uk/news/content/view/full/117684


Whole New Dimension:  Miró’s sculptures reveal how the challenge of a new medium
inspired the artist in his final years 
http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/a7afc2f4-7296-11e1-9be9-00144feab49a.html#axzz1rnQQ6P5P

Excerpts from Banana Yoshimoto's N.P

From page 15, Kano's observation on Otohiko's appearance:

From page 191, Kano, looking at Otohiko again:

I have a bone-deep love for this book.  It consumes me.

Marcos Island

Marcos Island is my favorite among the many places to explore in the Hundred Islands (Alaminos, Pangasinan).  It's clean, its got a good clean white sand beach (although a bit small at around 600 sq. m), there are numerous trails you can hike, plus there's a nice cave called ... guess what ... the Imelda cave.  The Hundred Islands is a good place to visit, it may not offer the stunning views of Palawan or our other more popular beaches, but it certainly has its own charms.  Plus, for budget travelers like me, it's affordable and you can just go on a road trip or take the bus which is most of the time cheaper than going to places that you can only reach by plane or ship.


Here are some photos I took of my sister going up the trail that leads to the mouth of the Imelda cave:

The Return of The Walking Cliche

I'm writing a character whose moniker is The Walking Cliche.  I've written something before about me being a walking cliche but, this one's not me.  (Really.  Erase that smirk on your face.  Read and judge ... or not.  You wanna die?)  Here's a sample of one of her monologues:

I'm craving for the dependability & comfort of a cliché moment. Like biting into a Magnum almond bar. Or drowning in the sweetness of a pastel colored cupcake with an equally sugary name like Vanilla Sunshine. Hmmm hold on there, those are all slightly expensive clichés.  How so cliché bourgeois of me. Apologies.  Okay let’s go down the ‘the-best-things-in-life-are-free’ route:  I want that no-bullshit honesty of a cliché moment.  Like when two young girls promise they will be best friends forever. Or when a dog asks for a belly rub and returns it with adoration & loyalty that knows no bounds. Blue sky, emerald waters, coconut trees white sand, really, who doesn’t want that? Walking barefoot, taking pictures of the sunset,  waking up to see the sun rise and with it the promise of a new day.   When somebody tells me to take a hike out of annoyance, I just smile.  Take a hike? Sure, and while doing it I will still take nothing but pictures.  And I will scream the devils away when I reach the summit (the most cathartic of all clichés). It sure is much better than screaming into a pillow (but that would work too, if you had no other choice). There’s nothing more real than the sturdy fixedness of trees so go on, hug them.  It’s so true what Joyce Kilmer said anyway “I think I shall never see.  A poem as lovely as a tree.” (Did I mention to you I’m blind?) Want to learn how to survive life?  You have two options, you either swim against the currents or go with the natural flow. Feel down?  Eat chocolate! Dance under the rain!  Do all the cliché moments that make you feel good, anything to stop you from pulling your hair, scratching your eyes out or worse of ‘em all, do everything you can to stop you from eating your own shit.  Or making yourself so spiteful you make other people eat your shit.  Ew.  Yes, it’s a cliché moment, but still, try to do it with some class.  Like let’s say a cat that just sits there and looks at you with so much indifference and superiority.  Heck if I had nine lives I’d be all pompous and royal assed too.  And my most favorite cliché of them all, it’s not the cheerleader who will save the world, no not even the caped crusader or that flying man in red briefs – love, love will save the world.  Yes John Lennon, I’m singing with you, ‘all we need is love’.  Yes Bono,  ‘love is a temple love a higher law’ that even though ‘we’re not the same we get to carry each other’.  And yes Bob Marley, ‘as it was in the beginning (one love!) so shall it be in the end (one heart!) …. Let’s get together and feel alright.”  So go ahead. Ride that unicorn, travel on rainbows, be somebody’s sunshine, kiss under the moonlight, hold hands, jump for joy (and make sure to take a picture, that’s the cliché rule), catch all those lemons life throws at you and go shoot tequila, go rock ‘en roll coz really man, punk’s not dead and rock stars live forever and dreamers free your mind and flower children legalized it and they were first to get it right: make love, not war.  Love moves mountains, love saves, love is the one ring that will rule us all, love love love …  Love is, and will always be, the answer.

P.S

I was munching on cheese the entire time I was writing this.   

The Year of Reading Madly & Writing Dangerously

I'm on a mission.  I've been delaying this for the longest time.  I tried locking it away, I tried to bury it, I tried to eat the key, burn the spade, I tried to throw it towards the deepest foulest bowels of my mind's hell, I tried everything to keep my heart from reaching out and claiming what it always wanted.  I've climbed in and out of shit pits, sinkholes, black holes, made an asshole of myself, I bled, I crawled, I've traveled the depression highway, blindly (and barely) surviving the labyrinthine urban guerilla warfare I imposed on myself, and yet I kept on refusing that one thing that I know could truly save me.  I need to write.  Or to borrow words from one of my favorite writers Adrienne Rich - "You must write, and read, as if your life depended on it."  And truly now, my life does depend on it.  I know it will not get me out of the financial rut I'm in, I know I might turn out to be the worst wannabe writer in this fickle cruel world, I know it will not provide me the comfort and stability people say I should have achieved at my age, I know it will not provide a solution to any of my so-called "real life" problems.  I know too that if I don't start opening up my mind and let all the words, stories, images gush out, my imagination will rot and fester away into non-existence.  When you are all alone feeling like shit for something that you regret you did or didn’t do, or for whatever reason you suddenly find yourself inside the pitch-black cavern of moods, where the darkness is a viscous liquid fear attempting to drown you in wretchedness, imagination is the only thing that can save you. 

“Logic will take you from A to B.  Imagination will take you everywhere.” (Albert Einstein)

“What is now proved was once only imagined.” (William Blake)

This year started with me reading voraciously and writing sporadically.  This must change.  I need to sit my ass down everyday for a few hours and fuckin’ write.  I need to finish all the stories, all the poems I’ve started.  I can no longer defer this dream.  I need to write as if I’m traversing a very sharp narrow mountain ridge where the winds are strong and the drop full of spikes and boulders.  I need to write as if I’m dancing on hot coals.  I need to write as if there’s an electrical storm happening inside my body, with lightning shooting off my sweat pores.  I need to write as if I’m a rocketship shooting towards the sun, skirting it’s teasing licking flaming tongues.  I need to write like a lioness stalking an equally vicious prey.  I need to write as if a hot thick bubble of poison is waiting to explode inside my mouth. I need to write as dangerously as a supernova waiting to happen, daring to explode, consume an entire galaxy but birthing new stars in the aftermath.  I.Need.To.Write.

The writing process is different for every aspiring nut like me who wants to take on the big fat trolls and muses and lava surfers prancing around inside one’s mind.  Thank goodness for the masters who came before us, generous with their nuggets of whimsy and inspiration:

Kurt Vonnegut  http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/04/03/kurt-vonnegut-on-writing-stories/

Margaret Atwood  http://gu.com/p/2f62t

Jack Kerouac http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/03/22/jack-kerouac-belief-and-technique-for-modern-prose/

Junot Diaz  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/11/05/junot-diaz-creating-a-str_n_1077760.html

Adrienne Rich  http://www.nbu.bg/webs/amb/american/5/rich/writing.htm

Federico Garcia Lorca’s Play and Theory of the Duende is my Narsil, my patronus,  my direwolf, my own ferociously tenacious weapon against that mammoth of a villain called mental block.  http://www.poetryintranslation.com/PITBR/Spanish/LorcaDuende.htm

These are my other valuable sources of techniques and inspiration:

Taken randomly from my shelf, some of the books that continually astound me:

A very good advice (that I failed to follow wholeheartedly) from one of my literature professors was this:  Keep everything you write. No matter how ugly you think it is now, keep it. It may just prove useful later on.  Thankfully, I managed to keep a few.  

My old and new journals

Old drafts of poetry

A long long loooooong time ago, I used to make lists that I believe will inspire me in my writing journey. 

A list of mythological characters

A very old list of films and music I wanted to hear/see

I have a burning curiosity that makes me want to experience and try a lot of things.  I take photos, I shoot videos, I celebrate moments through various mediums available to me.  And I DOODLE, a lot.  I'M NO PAINTER, how I wish I am but I am sadly not. I just love to play around with color from time to time.  It helps "de-clutter" my mind.

And to end my personal rumination on writing, I'd like to share with you something from, again, Junot Diaz:

You see, in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden.  In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway. 

   

Imagine ...

Sometimes, in the middle of work, my mind goes into overdrive and piles up so many images and words into my mind that I end up getting confused on what to do first.  "Do I stop working and write first?  But if I start writing, I end up delaying my work!  No, must.finish.work.must.finish.work!"  And that's what I do, and then after a while it happens again, and the cycle continues.  I suppress my own imagination and it scares me that it might actually, like a taken-for-granted person, pack its bags and leave me forever .  And if that goes, I go.  Imagination keeps me sane and alive, no matter how crazy and demented some of the things that do cartwheels inside my mind are.

A Photo A Day: Akasagarbha Bodhisattva

Guardian Deity for persons born in the Year of the Ox and Tiger

A Photo A Day: Sisters

Princess & Queen Elizabeth Pacquiao (shot this pic last December 2010, during our Pacman-Jinkee photo shoot for Health Today. Location: Pacquiao residence, Gen San. Not being the main photographer sometimes has its benefits - being free to roam around, I sometimes chance upon spontaneous, lovely moments such as this).

A Photo A Day: Up the Lighthouse, Beside the Clouds

A Photo A Day: Old Bike Old China

I love taking pictures of old things.  

Coz life's a raw ghetto dream ...

Untitled. Rhyming exercise.

And you’re swaggin’ like a mofo

With all those paint on your torso

Even with all that shit ya still a so-so

Your dipstick hangin’ like a broncho’s

So quit fuckin’ yappin’ at me ya’ bozo

I’d rather catch a sniff & fly with my dodo

Even ride the night train with a hobo

And frenchkiss him under a mistletoe

So ya gotta stop trippin’ me like a yoyo

I ain’t all love & peace & boho

Beat you up & dump ya ass on a rickshaw

You ain’t ever tastin’ my shiznits you junko!

WoohooS & BoohooS

Morrissey is coming.  Here.  In the Philippines.  Morrissey, who in MY list of my favorite, greatest most iconic male lead vocalists, is up there with Kurt Cobain (Nirvana), Michael Stipe (REM), Thom Yorke (Radiohead), Robert Plant (Led Zeppelin), John Lennon (Beatles), Roger Daltrey & Pete Townshend (The Who), Jim Morrisson (The Doors), Bradley Nowell (Sublime), Mick Jagger (Rolling Stones), Axl Rose (Guns n' Roses), Steven Tyler (Aerosmith), Joe Strummer (The Clash), Ian Curtis (Joy Division), David Byrne (Talking Heads) and of course Bob Marley (Bob Marley & The Wailers).  There are a lot of others who are of course equally great but for me, these guys are the lead rocketships that propelled everyone into space, the Vostok 1, the Yuri GagarinS of music, elevating their genre into mind-blowing, out-of-this world greatness.  And Morrissey, lead vocals of my most favorite 80's band The Smiths, is coming to town.  And all I can say is ... %$#@!  Because I might not be able to watch him.  Out of all the other shows I've already missed (Whitest Boy Alive, Incubus, Death Cab for Cutie, and tonight, Toe), this will prove to be the most heartbreaking of them all.  Dolores (Cranberries) is coming also, might be as heartbreaking but my love for Ms. O' Riordan merits another post, hailing other female lead vocalists as well.  Oh boohoo how this blows. One of those rare times I really wish I chose the path more travelled, where a steady income is available twice a month ... "I was looking for a job, and then I found a job, and heaven knows I'm miserable now. In my life, why do I give valuable time, to people who don't care if I live or die?"

Integrity (Adrienne Rich)
      the quality of being complete; unbroken condition; entirety ~ Webster

A wild patience has taken me this far


as if I had to bring to shore
a boat with a spasmodic outboard motor
old sweaters, nets, spray-mottled books
tossed in the prow
some kind of sun burning my shoulder-blades.
Splashing the oarlocks. Burning through.
Your fore-arms can get scalded, licked with pain
in a sun blotted like unspoken anger
behind a casual mist.

The length of daylight
this far north, in this
forty-ninth year of my life
is critical.

The light is critical: of me, of this 
long-dreamed, involuntary landing 
on the arm of an inland sea.
The glitter of the shoal
depleting into shadow
I recognize: the stand of pines
violet-black really, green in the old postcard
but really I have nothing but myself 
to go by; nothing 
stands in the realm of pure necessity 
except what my hands can hold.

Nothing but myself? ... My selves. 
After so long, this answer. 
As if I had always known 
I steer the boat in, simply.
The motor dying on the pebbles
cicadas taking up the hum
dropped in the silence.

Anger and tenderness: my selves. 
And now I can believe they breathe in me 
as angels, not polarities. 
Anger and tenderness: the spider's genius 
to spin and weave in the same action 
from her own body, anywhere -- 
even from a broken web.

The cabin in the stand of pines
is still for sale. I know this. Know the print
of the last foot, the hand that slammed and locked the door,
then stopped to wreathe the rain-smashed clematis
back on the trellis
for no one's sake except its own.
I know the chart nailed to the wallboards
the icy kettle squatting on the burner.
The hands that hammered in those nails 
emptied that kettle one last time 
are these two hands
and they have caught the baby leaping
from between trembling legs
and they have worked the vacuum aspirator
and stroked the sweated temples
and steered the boat there through this hot 
misblotted sunlight, critical light 
imperceptibly scalding 
the skin these hands will also salve.

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.