Reverse Criticism or How My Words Landed in Incognito Dissection
By: Iris P. Concepcion
“And now those entities known as foreign countries would occasionally present themselves for inspection---over the littered and clamorous sundecks/ In Paris he sat at café tables, watching the sullen French faces go by. In Athens he looked up from his ouzo at what he called the ugliest people in the world. In English hotels he read Sprengler and Marquis de Sade/ (Ligas) People in my town have a way of putting it that is unlike any other in the world-----they speak of this pag-i-sung-ko which means, literally,to meet, to go to the cemetery to meet one’s dead and hold converse with a cherished presence indistinguishable from the fragrance of ripening grain, the murmur of creeks, the whisper of bamboo grooves.”
Take hold of the bars, the separation in slants in the quotation above, wonder why they are used even outside poetry. If you have lain in my bed, these are passages from three different books sleeping with me till eternity. The first one is extracted from a British (Amis) author who created a character on a boat deck, the second one an American (Kerouac) in that cultish road book and Kerima Polotan, a Filipina who is peerless in her own league this side of the planet. I strung them together for a purpose.
In the mystical world of letters, exceptional writers are created equal. One may be sipping tea, the other gorging on hamburger and the last one, suman (rolled sticky rice), with diverse economic backgrounds to boot. But in sentences, they can slug it out and provide details to a world as fine as, if not superior than visual Nature itself. And they truly SEE.
And thus, one damp day, as my mother’s house clothes (daster, duster, I do not know the origin of this word) were hung in hangers on a recently dead tree which reminded me of Yamamoto’s black clothes displayed over Japanese flowery blossoms, as I am confined to connecting these linking dots again, I was lent a book on criticism by a person in fisherman’s hat who seemed to have skipped from a leaf as the last standing actor in one of my short stories. Sometimes, graces fall on my lap that definitely alter Time itself.
I know De Egg adores Eliot and in the local setting, most of my Valentine recipients too, particularly the driving Quixote and Bone.
Here is my experience of opening, reading, skimming the criticism pages, all the while marvelling over its pencilled annotations. I planted myself to its print as if I were ink. In this rather gauche exercise, I encircled my own, ballpenned, marking :”nice” which is attached to a Bech-ian persona (I was compelled to encircle it repeatedly until my conscience pinched me that I do not have this edition). There is likewise a mention of a “reward”, a gift perhaps from the Galaxy and Star Troopers. The editor is a fusion of Wonder Woman and Bionic Woman combined.
I am struck by the “About the Editors” information on the backcover. Eliot is regarded as “one outstanding novelist, playwright or poet.” The editor is likewise ascribed as a distinguished teacher or critic. The word “or” is used instead of “and”. It is as if the presence of one crosses out the other.
If I were an apple, I would like, not to be pared down, but cored (remember Portnoy and his own experience with this fruit?) like what the knowing contributors had studied in Eliot’s works.
Once upon a time, Mr. Updike wrote a review of P. Larkin’s works. The critiqued poet must not have understood his works as skillfully as Updike had uncurtained them. Yes, it is “Your lovely pear tree, pear tree, pear tree” in K. Mansfield’s Bliss. “Look, look what you’ve done,” as one Australian rock band had sung (Jet), imploring the naïve writer that what he had originally sought purely as a process of becoming one with his words, no doors slammed in between, resonated beyond the sphere of selfhood’s word quests. Like a still river awakened as a newly opened fountain by a thrown bottle, the author finds his words, not as mere formations of language but, in a startling manner, extraneously dressed up: clothed with the usual suspects symbolisms and meanings, plus the most important adornment of all, a genuine creative familiarity.
I summed up this reading experience as a heave of release. Indeed, writers are one’s best connections to a world that is remote, apathetic and cold. They make remoteness near, apathy sympathetic and coldness warm.
Being eye to eye with them is nothing, like a haze to a snowstorm. The real wuthering action is in the mutual recognition of the felt “flimsy proof-sheets”. These are where the lady and unladylike, gentle and ungentle men of letters confoundingly meet.
The hornest’s nest is finally, stirred.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
I have seen sweet looking and bright kids in flashing boots stepped on imaginary snow; impressive statement shirts worn by the most unusual faces and making bravery like some kind of worn hip.
Hush the tired nerves; benumb the whipped souls. Keep the strength because this writer draws strength from those unhurried gaits and heavenly presences.
I have deeply known your unscornful hearts, your own friends as my buffers. They do provide laughter.
The sister of the universe has wonderfully transformed the faces with pretty adornments but the sincerity is seen through the heart. You do not know how brilliant you are. Someone has to tell you that.
Propel the rocket, shine the skeleton, gingerize the beautiful voice, hug bear the intelligent giant.
And thus, in the sensing of this affinity, you have connected and did it well.
Smiles and cheerful appreciation.
Hush the tired nerves; benumb the whipped souls. Keep the strength because this writer draws strength from those unhurried gaits and heavenly presences.
I have deeply known your unscornful hearts, your own friends as my buffers. They do provide laughter.
The sister of the universe has wonderfully transformed the faces with pretty adornments but the sincerity is seen through the heart. You do not know how brilliant you are. Someone has to tell you that.
Propel the rocket, shine the skeleton, gingerize the beautiful voice, hug bear the intelligent giant.
And thus, in the sensing of this affinity, you have connected and did it well.
Smiles and cheerful appreciation.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Hello.
Those who had been seen lately, be warmed. My favorite creatures donned mommy polos in skinny jeans and hit back with materials straight from Norway (read the Nobel). The jousting arsenal has just gotten floored by some men with, hmmmm, totally ferocious minds and creative outputs that could never be replicated. The killer shorts just got busted. Read the comic characters I had propagated as doubles to your whackers. They are cool. And they fit to a t.
Yes it spread, and when the protruding untalent went mad, you got better. What a way to explain. Cool smirk. Healthy muscles. Expressive minds. Free souls.
Writers, you walk more regally than anybody I have seen. You understand this because you link up with my brain. Effortlessly.
My respectful vow and respect.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
"We all jumped to the music and agreed. The purity of the road. The whiteline in the middle of the highway unrolled and hugged our left front tire as if glued to our groove. Dean hunched his muscular neck, T-shirted in the winter night, and blasted the car along."
-"On The Road" by Jack Kerouac
(I enormously adore the adjectived T-shirt in that line)
"Sons strapped
To the bosom of a Mother
Like beauty pageant scepters
Declaring two beauties."
-Quoting myself straight from a yellow pad
Howdy.
What an awkward greeting but today I say howdy for reason that saying hi is no longer normal.
Anyhoo. (my apologies to you fatboysmart :-) )
When people ask me, and from where I traipse around with much ungait, few inquisitors are shaped in this mold, when they ask me what I do now, blank-faced, I normally reply : Nothing.
In the realist existence though, my answer could be this: I am providing necessary company to someone who truly needs a companion : my mother. It all boils down to that and I will leave it as that.
In the celluloid-type of justification though, probably mouthed by someone donning something Victorian as far back (sort of) as Ava Gardner's ringlets, this could also be my answer: I am doing this, this kind of writing, for my readers.
I had beed hankering for space which I equate with print, a column space, something that goes into press, something that is carried by a bow-legged boy in baseball cap at 6:00 a.m. that sells the newspaper with my byline peeking out from his armpit to a man in tie who reads it over his black coffee---I had been wanting this kind of reading set-up until it hit me right on my nose bridge that I am complaining for sorely, naught. I have THIS space. Much more, I do not have "normal" readers. I presume they have strung together column spaces of their own or with much humility to this group, are owners of these column spaces.
The best homage given to this writer, with her little sentence ripples that created some funny splashes in one tiny globe, came from a foreign magazine which naturally fused my concerns in one issue (lit-pol-cult areas). The people behind that issue made my blog not only walk but RUN and they wrote introductions worth to get plaqued (not the teeth, but recognition plaques--if Kerouac can do T-shirted, surely I can do plaqued). They hit the heads of my sentences' nails without being high-handed. That's as a group.
Individually, my best readers reside in my country and they are now squinting their eyes. Thank you very much.
Why do writers write? To whittle down the world like that orchid guy played by the actor Cooper explained? How about this:
When I do my marketing (if you are genuinely putting my words in the receptacles of your memory, an activity that often produce apparitions of the third kind) you will recognize that it is my favorite subject.
I have seen some of Brunettes Osmosis' circle. Some looked like they came from concentration camps but it is all good. The writers of words wore their syntax (kind of) on their faces, flesh-packed in one jeepney. Accompanying my free spirits. Anyhow, I have to single out one aging man who offered me boiled peanuts (these people always munch this brain food like they want to enlarge their brains in proportion with Hulk Hogan's biceps. I am sure he came from Tahiti, labored in Italy if he is not plowing the field in my hometown. He brought along dirty sacks, and bags, and some food. He looked like he came from the farm. Soiled pants, sweaty shirt, tangy smell. But kind. Here is the whopper though, where the spaceship enters with the clouds clouding if this were sci-fi, this is the slambanging visual: With his very proud plebeian look (I admire that), his cap had never looked so spaceborn and overpowering. It killed all the smell in that jeepney, if I were to describe it in precocious detail.
Picture this with his look: His cap had never looked so happily forlorn and radiant, worn backward, an authentic (not a counterfeit) black denim D&G. It transplanted itself from a brand to....I could not write this, that hemline guy will throw the volcano at me, accusing, you are such a sell-out, but I am not....the cap became a cultural smirk, kick-ass accessory. It is really a pretty sight, the absence of symmetry of the head apparel to the environment. His head is 16 years old, the body, 50 plus. That's out of the box in surprise random.
Oh, the musicians. Under the care of strums and drums, there is an awful lot of vibe on the road, like Kerouac, but with a purpose. Keep the flow flowing even if some people nitpick your tremendously unmonolithic life structures. Creem friends. Creem. Lester Bangs too. Be honest even if it means being unmerciful.
Now, there is really a world of affinity OUT THERE. Some walk. Some run. Some sit down. Some stare. Some sell. Some buy. Some.....just float.
I write because there are subjects worth writing about. There's my answer.
-"On The Road" by Jack Kerouac
(I enormously adore the adjectived T-shirt in that line)
"Sons strapped
To the bosom of a Mother
Like beauty pageant scepters
Declaring two beauties."
-Quoting myself straight from a yellow pad
Howdy.
What an awkward greeting but today I say howdy for reason that saying hi is no longer normal.
Anyhoo. (my apologies to you fatboysmart :-) )
When people ask me, and from where I traipse around with much ungait, few inquisitors are shaped in this mold, when they ask me what I do now, blank-faced, I normally reply : Nothing.
In the realist existence though, my answer could be this: I am providing necessary company to someone who truly needs a companion : my mother. It all boils down to that and I will leave it as that.
In the celluloid-type of justification though, probably mouthed by someone donning something Victorian as far back (sort of) as Ava Gardner's ringlets, this could also be my answer: I am doing this, this kind of writing, for my readers.
I had beed hankering for space which I equate with print, a column space, something that goes into press, something that is carried by a bow-legged boy in baseball cap at 6:00 a.m. that sells the newspaper with my byline peeking out from his armpit to a man in tie who reads it over his black coffee---I had been wanting this kind of reading set-up until it hit me right on my nose bridge that I am complaining for sorely, naught. I have THIS space. Much more, I do not have "normal" readers. I presume they have strung together column spaces of their own or with much humility to this group, are owners of these column spaces.
The best homage given to this writer, with her little sentence ripples that created some funny splashes in one tiny globe, came from a foreign magazine which naturally fused my concerns in one issue (lit-pol-cult areas). The people behind that issue made my blog not only walk but RUN and they wrote introductions worth to get plaqued (not the teeth, but recognition plaques--if Kerouac can do T-shirted, surely I can do plaqued). They hit the heads of my sentences' nails without being high-handed. That's as a group.
Individually, my best readers reside in my country and they are now squinting their eyes. Thank you very much.
Why do writers write? To whittle down the world like that orchid guy played by the actor Cooper explained? How about this:
When I do my marketing (if you are genuinely putting my words in the receptacles of your memory, an activity that often produce apparitions of the third kind) you will recognize that it is my favorite subject.
I have seen some of Brunettes Osmosis' circle. Some looked like they came from concentration camps but it is all good. The writers of words wore their syntax (kind of) on their faces, flesh-packed in one jeepney. Accompanying my free spirits. Anyhow, I have to single out one aging man who offered me boiled peanuts (these people always munch this brain food like they want to enlarge their brains in proportion with Hulk Hogan's biceps. I am sure he came from Tahiti, labored in Italy if he is not plowing the field in my hometown. He brought along dirty sacks, and bags, and some food. He looked like he came from the farm. Soiled pants, sweaty shirt, tangy smell. But kind. Here is the whopper though, where the spaceship enters with the clouds clouding if this were sci-fi, this is the slambanging visual: With his very proud plebeian look (I admire that), his cap had never looked so spaceborn and overpowering. It killed all the smell in that jeepney, if I were to describe it in precocious detail.
Picture this with his look: His cap had never looked so happily forlorn and radiant, worn backward, an authentic (not a counterfeit) black denim D&G. It transplanted itself from a brand to....I could not write this, that hemline guy will throw the volcano at me, accusing, you are such a sell-out, but I am not....the cap became a cultural smirk, kick-ass accessory. It is really a pretty sight, the absence of symmetry of the head apparel to the environment. His head is 16 years old, the body, 50 plus. That's out of the box in surprise random.
Oh, the musicians. Under the care of strums and drums, there is an awful lot of vibe on the road, like Kerouac, but with a purpose. Keep the flow flowing even if some people nitpick your tremendously unmonolithic life structures. Creem friends. Creem. Lester Bangs too. Be honest even if it means being unmerciful.
Now, there is really a world of affinity OUT THERE. Some walk. Some run. Some sit down. Some stare. Some sell. Some buy. Some.....just float.
I write because there are subjects worth writing about. There's my answer.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Briefly, An Interlude
By: Iris P. Concepcion
No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm troubled sphere;
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
-Emily Bronte-
This really happened:
It began with a simple text message from a
teacher-friend who teaches at the public elementary
school where I graduated from. She asked me where I am.
I replied, the house, of course. Minutes ticked slow. After which, this compelling
message flashed. If I may fruitify this, it elicited both alarm
and suspended responsibility from me:
"Can you write a script for our Valentine pageant?"
Dear readers, how does one Barbara Cartlandize grade school students?
How does one brainwash kids in the territory of Mills and Boon world?
That is the question. I came from a long line of history that involved me being planted in the props artistry of my deceased father.
If you see my kiddie pic sitting on a giant frog, that was the Prince circa 70's as designed
by him. Last year, if I am to recall with awe,
the pageant script had a scene where the only cure to the illness
of lovers is a skin torn off from a lion.
I need to preserve history. Personally, this is a very tall order.
I managed to string the words together, in "makatang Pilipino"
(I imposed upon myself the need to be poetic in our national language
which is naturally lyrical). My mother checked the
final draft. It is my curse, not being able to write fluently in
Filipino which is a very expressive language, phonetically---
swimming with the plains and valleys of numerous vowels.
Someone told me that every creative output is derivative. I rage against that before,
protecting like hawk the originality of one's mind. But we are on a time table; the world is
all agog about love; there are four days to go before
practice proper; my computer monitor, in one
fashionable way of breaking down, totally crashed.
To derivative inspiration therefore, I succumbed.
In long hand I drafted the scenes. You take off from
Zeus to Nativity to Monsters to Musicals to Trials
and you have a pageant. You cannot cmplicate this with a
Romeo and Juliet tragedy. You do not want parading
heartbreaks like grilled gizzards in full view of young minds.
This is my first time to tackle this kind of creative undertaking.
I do not have a background whatsoever to boast of in
theater or playwriting. Words I chew, spit, mold, make, create. Actions?
Zilch.
I realized the importance of a) voices b.) sound effects
in this creative engagement.
We tapped the services of one guy to handle sound engineering. He does
computer and is a total greenhorn on this aspect like me.
We felt like newly-hatched eggs. I need wind, I need rain, I need jungle
sounds, I need baby cries as if I am speaking from the
Book of Genesis.
And this guy immaculately delivered. All performers
were kids. They were amazing. The teachers directed
them, slicing off scenes like committee hearings (you are in charge of this and that).
During the rehearsals, the King of Hearts who was tiny
you can hold him with the palm of your hand cried
not just rivers but the Black Sea. Appeased by the father, he kept
on working on his tear ducts nonetheless. The teachers
explained he was afraid of the monster who is a fixture in the 'tree of life' scene
(the would be queen was raised by her parents in a tree house where
mongrels roam around below). The mask looked terrifying indeed.
The wearer, one time, took it off and when asked by the teacher-directress why he removed it
he simply said: "It stinks."
Two days of reahersals and we have somewhat mastered when to put in the sound effects. I was
with this sound guy all throughout because everything
hinges on the proper mix, turning up background music,
all that pop jazz. The audio equipment we used during the rehearsals
was not the unit to be used on the pageant itself. To any artist in
a live act, this is quite terrifying. What if it will conk out? It will surely ruin
the whole caboodle. Besides, we have to choose songs for the Prince and Princess
to sing. That's always my creative slant. There should be music humming along
with the spoken words.
Pageant Day itself. The Queen arrived late. Someone was asked to sing, plucked from
among the audience. And this is where I saw this year's
greatest Valentine story, at least, for me.
The boy who sang is the son of the teacher who tasked me to write the script.
He belted out a Mariah Carey song. The notes were
impossibly high. He forgot the lyrics, the mic didn't function well.
He bravely sang nonetheless while the mother on the sideline kept on cheering on:
"You can do it. You can do it." Mother left the stage
and carefully wiped the tears, dropping loosely from her
eyes, straight to the hankie. I asked, why? She said "I pity my kid."
But the song was rendered heartily. That is motherhood I surmised.
Shielding. It is all about shielding a child from any torrent
of unlove.
Finally, the queen arrived. The pageant began with wind blows
(weirdly, an egoistic attempt to elevate myself to the status of a rock star).
It was great to my ears. I love watching young people
totally immersed with the actions. They were like ambulatory tourist spots.
They laughed, were spooked out, They hooted when scenes got loving. It is a stage out there and the inheritors of this Earth are there watching. Since I know what
my words are all about, I revelled in viewing the varied
reactions from them.
It never truly hit me until now what a serious responsibility writing is, or what a serious responsibility teaching is.
I adore the kids. They are obedient; they ask the proper, often funny questions;
they are respectful. They can be a handful (you have to compete
with their marbles, rubber bands, toys) but these people are
rewards themselves. Now I understand Eggers, his
creative theory more than ever.
The sound effects, narration and acting worked smoothly
in the end through the help of the Great Divine Planner.
In one story titled " The Destruction of the Goetheanum",
a line there tweaked me. It goes : "The shapes sang to him.
It was a fortification, a terminal, an observatory from which one could
look into the soul."
This pageant as a wondrous experience made me connect the pliability of human
shapes. And they sang to me.Their souls bathed in their
flexibility.
Creativity moves; it melts; it enriches; it provides a great
playground to embrace minds; it fulfills the cycles of humanity.
Another point I got from this experience: Do not begrudge The
Beatles for preaching "All You Need Is Love". After all, we
all came from this powerful word in four melodic letters.
And this likewise happened:
I was marketing for catfish in a market and then came a lanky person with truly distinct and definitive features, looking straight at the writhing fishes. He was viewing the peddled water creatures in the observant microchips of his eyes. I paused and thought, he looked like someone I know from law school. But he is towering. My mind was traveling in and out of onions, tomatoes, peppers---a real spicy deliberation. At that precise moment, I did not fully grasp the extent of what was being ingested by this visual realization.
This creature, dismembered perhaps from a long queue of godly creators, simply walked. He could be a ghost, a clone, a Jupiterian (Martian is so yesterday), an inferno, who knows. When he was near me, he wasn't exactly looking at me so he must have detachable or portable eyes on his ears or chin---one could not speculate how he combs his world irisfully---but on instinct, I crinkled my nose. I do this when I am carrying heavy bags. Without looking, he likewise crinkled his nose.
Before this hilarious mimicry of my little self, we shared a rather fishy moment. We were both piously staring at this array of catfishes being chosen for a semi-Marie Antoinette (the vendors in my country usually hit their heads with wood) beheading , like we are both thinking of verses and porcupines and even Hitchcock. We stood there, frozen, smartly dumbstruck, looking like curious portraits. It was truly dramatic, now that I am writing this as recalled. Beckettian even. We are waiting for Godot through the eyes of a catfish. I think we looked funny, if one were to infuse our backgrounds with samurais crossing over our poker faces while the song of Styx blares "the two of us were quite a pair" and the catfish's head being violently pounded for my dinner. The song will of course refer to the wood and the catfish. It is such a happy tragedy. I got on with my marketing, he got on with his business and when I hit home, I asked : "Was that the Cyprus son?"
By: Iris P. Concepcion
No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm troubled sphere;
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.
-Emily Bronte-
This really happened:
It began with a simple text message from a
teacher-friend who teaches at the public elementary
school where I graduated from. She asked me where I am.
I replied, the house, of course. Minutes ticked slow. After which, this compelling
message flashed. If I may fruitify this, it elicited both alarm
and suspended responsibility from me:
"Can you write a script for our Valentine pageant?"
Dear readers, how does one Barbara Cartlandize grade school students?
How does one brainwash kids in the territory of Mills and Boon world?
That is the question. I came from a long line of history that involved me being planted in the props artistry of my deceased father.
If you see my kiddie pic sitting on a giant frog, that was the Prince circa 70's as designed
by him. Last year, if I am to recall with awe,
the pageant script had a scene where the only cure to the illness
of lovers is a skin torn off from a lion.
I need to preserve history. Personally, this is a very tall order.
I managed to string the words together, in "makatang Pilipino"
(I imposed upon myself the need to be poetic in our national language
which is naturally lyrical). My mother checked the
final draft. It is my curse, not being able to write fluently in
Filipino which is a very expressive language, phonetically---
swimming with the plains and valleys of numerous vowels.
Someone told me that every creative output is derivative. I rage against that before,
protecting like hawk the originality of one's mind. But we are on a time table; the world is
all agog about love; there are four days to go before
practice proper; my computer monitor, in one
fashionable way of breaking down, totally crashed.
To derivative inspiration therefore, I succumbed.
In long hand I drafted the scenes. You take off from
Zeus to Nativity to Monsters to Musicals to Trials
and you have a pageant. You cannot cmplicate this with a
Romeo and Juliet tragedy. You do not want parading
heartbreaks like grilled gizzards in full view of young minds.
This is my first time to tackle this kind of creative undertaking.
I do not have a background whatsoever to boast of in
theater or playwriting. Words I chew, spit, mold, make, create. Actions?
Zilch.
I realized the importance of a) voices b.) sound effects
in this creative engagement.
We tapped the services of one guy to handle sound engineering. He does
computer and is a total greenhorn on this aspect like me.
We felt like newly-hatched eggs. I need wind, I need rain, I need jungle
sounds, I need baby cries as if I am speaking from the
Book of Genesis.
And this guy immaculately delivered. All performers
were kids. They were amazing. The teachers directed
them, slicing off scenes like committee hearings (you are in charge of this and that).
During the rehearsals, the King of Hearts who was tiny
you can hold him with the palm of your hand cried
not just rivers but the Black Sea. Appeased by the father, he kept
on working on his tear ducts nonetheless. The teachers
explained he was afraid of the monster who is a fixture in the 'tree of life' scene
(the would be queen was raised by her parents in a tree house where
mongrels roam around below). The mask looked terrifying indeed.
The wearer, one time, took it off and when asked by the teacher-directress why he removed it
he simply said: "It stinks."
Two days of reahersals and we have somewhat mastered when to put in the sound effects. I was
with this sound guy all throughout because everything
hinges on the proper mix, turning up background music,
all that pop jazz. The audio equipment we used during the rehearsals
was not the unit to be used on the pageant itself. To any artist in
a live act, this is quite terrifying. What if it will conk out? It will surely ruin
the whole caboodle. Besides, we have to choose songs for the Prince and Princess
to sing. That's always my creative slant. There should be music humming along
with the spoken words.
Pageant Day itself. The Queen arrived late. Someone was asked to sing, plucked from
among the audience. And this is where I saw this year's
greatest Valentine story, at least, for me.
The boy who sang is the son of the teacher who tasked me to write the script.
He belted out a Mariah Carey song. The notes were
impossibly high. He forgot the lyrics, the mic didn't function well.
He bravely sang nonetheless while the mother on the sideline kept on cheering on:
"You can do it. You can do it." Mother left the stage
and carefully wiped the tears, dropping loosely from her
eyes, straight to the hankie. I asked, why? She said "I pity my kid."
But the song was rendered heartily. That is motherhood I surmised.
Shielding. It is all about shielding a child from any torrent
of unlove.
Finally, the queen arrived. The pageant began with wind blows
(weirdly, an egoistic attempt to elevate myself to the status of a rock star).
It was great to my ears. I love watching young people
totally immersed with the actions. They were like ambulatory tourist spots.
They laughed, were spooked out, They hooted when scenes got loving. It is a stage out there and the inheritors of this Earth are there watching. Since I know what
my words are all about, I revelled in viewing the varied
reactions from them.
It never truly hit me until now what a serious responsibility writing is, or what a serious responsibility teaching is.
I adore the kids. They are obedient; they ask the proper, often funny questions;
they are respectful. They can be a handful (you have to compete
with their marbles, rubber bands, toys) but these people are
rewards themselves. Now I understand Eggers, his
creative theory more than ever.
The sound effects, narration and acting worked smoothly
in the end through the help of the Great Divine Planner.
In one story titled " The Destruction of the Goetheanum",
a line there tweaked me. It goes : "The shapes sang to him.
It was a fortification, a terminal, an observatory from which one could
look into the soul."
This pageant as a wondrous experience made me connect the pliability of human
shapes. And they sang to me.Their souls bathed in their
flexibility.
Creativity moves; it melts; it enriches; it provides a great
playground to embrace minds; it fulfills the cycles of humanity.
Another point I got from this experience: Do not begrudge The
Beatles for preaching "All You Need Is Love". After all, we
all came from this powerful word in four melodic letters.
And this likewise happened:
I was marketing for catfish in a market and then came a lanky person with truly distinct and definitive features, looking straight at the writhing fishes. He was viewing the peddled water creatures in the observant microchips of his eyes. I paused and thought, he looked like someone I know from law school. But he is towering. My mind was traveling in and out of onions, tomatoes, peppers---a real spicy deliberation. At that precise moment, I did not fully grasp the extent of what was being ingested by this visual realization.
This creature, dismembered perhaps from a long queue of godly creators, simply walked. He could be a ghost, a clone, a Jupiterian (Martian is so yesterday), an inferno, who knows. When he was near me, he wasn't exactly looking at me so he must have detachable or portable eyes on his ears or chin---one could not speculate how he combs his world irisfully---but on instinct, I crinkled my nose. I do this when I am carrying heavy bags. Without looking, he likewise crinkled his nose.
Before this hilarious mimicry of my little self, we shared a rather fishy moment. We were both piously staring at this array of catfishes being chosen for a semi-Marie Antoinette (the vendors in my country usually hit their heads with wood) beheading , like we are both thinking of verses and porcupines and even Hitchcock. We stood there, frozen, smartly dumbstruck, looking like curious portraits. It was truly dramatic, now that I am writing this as recalled. Beckettian even. We are waiting for Godot through the eyes of a catfish. I think we looked funny, if one were to infuse our backgrounds with samurais crossing over our poker faces while the song of Styx blares "the two of us were quite a pair" and the catfish's head being violently pounded for my dinner. The song will of course refer to the wood and the catfish. It is such a happy tragedy. I got on with my marketing, he got on with his business and when I hit home, I asked : "Was that the Cyprus son?"
Monday, February 11, 2008
I do not know how to begin again. The funny repartee, the slapstick goofiness : how to begin, that is the recurring question, yet again.
But then, one must. So, I do.
I am scaling down my voracious need to preach, moderate my greed to a mere bump. I figured, the fine things in life are, to my amazement, all aloft. I just need to look up.
The V-day is coming on like a huge axe hanging over our heads, trying to be cute and in cusp (this is my new favorite word), falling.
But what's best to remind everyone : this is the best day to celebrate these people who claim they have loved and to the consternation of the astrologists, really do.
1.) Mother and Son
S: Why from among the kids with rosier cheeks, plumpier tummies, bigger brains did you make me?
M: May I remind you son that mommy did not create cheeks, tummies and brains but love?
S: What a corny thing to say Mom.
M: I did not invent corniness, son.
2.) Husband and Wife
H: Why did you suddenly get cold with me? Is that PMS?
W: No. If you are still bothered by the most atrocious domestic occurence like a woman's cycle, it still means that you care.
H: And you call that love?
W:If that isn't, I really don't know what is.
(Both laughed and cherubic faces who were previously anorexic got huge)
3.) Man to Woman
M: What's your name?
W: I am not baptized yet.
M: That's pretty silly.
W: And yours?
M: Ginataang Bungo (skull in coconut extract)
W: My point, exactly.
(Both laughed and dungeons and daggers appeared)
4.) Truck driver and Window Lady
TD: I am not appreciated, not in a scale like I would want to.
WL: I see your truck bigger than my conjured apathy
TD: What does that mean?
WL: If I know your details, you're worth watching. Be glad with that.
5.) Headquarters and Post
HQ: When I grow up, I'd collect pictures of eyes.
P : An optometrist?
HQ: No. Catcher of eyes and everyone will give a toast to my obra maestra.
P: I am giving you an advance plaque of appreciation. With a replica of my eyes.
6. Quezon City and Mordor
QC: Why the silence. So much is happening around you. Your unrage is unsettling. It upsets me.
M: You complete that scene. For the monumental Cannes-like appearance, my rage then. I am not worthy, oh, I am so not worthy.
7. Twister and Curly
T: Get off your butt and work. I gave birth and you are still stoic? Blah.
C: Oh my God, it is her! The walking written word in pregnant form.
T: Such drama. Remove that snot from your nose.
C: And what a thrill!
8. Purple Haze and Auntie Anne
PH : Want to have pretzels?
A:You think that's my shape?
PH : You are curvier, legs (evil laughter)
A : Awww shucks. You embellish the untruth.
9. Poet and Non-Poet
P: Drown in your domesticity/ In bluish waves
NP: Hell, yeah.
10. Barbecue Korean and Namesake
BK: Admit that we made you happy, at least with a smile.
N : I walk down the road and feel that the world of popularity never had this gracious hosts. Thanks for housing my people. I never forget that. Lineage is enough badge of honor.
BK : Don't forget to exfoliate honey, okay?
11. C and I
C: To the saltmine, fight.
I : Fight, to the saltmine.
(Both laughed and fainted)
12. Classmates
We always return to our Father who reminded us to be in awe of the world always. Breathe in the wonders surrounding you, they are for free. We are taught of what we should bask in. Happiness, it is.
13. Writers/ Artists / Vendors / Pedestrians / Hodgepodge People
We create, we create, we create. To live, to live, to live.
This is a love letter to the universal world. If I botched it, just remember you had been lovingly picked.
Happy birthday to the reason why pride still bursts : I am proud of you. You know when it is IT, it is capitalized.
But then, one must. So, I do.
I am scaling down my voracious need to preach, moderate my greed to a mere bump. I figured, the fine things in life are, to my amazement, all aloft. I just need to look up.
The V-day is coming on like a huge axe hanging over our heads, trying to be cute and in cusp (this is my new favorite word), falling.
But what's best to remind everyone : this is the best day to celebrate these people who claim they have loved and to the consternation of the astrologists, really do.
1.) Mother and Son
S: Why from among the kids with rosier cheeks, plumpier tummies, bigger brains did you make me?
M: May I remind you son that mommy did not create cheeks, tummies and brains but love?
S: What a corny thing to say Mom.
M: I did not invent corniness, son.
2.) Husband and Wife
H: Why did you suddenly get cold with me? Is that PMS?
W: No. If you are still bothered by the most atrocious domestic occurence like a woman's cycle, it still means that you care.
H: And you call that love?
W:If that isn't, I really don't know what is.
(Both laughed and cherubic faces who were previously anorexic got huge)
3.) Man to Woman
M: What's your name?
W: I am not baptized yet.
M: That's pretty silly.
W: And yours?
M: Ginataang Bungo (skull in coconut extract)
W: My point, exactly.
(Both laughed and dungeons and daggers appeared)
4.) Truck driver and Window Lady
TD: I am not appreciated, not in a scale like I would want to.
WL: I see your truck bigger than my conjured apathy
TD: What does that mean?
WL: If I know your details, you're worth watching. Be glad with that.
5.) Headquarters and Post
HQ: When I grow up, I'd collect pictures of eyes.
P : An optometrist?
HQ: No. Catcher of eyes and everyone will give a toast to my obra maestra.
P: I am giving you an advance plaque of appreciation. With a replica of my eyes.
6. Quezon City and Mordor
QC: Why the silence. So much is happening around you. Your unrage is unsettling. It upsets me.
M: You complete that scene. For the monumental Cannes-like appearance, my rage then. I am not worthy, oh, I am so not worthy.
7. Twister and Curly
T: Get off your butt and work. I gave birth and you are still stoic? Blah.
C: Oh my God, it is her! The walking written word in pregnant form.
T: Such drama. Remove that snot from your nose.
C: And what a thrill!
8. Purple Haze and Auntie Anne
PH : Want to have pretzels?
A:You think that's my shape?
PH : You are curvier, legs (evil laughter)
A : Awww shucks. You embellish the untruth.
9. Poet and Non-Poet
P: Drown in your domesticity/ In bluish waves
NP: Hell, yeah.
10. Barbecue Korean and Namesake
BK: Admit that we made you happy, at least with a smile.
N : I walk down the road and feel that the world of popularity never had this gracious hosts. Thanks for housing my people. I never forget that. Lineage is enough badge of honor.
BK : Don't forget to exfoliate honey, okay?
11. C and I
C: To the saltmine, fight.
I : Fight, to the saltmine.
(Both laughed and fainted)
12. Classmates
We always return to our Father who reminded us to be in awe of the world always. Breathe in the wonders surrounding you, they are for free. We are taught of what we should bask in. Happiness, it is.
13. Writers/ Artists / Vendors / Pedestrians / Hodgepodge People
We create, we create, we create. To live, to live, to live.
This is a love letter to the universal world. If I botched it, just remember you had been lovingly picked.
Happy birthday to the reason why pride still bursts : I am proud of you. You know when it is IT, it is capitalized.
In silence I came
Your best excuse to wake up
Between two gentle souls
Shielded, my frailty, covered
I rattled and came
Awakened without excuse
Beside you freed
Love, my weakness, strengthened
Now on the road
No center pop light
Promised kiss flew
Dropped, my candy and peanuts, cracked.
We strike through wicked lanes
Bumped past trucks
Our heads lay together
Friends that mean
In name and mane
Pull us not away
Three sheels opened
Our pearls readily blessed
Your best excuse to wake up
Between two gentle souls
Shielded, my frailty, covered
I rattled and came
Awakened without excuse
Beside you freed
Love, my weakness, strengthened
Now on the road
No center pop light
Promised kiss flew
Dropped, my candy and peanuts, cracked.
We strike through wicked lanes
Bumped past trucks
Our heads lay together
Friends that mean
In name and mane
Pull us not away
Three sheels opened
Our pearls readily blessed
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
2008 and Reverse
By : Iris P. Concepcion
I do not completely miss out the signs, the vertebrates and invertebrates needling my fictive conversation balloon (the robust and cloudy spaces where you pour the words in for your sketched creatures if you were a cartoonist) to check if it still puffs.
Yes, the cloud still gets filled by nouns, adjectives, verbs, commas, colons, the whole sentence family.
I have four entries which are not yet transferred to this page, not the least reason for the slack being : I could not find a user friendly plug to transmit them. They are replete with zany sentences, initiated with love and kindness. When I have this sort of concoction, I do not expect everything to be that easy.
Anyhow, would you mind if despite what you have heard and seen and touched and analyzed, I am able to tell my story as is, addressed to the unnamed minions (they'd know anyway : such a clever bunch: visitors of thy space) in an apparent, obvious, clear, smudge-free writing delivery? I know you won't.
So I see. I have been flipping again this particular magazine issue without the Ahem qualifier because my sentence is not a dress (Asleeve, Acollar, Abutton---you get the drift). I agree with you that I was off (I lke that capsulized assessment : a simple o followed by two ffs) but there was something you were not clued in yet. Everything around me was briskly ON in 2007. That is the whole point why the year was a splendid production for everyone. I am still not owned except for my heart. I still worked for nothing (but I got paid too and that was new: I loved what I did so money came as fringe benefit). I did not beat the pros at their own game. I enticed them to join mine : the domesticity, the quantum physics involved in boiling an egg. The pros complained. The pros yawned. The pros scorned at my sloth. The pros waited. The pros gnashed their teeth. The pros got rained out. The pros got teary-eyed. The pros almost gave up. The pros tried to leave.
And they still want to be in MY world. What is that? Chasing their own selves but of course. I am a piece of what they thought had already eluded them. With all the hurly burly whirl of planet spinning, they had ceased, perhaps because their names get plastered on websites, screens, walls, newsprints to believe in that one true spine tingling moment: they are Muses themselves but couldn't acknowledge that fact because the p.r. kits keep on getting the way. Also, all these multimedia images have this bitter after effect of blurring the essentials sometimes. They sort of mix the legs of X with the eyebrows of Y. Yet, I cut through that sledge genuinely, democratically and dug your brilliancy with the keenest sense you can ever imagine.
All the rambunctious activities, these creative bends you seek, everything happened in my mind and you surprise me still : you keep turning up situations that I read, hear and see with exquisite fondness.
A poet signified thus: (this is another character; I am dusting off the hemline writer for now)This is so and so and this is how I want her to look like : followed by a blank space.
Pigeoning me in a hole is difficult. I shirk back to the edges ( a recurring theme in my stories I just realized) to admire the immediate space where I came from. I am never a Muse. I am a......whip to get jobs done rightly. When I pay homage to someone or something, that is not a fluke. Your ribs rattle so. Your eyes shift so, Your lips quiver so. It is not because I am paid to expand your egos, make them the Falco of pride or something. It is that old-fashioned, home-sewn reverie (feel the quilt! feel the quilt!) artist's longing : respect and admiration, finally, without the murky red tape and dough. Admit it: it feels spectacular to be truly liked and in a liking manner that ONLY I, the cobless kernel can do. I cunningly reversed our roles. Now, you are idolizing the fan. Was that intentional? No. It attained a life of its own. Gladly, we all passed through the burner and came out better pals, chaps, folks, blokes, friends, lovers, craftsmen, people.
And there are lots of you out there who had experienced this kind of rib rattling, eye-shifting, lip-quivering phenomenon.
There in a nutshell (picture a seashell with a nut instead of a pearl) is 2007. It is about you, reader, becoming a constellation (if you are already a star), star (if you are a lizard or someone like me), a muse, a beacon, a light, a comet, a shooting carnival (wait, this is too much even for a gush) simply because I SAID and WROTE so.
What can I say except, thank you still. I utter these words because I still do not know of any other way through which I can express my respect and admiration for what you all inspiringly do.
P.S.
You know how they find words to include in the dictionary?
So anyway, one could not just eat balbacua now (beef innards in rich, thick soup) without the word "expander" spelled out in menus or hung on a cardboard. I asked, what is that, a meat extender? No, someone explained. It is a balbacua variation for the guys. Have their manhood expand by ten times the original size or so the legend goes. Of course it is a source of comic retorts (horizontally or vertically?). I thought whoever coined the word must have a genius eye for detail. Expander then is the word. Meaning, a funny looking edible thing purportedly enlarging what is otherwise...normal? abnormal? misaligned? And horrors, what if women eat them too? And these sheepish men who order the delicacy, they could not even utter the word, much less intone it without blushing. And you thought Viagra jokes are funny? In my country, at least, humor is originally localized and it is definitely tops.
By : Iris P. Concepcion
I do not completely miss out the signs, the vertebrates and invertebrates needling my fictive conversation balloon (the robust and cloudy spaces where you pour the words in for your sketched creatures if you were a cartoonist) to check if it still puffs.
Yes, the cloud still gets filled by nouns, adjectives, verbs, commas, colons, the whole sentence family.
I have four entries which are not yet transferred to this page, not the least reason for the slack being : I could not find a user friendly plug to transmit them. They are replete with zany sentences, initiated with love and kindness. When I have this sort of concoction, I do not expect everything to be that easy.
Anyhow, would you mind if despite what you have heard and seen and touched and analyzed, I am able to tell my story as is, addressed to the unnamed minions (they'd know anyway : such a clever bunch: visitors of thy space) in an apparent, obvious, clear, smudge-free writing delivery? I know you won't.
So I see. I have been flipping again this particular magazine issue without the Ahem qualifier because my sentence is not a dress (Asleeve, Acollar, Abutton---you get the drift). I agree with you that I was off (I lke that capsulized assessment : a simple o followed by two ffs) but there was something you were not clued in yet. Everything around me was briskly ON in 2007. That is the whole point why the year was a splendid production for everyone. I am still not owned except for my heart. I still worked for nothing (but I got paid too and that was new: I loved what I did so money came as fringe benefit). I did not beat the pros at their own game. I enticed them to join mine : the domesticity, the quantum physics involved in boiling an egg. The pros complained. The pros yawned. The pros scorned at my sloth. The pros waited. The pros gnashed their teeth. The pros got rained out. The pros got teary-eyed. The pros almost gave up. The pros tried to leave.
And they still want to be in MY world. What is that? Chasing their own selves but of course. I am a piece of what they thought had already eluded them. With all the hurly burly whirl of planet spinning, they had ceased, perhaps because their names get plastered on websites, screens, walls, newsprints to believe in that one true spine tingling moment: they are Muses themselves but couldn't acknowledge that fact because the p.r. kits keep on getting the way. Also, all these multimedia images have this bitter after effect of blurring the essentials sometimes. They sort of mix the legs of X with the eyebrows of Y. Yet, I cut through that sledge genuinely, democratically and dug your brilliancy with the keenest sense you can ever imagine.
All the rambunctious activities, these creative bends you seek, everything happened in my mind and you surprise me still : you keep turning up situations that I read, hear and see with exquisite fondness.
A poet signified thus: (this is another character; I am dusting off the hemline writer for now)This is so and so and this is how I want her to look like : followed by a blank space.
Pigeoning me in a hole is difficult. I shirk back to the edges ( a recurring theme in my stories I just realized) to admire the immediate space where I came from. I am never a Muse. I am a......whip to get jobs done rightly. When I pay homage to someone or something, that is not a fluke. Your ribs rattle so. Your eyes shift so, Your lips quiver so. It is not because I am paid to expand your egos, make them the Falco of pride or something. It is that old-fashioned, home-sewn reverie (feel the quilt! feel the quilt!) artist's longing : respect and admiration, finally, without the murky red tape and dough. Admit it: it feels spectacular to be truly liked and in a liking manner that ONLY I, the cobless kernel can do. I cunningly reversed our roles. Now, you are idolizing the fan. Was that intentional? No. It attained a life of its own. Gladly, we all passed through the burner and came out better pals, chaps, folks, blokes, friends, lovers, craftsmen, people.
And there are lots of you out there who had experienced this kind of rib rattling, eye-shifting, lip-quivering phenomenon.
There in a nutshell (picture a seashell with a nut instead of a pearl) is 2007. It is about you, reader, becoming a constellation (if you are already a star), star (if you are a lizard or someone like me), a muse, a beacon, a light, a comet, a shooting carnival (wait, this is too much even for a gush) simply because I SAID and WROTE so.
What can I say except, thank you still. I utter these words because I still do not know of any other way through which I can express my respect and admiration for what you all inspiringly do.
P.S.
You know how they find words to include in the dictionary?
So anyway, one could not just eat balbacua now (beef innards in rich, thick soup) without the word "expander" spelled out in menus or hung on a cardboard. I asked, what is that, a meat extender? No, someone explained. It is a balbacua variation for the guys. Have their manhood expand by ten times the original size or so the legend goes. Of course it is a source of comic retorts (horizontally or vertically?). I thought whoever coined the word must have a genius eye for detail. Expander then is the word. Meaning, a funny looking edible thing purportedly enlarging what is otherwise...normal? abnormal? misaligned? And horrors, what if women eat them too? And these sheepish men who order the delicacy, they could not even utter the word, much less intone it without blushing. And you thought Viagra jokes are funny? In my country, at least, humor is originally localized and it is definitely tops.
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