Iris
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I'll be darned.

I think I may have to reactivate Pluto, create my own planet and just string these people together like cut-out artwork. I then ask after : What did I do to deserve the additional stool (chair, not the other expropriation), propping me up quite prettily like Lucy, pearl eyed and all, so I'd be nearer my favorite celestial bodies?

The film makers, by their resumes, do the usual : brilliant executions. Looping with Mcs and Alice in Wonderland and I even saw my own browned children appearing from nowhere. Sometimes I wonder if I can still breathe with all this lush of creativity pouring in, in and in.

My foster father (forgive his sublime yet sharp flash warnings) told me : Offspring, they are doing it, everything your own creative scripture had predicted. Much more, they are all revved up.

Beatrice Affectation, never do a voice-over job to Bob, it makes him look gorgeous as if he ain't already (waiting for the rib, I know I'd get slapped for this).

Above all these, I owe one of my cruelest motivations from one writer who admonished me not so long ago with : "Do not e-mail me. Go fly a kite!". The name is Tom Bissell. I was praising what he wrote and he told me to do some leisure flying. Wherever harped portion of the world you are now Sir, I saw your name in one magazine and got muted by your writing position (near the border of Azure, I am making this up of course). I always go : "What the heck."

Anyhow, this is getting sappier, but how else can I unbind this criss-crossing of sick but absolutely brilliant minds? Perhaps, that is my sin. A super-turbo-invention sin.

I AM NINOY
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I will always equate today's relevance in my country with one extraordinary name: Ninoy Aquino.

Just when I thought everything he had thought, said and done is lost in this generation of blitzkrieg info, came an ad titled "I AM NINOY" (I also loved the commercial ad done for a chocolate brand which the brain tipped me off). It is a badge that is easy to wear. It is a socially cool and hip creative yarn with Ninoy's glasses doing a statesman Lennon. He was a true conscience sparkplug and this creative work kind of pricked again that lost sense of decency among us. To the team behind this responsive output, my absolute respect. Come out and be proud.

Why are you Ninoy? The difficulty of squaring off that query is enough testament that the best thing a Filipino can do, stirs and inspires the whole planet but with a somewhat frightening caveat: a solitary responsibility at its hardest. But then, flowers bloomed after the social awakening and that ought to get passed around, unimpeded, lighting up decisions in whatever form. I am a fan of the man and I am the first one to say, his words need to get flourished. I am proud to be Filipino because of two reasons : Ninoy and its artists, both living and dead.

I have one personal request. I had been reached in a galactical way by this hero's kid who is now an entertainment figure in this country. Very forthright woman. Oprah can perhaps do a special on people like Ninoy or Havel straight from the mouths of their children. Real Heroes' Sons and Daughters who had carried on the dreams of their ascendants in quite quiant, oblique and different worlds. I know my personal endorsement wouldn't back off from any tough question with her public, colorful life ----just to fan the spirit that honesty IS cool and truth, palatable. She said in quite a candid and funny way that she had paid her taxes and almost wept at the amount she had to shell out. I guess, that is her way of saying : I want to see infrastructures rightly put because I had paid my dues.

I am doing this because of her father primarily and I am doing this for her talent, albeit secondarily, but deserved.

AWED AND CONQUERED
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I just watched the intestined brain's tremendous effort to connect. He always makes me feel so unworthy despite his truth, his passion, his creations.

I never, ever, forever, comprehended the extent of Stiller's description of this corned wall until this grey matter talked. I really do not know. Bob made me pee on my pants laughing yesterday (badly framed shots but I envy the film library---the cleanest in the grocery/household list) and today, this walking cerebrum was actually opening his mouth, quite fidgety. And words came out. And he is wearing THE costume of the land, my land, talking about being a stalker/fan. I did want to break down, right in front of the monitor, wanting to sob like a drowning baby, the tears forming the words "confused by how far and wide words can engulf this blue planet." Quaint did the opening shot, correct? So Kill Bill. Really now? I am astounded. I have never felt so dumb in my life. Like me, there must be some acting coach's tremor in the voice but I never misjudge the world-class, gorgeous, mass appeal sincerity (I am mimicking you as if you didn't notice). I could not cry because we are a noisy race and I am with my countrymen right now. I could not repudiate that.

Yes, me. So many opened doors, lending credence to something I can only fantasize. I am looking up on those faces, huge, huge faces moving for a changed world while I am struggling with personal, domestic things. For bringing the best of your creative outputs to my tiny ear cartilages and my rather watery irises now...........you already know the next words to this sentence. Gratitude. It is free. It is felt. Eaten even.

Truth be told, there is an affront to my process by sectors you already know: all the blahs and blechs. It is happening. If the Ohio brothers of Harvard can only speak on my behalf, I am sure they can produce something out of this.

How to filter confessions that people like THESE wanted to go on-line to decob the cob, I am inclined to say, "what the------hair". But with all your resumes loudly and proudly presented as credentials to your productive outputs, I now go "what the-----scalp." Hahahaha. I am so amused by all the frenzy before. I did not anticipate the magnitude. Henceforth, I predict, I will continue being dislodged from my seat of star-struck awareness.

Yes, you all know I want to be with you, creative, genius nuts (still working on the tearducts but tears won't fall because I am laughing, laughing, laughing and it is merry, merry, merry).

I am taking the challenge quite seriously. Seriously Dave, the world's floor is all yours. You are everything what your books present : a truly staggering gift without the fancy ribbons. I love you too as a respect. You know the drill to that.

And to Mr. Spock's assistant : One question, what's that old fashioned cellular phone doing in your hi-tech house? It stands out like a clueless loser hehehehehe. Love you too man.

STAR TREK VS. STAR WARS
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Confession: there was some fusion of farting and melancholy as I was browsing the world wide spiderman's web--aiming to find gems to my jewelry. I did not realize how untechie I am until now. Thus, I understand my cursing foster father who guiltily parted with his typewriter, like having to write without his hands, getting ribbed for being so old world. These young 'uns communicate fast and visually, too.

This ignorance shielded me from the magnets of doom I presume.

In one of the funniest home videos, a girl with cropped hair got chased by a furball and she had to run. It is exteremely displeasing to have those offhand slurs getting in the way of reconstructing national consciousness. Had these bad echoes of tambourines read (I mean slumping on a chair, ingest letters, understand its contents and not wear Andy Warhol since there was a typo error committed on the artist's name), they will regard it as trash. These had been confessed in a superb literary way like Sylvia Plath's character eating her Japanese blooms before. I guess we all know our lineage in a grammatically right sort of way even before we went berserk.Had these book characters stole the "living on a jetplane" life forms, I will be the first one to raise hell. But they toiled it. They know their lay-outs first before they knew their lifestyles. I direct my pieces to artists. And they are artists, bohemes but evolving.

I too was invaded by no-brainers and I have to bear the brunt of their helplessness.

But I see your virtuosity again, especially the shyest and cutest mongrel ever to sing a tune. I am glad he is an offspring of a hot woman (Jesus Christ, did you read the first sentence of this entry?). The New Year present blew my socks off. It pisses me off you couldn't do this mainstream.I thought it was just snarl before, getting tangled up in outsmarting the wits of reality, its mundane, daily breathing. But there is affectionate love there. No wonder De Egg hates my inoperative wink and instead spreads cupcakes in Sudan. Writers are forever, not just diamonds. Thank you for reminding me it is no fluke. I am still harboring this wrong notion you are using your mother to deplanet Neptune.Defraud her to gain fame.But how can I fault them who are just innately inventive?

Silent Barney (laughter)....this is my take. Ever since I became a gem specialist, I noticed the improvements in the creative processes, your links and all. Impressing. That's a craftsman's unspoken motive. It works sometimes. All you've got to ask is : "Where's my corn cereals?" There is really a tremendous organ castration when this avowed Star Wars fan tweaks faith, pulling our t-backs off. Fellows, he is actually a sidekick of Mr. Spock. Damn it! I wouldn't tell you to shut up since you love my people and I saw the most genius comedians/actors in your side of the warring front embracing my often penniless circus. Can't you talk to Mr. Harvey? I am so bad in this unlobbying for butt-saving works. I am quitting. Hahahahahaha.Did the suit fit? To the engraving world, you should watch Star Trek,Nemesis, the uncut version. Whoopi G. is on it. This cult work had been invaded by slaves of Lucas.Funniest. Ever. And the making out part is a B-movie super action: tacky, like it is an ad for a laxative and I kept on laughing my larynx protested. Only some skewer in the sewer can do this. He tried to be Jimmy Stewart and ended up like........himself.Hahahahahahaha.

Well, I want to have Hand's hungry book at 8:57 sharp. I am finding ways to get this as a gift. Please check his site, it is still the smartest. Valencia is a food here. Arroz Valenciana. Aside from the foster father, you give the best tips on how to nourish the brain.

I am still checking, paying attention to your works.

A year ago today, I drafted a Manifesto, sort of pledge that swayed between two navigable, mushy islands: corniness and sappiness. But like the Declaration of Independence, this was the formal engraving of the hand jewelry prior to my home made quilt as superimposed to a sleeping wear. Long story, this known gibberish of mine, but if you write or hum, you know that this tale has, as one reality biter artisan had coined it, started a blog explosion.

Well, I have a story. It is not even in the head as of this encoding but germinating in lush, outside. Picked up by great people and continued. I will share it if the quilt family will command me that they will develop goiter if I do not.

What is happening to me, right at this moment?

I am in this unique rumination listening to a duet of what sounds like myself and a videogame character. Helplessly fetching. In my happyunce (not a word) sphere of meditation while "kulisaps" (shrill insects) twit-twit-twiteed, and while experiencing an aberrant stomach pang (I want noodles and burgers and sundaes), while this incomprehensible physiological script was running down my body, I accidentally looked down on my aching foot.

There it is. As I see it. Not the wound. The print.

A letter. (A letter?? The Chipmunks chorused. Just imagine the background).

Yes, a letter. (Oh, a letter!! This time around, by Barney).

I picked it up and read, munching mangoes sneaked in between writing these paragraphs ( gifts from God). I am writing it down here as I am reading it.

(Goosebumps insert).

"I could not think of any other applicable salutation, of any other opening line, but button, my blood veins speak thus, for you this day:

There is a rotten smell, decaying leaves, no walruses, badly polished nails, absentee inspiration but you lay, afloat, in the cartoon strip. Bringing a replica of your anatomy, x-rayed. You were telling me the most awful thing of finding work in your cute, large shoes. It was your eyes that caught my fancy. In the decapitated states of humanity going to and fro, assaulting your soul, hollering, bellowing, echoing like broken sanitariums, you sought refuge on my face and I did the same to you. That was sacred, that gulf finally connected, swam, waded in, watered, fixed, finally confirming that we OWN each other.

What am I saying? You asked me what's the most heart fluttering occurrence I have encountered, among many other things I had experienced. It is that previous paragraph. I saw your tiredness; I felt your fatigue; I wallowed with your disappointments but in that brief connection, in that gloomy, sad, desolate certainty, we shared the most peekaboo thing to occur in such dampness: we both made each other laugh.

I still couldn't give you much. I haven't given you anything. I always seek out what you want but I am comfortable with the thought that you do not want anything else in the world except to see me as myself.

You cannot say I do not love you to someone who you've always loved. I will never know how to break that chain because until now, when I hear us, calm beckons. Like balm to a tired spirit. I like it when you celebrate your birthday. It means another year of being able to utter this: I, still. IT.

Gladly,
Lying On A Couch Thinking of Spiders"

This is the part where you, readers and myself, do the Goo Goo Dolls test : Ohhhhhhhhhhh.

I finished reading it. I laughed because someone was shouting "Mommy!!!" as she cut in the consciousness. I want to be loved like that I suppose (wink). The woman who wrote it must have truly realized that the most important thing in the world may not be bought.

That being done, I am going to address my Valentine ilk, and my individual wishes for them, on the pretext that they all missed out the Christmas ramblings from this corn. They know they are adored like grilled hotdogs, bitten, genuinely teethed.

FOR THE HUBBY:

The laying foundation you've always wanted for our sanctuary. Subtext? None. Hahahaha.

FOR SKULLDUGGERY:

Why are you hanging those paper skeletons outside nipa huts? I want you to have a poetess with a heart of pure gold. Smart and beautiful who will protect and guard your heart as mildly and ungreedingly like your Mom, her who respects and sincerely loves your entire galaxy of do's and don'ts, your colossal confessions, your smirks and curses. You have written a lot of things and I've never been prouder when they alloted your works for reasons that surf and wave across continents. You have definitely arrived as you should in that genius guild and I was with you in that flight.I truly adore your personhood and your talent.

FOR HOSPITAL WING

It took quite a long time for you to emerge as a favorite. But you know you earned that well. Thank you for allowing me to watch your creative genius upclose. You are a fine burst of creativity that is not simply fireworks. It is skyscrapers meeting protons and neutrons and Milky Way and films and misspells and mispronouncements. I love you for putting up your genius to good use even if you hate the work sometimes. You have always followed my lead even when you whine too much. Where my mind goes, so you creatively toil. Know that when you are hit, I too, wound. (Icccckkkkkkyyyy, the siblings massacred this line). I am proud that in your toughest decisions, you have always put into consideration what your Mother says. You took assignments that clash with your lifestyle but held on. I do not wish anything for you but to be more and more like myself and less and less of your bathroom sibling. (Hahahahaha).

FOR FATHER OF THE HOBBITS

I have to tell you upfront: You have invented the most difficult thing to craft in this profit-propelled communication trajectory, a world often smocked with whirlwind loyalties and misplaced usages. Poetic Convictions. You started that in these islands. You want to know what my other dreams are? I dream of watching the goings on in this world someday, not as seen through sponsors and affiliations but through artists' interpretations. You had fused the chaotic but tranquil edifices in Quiapo (two differing religious structures fronting each other). I haven't read in long years that illuminating grasp of observation as seen through slicing eyes to the wonders of places that we often dismiss as already irrelevant. My wish is for you to get acknowledged (thanks for the potato tip) rightly, free from bone aches.

I would like to see you own a flashy car, perhaps. Leno or Oprah can give you that I suppose. With the emblem: Fruit of My Writing. I know you'd hate the surplusage but aside from the boys, the best ride of my life was given by a dilapidated jeepney with wires tied up by loosened ropes, pauses here and there, conversations replete with fires of hell, totally a crumbling ride. When I alighted, I was told: "That's the unluckiest road trip you've had." I replied: "Nope. I'd rank it as the first, in fact, for sheer gut and grit."

I would like the boys to grow like your triumvirate, you and your blabbering buddies. Moons do curse and they curse nicely too.

The best take off point about my country is through you. You couldn't get more value from this Head of the Family. From the ink of this man, you'd see our race in proper klieglights.

FOR UNCLE ROUGHEN / KING JIM'S COURT

This is a new entry. I know. I got old eliminating terrible omens in my life and with wrinkles peeking out soon, it must be worthy that I still remember the brilliancy of your sentences: built horizontally by the diamond plate, spoken in debating manner by 'al shook up'. You love books and I love your libraries. I have known your fleshly presences before I finally respected your creative outputs. I wish, more men and women thinking, creating, snorkeling (I do not know where this came from), shaping up the world in words, melodies and visuals along your mold, passionate with life, speaking like this writer in passages and loving the ruddy mud and dirt and grime like you do the fragrances of heaven.

FOR DAUGHTER

I can't say much; you have playfully dolled up people in truly cinematic manner. You look well even in the most austere uniform. Thank you for uttering thy name when troubled (it makes me feel like a crude saint), thank you for being honest with your choices. You own up without bugging it up and that's greater than all the envious mudsling thrown at you. It is difficult to be both smart and pretty. If I made you a better person, I would have done my job as your reader. You are beautiful inside out. You dressed up children below 3"(rolled up shorts, turtlenecks, shining umbrellas). They walked down roads like stars, from my window, and wouldn't your heart feel glee when I know, that was done as homage to this writer? I wish you a man who can soulfully rejuvenate your passion and unleash your innate goodness.

FOR BRIM AND KARATE

For using your clout to uplift the plight of my chosen ones, my loyalty is deserved. You have been there since Day One. For showing up the faces of the affinity with much pride, my profoundest gratitude. Never failing, never seeking for any exchange. Thank you for setting up the example of celebrity support and for loving the literary (often neglected) craftsmen of this country. Finally, they have a voice in mass medium.

FOR THE BOOKER

I haven't searched for the right word yet. Bookish? No. I did not know that beyond the tart and swipes and invasion of the world, you have worn the marginalized sections of our society with much grace. I see your face and I tremble; of the brain behind that stoic face. Your pieces are truly a delight. That handshake description with the dead political aspirant is the best opening line I have read from a political essay. I see your print and I know something great is coming out from the oven. Always. I wish you own the discarded manuscripts of Ian McEwan and let's both fool around with them (hehehehe).And that we can both visit Kafka's grave while G's daughter complains.

FOR JOSHUA TREE

Hey smartboy. Unlike your siblings, you have shown a classic example of pure calm, truly pure calm in your outputs. Silence, you brought me silence. Voice, you also lent me that. You never minced words on what I ought to do, without offending. I like that simplicity, the bringing of like minded people, of humility, of providing protection to the bullied siblings, of doing your thing with people in the universe. Thank you for never, ever, giving up the vision.I truly love your friends. Thank you for believing and for slimming down. You truly look terrific now. (an atonement for my first offense). I wish you a woman without my fierce mouth. Hahahaha.

FOR THE QUID HUMDRUM

Bingo. I do not know why you never show any terror when I am commenting on your works. You truly make me laugh. The Gulong ng Palad parody brought me one week of guffaws. You are having fun with your job and I like seeing that kind of adrenalin shot to our national consciousness. I will not apologize for giving you your maturity, you need it. Someday, I will not give you a trophy but an..........elevator. Not elevator shoes. Just plain elevator. So you can go up and down and observe the people inside and create stories out of that going up and going down mobility of theirs. You are one brilliant artist. Truly. The brood will give you your Scorsesesian moment. Believe You Me.

FOR MY FRIENDS AND CLASSMATES

You know who you are.....we've met along the byroads in different spectacles but I must have done something good for you to cover for me. I will do the same thing, even when unasked, no questions, no fuss, no slambangs. Thank you for knowing me.

To the outside world: I will invade you soon. (Disclaimers coming......and they are coming......and still coming........).

I love each rib of you.