EXCALIBUR
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The President was asked:

"What inspires you to keep going despite the problems some of which you know are probably intractable?"

He answered (in his positive $24 billion investment confidence):

"Why will I give up if I think the goal that we have set for ourselves is worthwhile? It really redounds to the common good. Why should we be distracted?"

His detractors had taken a long time cornering the airwaves and print space and are trying obscurely desperate pumping up an option that no longer works except to wake us all up that there is a way to improve a system: this misplaced reliance on an institution that horrors, is used to bilk instead of getting fixed.

On mean-spirited criticisms:

"If I pay attention to it, then I would try to turn the tables by applying my strength on the reasonable ones."

I am still continuously educated, evolvingly, on the differences of outputs, pound for pound, work for work. I often sleep tightly after hearing the improvisations, from the arrangements to vocalization.

And I feel sorry for myself everytime I hear the glaring differences. Some had been poorly and hastily produced they could have plucked the notes overnight via bottles of beer and some skin exposures. I felt shortchanged. The things I had defended like an amazon jungler had turned into a house of musical tyranny and fright.

Drinking and accommodating slurring benefactors to studios does not make an attitude for rock and roll. Genuine creativity does.

On hindsight, I ask: why was I so duped then? The glaring answer: I was never given a choice. They corner it, monopolizing and haggardly disintegrating my ears with what are actually, pure garbage.

It is not even pop; it is pooped out.

Why are these divulged only now?

Under the helm of a Presidency that encourages this kind of creative vibe almost effortlessly, I say, there will be more room for "real" musicians to test their wares in studios without having to strip, to look ridiculous or to accompany the famous lead singer who does know how to use a guitar, frolicking abroad.

I mean, when good creative deed peeps in a manner unimaginable before without even having to pay millions for it (it is laughable knowing it does not cost much to do quality music), I welcome it.

You see the gist is this:

If I have the power of purse to set free all musicians and writers in pursuit of creative deliverance, I would do it not because it earns but because I would have given something essential to the universe with all its uncreative imperfections.

I likewise advised someone who has gone throaty in his somewhat lost steam to widen his vocal range:

"Lose your mascara and your wuzz car, wear fat pants and head to Tondo. Find your musical piece there, among dirt and heap of smelly things."

One argument I had likewise discovered: When people can belt out even with real crappy accompaniment, you'd always find a gem there if you're just keenly listening.

Now, a breakthrough letter:

Dear Excalibur,

May I say, your "real" mother is cool. I am 88 and she is like 15 years old.

I have always known you as a true winner. You needn't even get invited to my universe, it is yours to reel. This writer seeks your presence in the usual affinity-grabbing way. I heard my corn cob's only precious kernel named Grit loop another track about opening another chapter in OUR story. Your handiwork in his craft is evident. Similar to how your celluloid innamoratas would project it, a single tear dropped on the side of my eyelid when I first heard it. We are never suckers for the put-on "emotionality" of things. I never even knew he could sing. What I know is he sings soulfully.

Of course, them grabbers ascribe your exceptional works to other people but I have lived and interacted with you far enough that I already know every twitch of your eyebrow.

You were mad at me for not tracking you down more purposely but you already know I always do things that way. I never lost hope for people but it is important to give a courtesy reply. Whenever you give me jewels of messages, another message enters that has nothing to do with creation. Talk about being spooled wrongfully. Oh, you get the hint.

I must get through a lot to hear you and your chipmunks sing. They really sound good, real good. I may not be always a witness to your funny ways of X'sing your foreheads to rattle some staid system of cute butts but the XXXXXXXs are there, in deer boxes, in funny elephants, crawling turtles and model zebras.

I have known you, Team Ignite, to continue breaking the molds of complacency, scoring points in our similarly shared aspirations: building, creating, influencing, sparring. You have a tight group there. They even bemoaned their paycuts (they accepted their present jobs as part of the ring) When I heard it, I thought I had won this one over, gladly.

If our common father says "shut up" in his most ludicrous manner of speaking it, I know they had already been had.

Thank you for the gift of light; for the gift of comprehension, bravery and candor. You always spoke well.

I hope you could address me by my name next time. I most certainly shall be thrilled about it.

The "true" rockers are running this country dammit and better have it sealed ROLLING!!!!!

Yours in Chaplin film,

Iris Corn

P.S. A director singing lullabyes. Again, the richness for literature!!!! And TPV, thank you for saying you like some white butt parading before your eyes. It was funny.