Friday, January 22, 2010
Thursday, January 14, 2010
UNPUBLISHED PICTURES
By: Iris P. Concepcion
"God may have given him a voice with an amplifier built in, but it's the argument that carries the day."---(Bono on J. Sachs)
"The ideas in this book are not exactly sing-along but they have a hook you won't forget."---- (Bono)
I shall post the pictures later but these are their cascading stories.
They are the delirious running threads of the semi-gypsies in my own small, hometown.
The first visage was taken during a mass.
These two boys, let us call them M and C, left their seats, like two sweet tea cups in daffodils, to join me in my pew---the exact way bolts are fastened to door knobs that one can no longer unscrew. It felt like having two children sans the o.b.-gyne labor via the Virgin Mary spiritual osmosis way. They were playing with their cellular phones, a game of sort. I just felt a need to touch them, make them cozy with their bottlecap necklaces (they tied the pounded bottlecaps in an inexpensive string--looks priceless than Bulgari when they had it on), colorful slippers and sunny faces. Look at them and their effervescent smiles. You can just weep with their luminous forebearing.
I asked the older one what his name is. The younger one gave me a toothy grin. They later compromised who shall sit beside me, the younger one having that distinction, until the older one made his case clearly :"My turn to sit beside her." And they both obeyed like all sweet boys do. All throughout the mass, they were tailing, following me, prompting one to ask: "Are these kids yours?" I gave my polite: "No. But I would love to own them."
We ate together after. They were very independent, getting their own plates. Where I am, they too are. When knived, to my mind, the pair mirrors souls that are not only beautiful but distinctly beating with my very own. I love looking at them, honestly tightlocked and genuinely affectionate to people around them and each other.
Second pic is a memento I happily inherited from a debut function. I was given a girl figurine in a praying pose. In between my gobbling, a boy figurine was given to a friend I was conversing with. I requested if I could have it. I surmised, it, or he rather, could get lonely in the shelf by his lonesome with no companion to twiddle his thumbs with. He was given to me. I deduced, they'd be breeding rabbits now that they are together. I baptized them (since I had this long fantasy of being a priest who can sprinkle water on infants' foreheads--it looks like a rock-and-roll job description) after my name (the girl) and Joe (the boy). Even figurines have a right to be named, with full citizenship, sense of selfhood and voting rights, not to say the least. Besides, I couldn't name them Statue 1 and Statue 2 forever. They were both heavily lipsticked, plump in full bloom, to connote fitness with healthy cheeks and perhaps.....being rightly fed? They are no fairy tale characters but they believe in God, being rabid churchgoers. They live in Antarctica where fish thawing is extremely difficult. They have a pet whose name could not be disclosed until its furry skin appears.
These figurines would be sharing a bed soon while shrieking like faggots in midstream water being harangued by fat piranhas.
No, they'd be shrieking just because they are happy and not only that, they are happy being figurines and being named after spectacular persons.
The third picture features my youngest niece and nephew. Niece has a great shirt on, camouflaged by the dark, moony night. The Beatles, it said, with a helicopter that looks like a submarine with the line "nothing is real" underneath it. She is fiddling with her food while her brother eats like he could drown a tank.
We had swordfish swimming in vegetable water that night. We had pizza, spaghetti and hamburger the previous night and silently decided we can't be carnivorous forever. Their current vaudeville is satirizing Lady Ga-ga and fighting over who is going to be the next hottest pop princess. Exposures outside my town made them freshly cheerful and innovative.
It is kind of a retard world but these children are laughing and singing (hitting the right notes, exceptionally, except for the the boy who loves to awfully deconstruct even the most deconstructed songs). I gave him a P20 shirt and I think he can wear it on our next balcony party. Other children drop by and they also argue.
Even Bono saw through that: It is the argument that carries the day. Our argument is: No hecklers please. When you are mad, pipe it.
Sing.
By: Iris P. Concepcion
"God may have given him a voice with an amplifier built in, but it's the argument that carries the day."---(Bono on J. Sachs)
"The ideas in this book are not exactly sing-along but they have a hook you won't forget."---- (Bono)
I shall post the pictures later but these are their cascading stories.
They are the delirious running threads of the semi-gypsies in my own small, hometown.
The first visage was taken during a mass.
These two boys, let us call them M and C, left their seats, like two sweet tea cups in daffodils, to join me in my pew---the exact way bolts are fastened to door knobs that one can no longer unscrew. It felt like having two children sans the o.b.-gyne labor via the Virgin Mary spiritual osmosis way. They were playing with their cellular phones, a game of sort. I just felt a need to touch them, make them cozy with their bottlecap necklaces (they tied the pounded bottlecaps in an inexpensive string--looks priceless than Bulgari when they had it on), colorful slippers and sunny faces. Look at them and their effervescent smiles. You can just weep with their luminous forebearing.
I asked the older one what his name is. The younger one gave me a toothy grin. They later compromised who shall sit beside me, the younger one having that distinction, until the older one made his case clearly :"My turn to sit beside her." And they both obeyed like all sweet boys do. All throughout the mass, they were tailing, following me, prompting one to ask: "Are these kids yours?" I gave my polite: "No. But I would love to own them."
We ate together after. They were very independent, getting their own plates. Where I am, they too are. When knived, to my mind, the pair mirrors souls that are not only beautiful but distinctly beating with my very own. I love looking at them, honestly tightlocked and genuinely affectionate to people around them and each other.
Second pic is a memento I happily inherited from a debut function. I was given a girl figurine in a praying pose. In between my gobbling, a boy figurine was given to a friend I was conversing with. I requested if I could have it. I surmised, it, or he rather, could get lonely in the shelf by his lonesome with no companion to twiddle his thumbs with. He was given to me. I deduced, they'd be breeding rabbits now that they are together. I baptized them (since I had this long fantasy of being a priest who can sprinkle water on infants' foreheads--it looks like a rock-and-roll job description) after my name (the girl) and Joe (the boy). Even figurines have a right to be named, with full citizenship, sense of selfhood and voting rights, not to say the least. Besides, I couldn't name them Statue 1 and Statue 2 forever. They were both heavily lipsticked, plump in full bloom, to connote fitness with healthy cheeks and perhaps.....being rightly fed? They are no fairy tale characters but they believe in God, being rabid churchgoers. They live in Antarctica where fish thawing is extremely difficult. They have a pet whose name could not be disclosed until its furry skin appears.
These figurines would be sharing a bed soon while shrieking like faggots in midstream water being harangued by fat piranhas.
No, they'd be shrieking just because they are happy and not only that, they are happy being figurines and being named after spectacular persons.
The third picture features my youngest niece and nephew. Niece has a great shirt on, camouflaged by the dark, moony night. The Beatles, it said, with a helicopter that looks like a submarine with the line "nothing is real" underneath it. She is fiddling with her food while her brother eats like he could drown a tank.
We had swordfish swimming in vegetable water that night. We had pizza, spaghetti and hamburger the previous night and silently decided we can't be carnivorous forever. Their current vaudeville is satirizing Lady Ga-ga and fighting over who is going to be the next hottest pop princess. Exposures outside my town made them freshly cheerful and innovative.
It is kind of a retard world but these children are laughing and singing (hitting the right notes, exceptionally, except for the the boy who loves to awfully deconstruct even the most deconstructed songs). I gave him a P20 shirt and I think he can wear it on our next balcony party. Other children drop by and they also argue.
Even Bono saw through that: It is the argument that carries the day. Our argument is: No hecklers please. When you are mad, pipe it.
Sing.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
New Era
By: Iris P. Concepcion
There is one story in Eggers' seminal, breaking out from pain book "A Heartbreaking Work of A Staggering Genius" that dealt with the loss of the author's parents. He had confessed he could not cry as he watched people coming in and out of their abode in animated actions during the wake. And for his extraordinarily bawled by shocking revelation: he confessed he felt horny in his time of grief. He is a weird man and that explains for that Plath-Hefner mesh.
I only claim to the not fully crying tightly; not the salacious side. Someone asked me why I haven't broken down in full view of the weeping gallery. I said: I have grieved for five years already though not solely on a day by day basis because that would be totally soapy and zilched. In between and in millions of hours, I have interacted with exciting personages who inspired me to write volumes of works I can honestly say I am extravagantly proud of. They made me laugh beyond my mouth can stretch out. With views so astounding.
I wrote about a talking kettle, a flying girl, a sublime witchcraft story inveigled with poignancy and urban synthesis--I mean I haven't shut off the plugs to brilliancy. I am not there fully but I am on my way to that place of writing kingdom. God forgive me my arrogance. It is a new leaf branching out from a chair instead of a tree.
To return to that grieving story, I underwent three hospitalizations via taking care of my mother. Its workplace perhaps dysenthesized me from the pain of loss. I had cried then to engulf the universe with floating teardrops. Now, it just wouldn't come because of the pre-falling. I thought I had lost my mother the first time but she had survived. I had been there with her that is why I know my way back to recovery via that process.
I miss the mother who took care of me as a kid. She was hefty, big, and beautiful, one time sporting a Shirley Temple hair in white gown. She is the kind of mother that I had kept close to my heart all these years. A beacon to his children. She is irreplaceable. That is the reason I stayed with her. My way of thanking for the years of fortitude accorded me. I just want the world to be filled with her kindness, for a change. Am shooting for the moon but what gives?
Someone advised me before: Why complicate when you already have that seamless understanding of how things completely shape? It does not lead to power tripping alcoholics with quite testy mouths (the smell stinks) but those whom you had genuinely BEEN with.
Thank you very much for allowing us to sing melodiously that drowned even the worst of grief invented in my side of town. I know the faces of the heroes and I keep a montage of your resilience and sincerity.
I can now work to feed myself and I have to locate the treasure map for it. Finally.
By: Iris P. Concepcion
There is one story in Eggers' seminal, breaking out from pain book "A Heartbreaking Work of A Staggering Genius" that dealt with the loss of the author's parents. He had confessed he could not cry as he watched people coming in and out of their abode in animated actions during the wake. And for his extraordinarily bawled by shocking revelation: he confessed he felt horny in his time of grief. He is a weird man and that explains for that Plath-Hefner mesh.
I only claim to the not fully crying tightly; not the salacious side. Someone asked me why I haven't broken down in full view of the weeping gallery. I said: I have grieved for five years already though not solely on a day by day basis because that would be totally soapy and zilched. In between and in millions of hours, I have interacted with exciting personages who inspired me to write volumes of works I can honestly say I am extravagantly proud of. They made me laugh beyond my mouth can stretch out. With views so astounding.
I wrote about a talking kettle, a flying girl, a sublime witchcraft story inveigled with poignancy and urban synthesis--I mean I haven't shut off the plugs to brilliancy. I am not there fully but I am on my way to that place of writing kingdom. God forgive me my arrogance. It is a new leaf branching out from a chair instead of a tree.
To return to that grieving story, I underwent three hospitalizations via taking care of my mother. Its workplace perhaps dysenthesized me from the pain of loss. I had cried then to engulf the universe with floating teardrops. Now, it just wouldn't come because of the pre-falling. I thought I had lost my mother the first time but she had survived. I had been there with her that is why I know my way back to recovery via that process.
I miss the mother who took care of me as a kid. She was hefty, big, and beautiful, one time sporting a Shirley Temple hair in white gown. She is the kind of mother that I had kept close to my heart all these years. A beacon to his children. She is irreplaceable. That is the reason I stayed with her. My way of thanking for the years of fortitude accorded me. I just want the world to be filled with her kindness, for a change. Am shooting for the moon but what gives?
Someone advised me before: Why complicate when you already have that seamless understanding of how things completely shape? It does not lead to power tripping alcoholics with quite testy mouths (the smell stinks) but those whom you had genuinely BEEN with.
Thank you very much for allowing us to sing melodiously that drowned even the worst of grief invented in my side of town. I know the faces of the heroes and I keep a montage of your resilience and sincerity.
I can now work to feed myself and I have to locate the treasure map for it. Finally.
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