The Dark House of Light

The tree covered the view
To windows on the top floor
As two lower windows opened
To see the silver lake. In broad
Daylight, this flowing mirror
Illuminated the brightness
Of the moon not in attendance.

A desolate dwelling dimly drawn
Notice the interminable dusk
Casted upon its white walls:
Discrete shadows, a singular lamp
Post, tranquil radiance striking
The eye, a strange harmony

Oblivious to the cerulean sky.
The residence enveloped by woods
Long thriving in isolation
Housing unseen creatures beneath
Wide branches, dark limbs, lofty roots
Inching deeper into the earth.


After Magritte

Angela's Haircut

Gino, the eight year old cunning little rascal, took purple play dough and decided to prettify his sister’s locks one Sunday morning. His little sister, seven year old Angela, woke up in shock upon the sight of her sticky purple hair. She howled a terrifying shriek when her brother took a pair of scissors to “get rid of the mess”. He had snipped mounds of clay along with a year’s worth of hair growth. Surely, this wasn’t the first or last of his antics.


“Why so mean, big brother? What did I do to you?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to see what will happen.”

“You ruined my hair!”

“It’ll grow back, stupid. So grow up!”


Angela’s mom tried to remedy the hair problem by taking her to the barber that afternoon. The solution was a cute boy’s haircut—which was worse. Angela wouldn’t come out to play, much less talk to her big brother. She’d hide in her lola’s room and pretend to take naps in the summer afternoon. She’d get sick of watching boys and girls play langit lupa and agawan base from the window, but she still wouldn’t come out. Besides, she’s just a salimpusa. She thought the children won’t mind. They wouldn’t even notice she wasn’t around.

After a week, Gino tried to speak to her. Lola Zeny let him see his little sister only after promising not to pull off any more tricks. He had brought something for Angela.


“Will you ever come out?”

“No.”

“Here, I got you these”, Gino held a plastic bag.

“What?”

“Put them on. Come down and play.”


Gino was playing the third round of langit lupa with Jerome, Eric, Mico and Chris when Angela decided to come down. She was wearing her brother’s old shorts and red Iron Man shirt. When Gino saw her, he called out.

“Time first!”

“What’s wrong now, Gino? You have to stop the game when it’s your turn to be the taya,” said Chris.

“No, it’s not that. Someone came to join us.” Angela stepped to his brother’s side.

“Who’s that?”

“This is Angelo, my brother.”

Folie à Plusieurs

My friend Michael just had to share this with me, and I just had to write about it. I cannot possibly dismiss this. It's interesting information you might actually appreciate.

Folie à deux (English pronunciation: /fɒˈli ə ˈduː/, from the French for "a madness shared by two") (or shared psychosis) is a[1] psychiatric syndrome in which symptoms of a delusional belief are transmitted from one individual to another. The same syndrome shared by more than two people may be called folie à trois, folie à quatre, folie en famille or even folie à plusieurs ("madness of many"). Recent psychiatric classifications refer to the syndrome as shared psychotic disorder (DSM-IV) (297.3) and induced delusional disorder (F.24) in the ICD-10, although the research literature largely uses the original name. The disorder was first conceptualized in 19th century French psychiatry.[2]

I am not surprised the French just had to coin a term for it. What with all the artists and writers that ended up in Paris back in the early 1900s, they were left with all that work to figure out how to glue these people's minds.

Forgive me, I am harsh. I'm not just talking about insane artists and writers. I mean everyone. I actually believe every individual has some sort of psychological disorder, some more intense than others. I believe any person will just have to lose it at some point. This is, after all, a mad world. It just takes 5 minutes of watching morning news to realize that. For others, I think their simple quirks just becomes a bit more apparent when they're under the public eye. Psychological instability is no exception. It will be glorified horrendously by media.

This could very well be more fatal than AIDS and various VD. We don't have to have unprotected sex to transmit beliefs. Although, I think doing so would heighten the delusion. In any case, up to what extent do we have to believe in the impossible to become a candidate for this syndrome? Does pursuing tumultuous, seemingly unrealistic goals qualify as impossible?

"You're not crazy. Crazy people don't know they're crazy."

Pulled back my hazy mind from frolicking Jupiter. Now, where was I? Right.

What cracks me up gets me by. I'm damn getting by.

Inside the Fiery Storm

Coffee in the evening. Hard rain.

We're far from neutral
thinking: how
much
more
there is
to give? Seize.
We found it

is never
even. One
cigarette left.

Stirred. My furtive
embers persist
their burning.

Flash Content #08252011

I knew there were nights when she wouldn’t sleep. I’d be up at 4:00am and she’d still be in front of that goddamn computer. Her music was always loud, day or night. It only gets quiet when she’s reading or finally tired from all the nonsense she engaged in. Sometimes, she’d be up just reading until sunrise. On rare nights, I recall watching her stealthily from outside her green room, plucking the guitar to sing a song by the Beatles. I don’t have a clue what other songs she was playing, but I looked forward to hearing her voice even in the late hours. Especially at late hours-- there’s a calm tenderness to her voice when she tries to sing herself to sleep.

When she was a lot younger, I’d find her sleeping soundly with the guitar right beside her. She used to sing all day on weekends. Her friends came over a lot to make loud music. It was bad music, but who cares? Those kids had fun then.

That summer, I barged into her room a couple of times. During those nights, I would catch her speakers on full blast. The neighbor’s dog was always whimpering. I never had enough sleep. I would tell her to keep it down. She would drive me out and shut the door on my face. She has always been inconsiderate. This was the usual scenario, until we both just lost it.

Anlakas-lakas! Matulo—

Huwag ka ngang pakialamera!

Punyeta! Bat ba ayaw mo sumunod?

Tang ina! Pabayaan mo nga ako!

She slammed the door. I hated her. I hate that she hates me.

That summer was different. Most nights, she didn't come home. There's this dead air in the house. 

In Memoriam

We lost great pillars in Philippine Literature this week. I have never met these women in person, and now I will never get a chance to meet them in this life-time. Just like every reader who came across their work and opened their eyes to the world (I read their works during my most impressionable phase), these inevitable events will always stir deep sadness. Despite all that, I think it's more important to magnify my gratefulness. I'm very grateful because they shared so much of their lives to writing. Like their beautiful poems and stories, I can only imagine that they lived such rich lives.

Thank you, Ma'am Kerima Polotan-Tuvera, for your poignant and socially relevant stories. I bought a copy of your book when I was 13 and grew fond of it. Sorry I wasn't able to take care of it well. Somebody stole my copy of your book when I was in college. I've been meaning to replace it since, but I guess I just got too busy. I'll get your book this week when I pass by UP Press. I will always remember how I read "The Virgin" with wide-eyed curiousity, and that short story titled "The Face of Virtue". Truly, virtue is more than just a word. I will never forget that. Little did I know you were already teaching me how to be a strong and self-reliant woman. Thank you, thank you.

Thank you, Ma'am Edith Tiempo, for sharing golden realizations in your life through your poems and stories. I came across your works back in college, but I was only able to do close readings of your poems this semester in Prof. J. Neil Garcia's class. I will never forget the poem "Bonsai" and how you told us that all love can be scaled down to a cupped hand's size. You are such an inspiration not just to writers, but to everyone who believes in living and loving with all your heart. Thank you for sharing your poems, your life, to the world.

--

It's strange how we all grieve when great writers pass away. It's as if we lost long-time friends. In this case, I feel like I lost literary mothers-- a fictionist, and a great poet. 

Nevertheless, we shouldn't stop at grieving. Let's celebrate their beautiful lives. I know their well-crafted poems and stories will live on and continue to influence the youth just as it has touched mine. Again, I am truly grateful. Thank you.


May you both rest peacefully well.  

CHASING ALONE: A TWO-MAN EXHIBIT

by Jov Ortua Almero & Corin B. Arenas

In life, as in art, duality is always an inherent truth. This bipolarity of the human condition is one quintessential aspect of being and living: love and indifference, compassion and intolerance, hope and cynicism. But amidst these opposing natures, between noise and silence, chaos and order, consciousness and apathy, one can always find, conjure, or even invent a state of solitude, no matter how fleeting, and at times no matter how precarious.

Chasing Alone-- a two-man visual exhibit by Oliver Abe Ramos and Roman James Soleño attempts to capture solitary yearning in a fast-paced society where interference perpetually defocuses our perceptions. The title is a dichotomy in itself. Chasing Alone can be understood as “seeking solitude” and/or a “solitary quest." Sadness, alienation, wistfulness, overt and subtle serenity, is the unifying affective theme apparent in their compositions. Sadness in dreaming. Alienation in wakefulness. And the beguiling facets of serenity.

Chasing Alone as Choice

Oliver Abe Ramos has a degree in Advertising and majored in Fine Arts. From a man’s perspective that has been endowed with enduring kin, his “Aloneness” is anchored on his preference to isolate his subjects from his own realities. Detachment from his subjects is a prerequisite to his creative process. When the human person is isolated, his senses are less clouded and sensibilities are not constrained. Hence, it allows consummation of experiences that eventually transcend into art defamiliarized.

Using red infused with dark hues, he depicts life in a dreamlike consciousness. His subjects possess enlivened qualities but with inert presence. The artist’s awareness of space is ubiquitous in his craft. Subjects blending seamlessly with space, he further magnifies somber moods and a forlorn atmosphere.


Chasing Alone as Struggle

Roman James Soleño started dabbling with the visual arts at an early age. Eventually, he broadened his creative vision and has arrived at a conceptual framework in approaching his medium.

At seventeen, with the offset of post-adolescent angst and idealistic responsiveness, his “Aloneness” is grounded on purposeful struggle. The motivation behind his art is to arouse a somehow radical reaction against the perceived realities he criticizes, or at least relate with his views. From abstractions like existence to illusions, and concretes like media to society, he struggles to communicate his insight of legitimacy that is oftentimes shunned.

With four paintings and one installation that tackles death, dreams/nightmares, abandonment, desolation, and disillusionment, he utilizes spatters and drips of vivid colors as a mode of deconstructing his vision of physical and spiritual destruction.


Aloneness

It’s hard to seek solitude, and it’s equally difficult when one ventures into a solitary quest.

However, in the awareness of our human need for solitude, we eventually find some form of tranquility and liberation from the inadequacies of the world outside. This is where our imagination and dreams are unbound, and through this visual display, it challenges us to reassess our versions of reality in relation to the ethereal aspects of the human condition.

“Chasing Alone” launched last August 6, 2011 and will run until September 6, 2011 at Sigwada Gallery located in 1921 Oroquieta St., Sta Cruz, Manila. For inquiries, you may contact Ms. Cecile O. Pagaduan at 0917-8075659, 743-5873, or email cil_pagaduan@yahoo.com.

Fairness

The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.
-- Arthur Rimbaud


Total Eclipse (1995)
directed by Agnieszka Holland
based on Christopher Hampton's 1967 play

--


Eternity

It has been found again.
What? Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

Sentinel soul,
Let us whisper the confession
Of the night full of nothingness
And the day on fire.

From human approval,
From common urges
You must free yourself,
And fly off as you may.

For from you alone,
Satiny embers,
Duty breathes
Without anyone saying: at last.

There's no hope,
No enlightenment.
In the quest for knowledge,
Only torture is certain.

It has been found again.
What? Eternity.
It is the sea fled away
With the sun.

May 1872
--Arthur Rimbaud


Tranlsated by Baudelaire Jones and Oliver Bernard

In Semaphores

When the lights are cutting out
And I come down in your room
Our daily compromise, it is written
In your signed armistice

For lovers in a rush, for lovers always
For lovers in a rush, keeping promises
For lovers in a rush, for lovers always.

An Open Letter to A

Dear Sir A,

I do not know where to begin or exactly how to say these things to you after the catastrophe which is my midterm exam. I’m thinking of whether I should even communicate anything humanly. However, I figured all I have to do is just write everything down. It’s like what David Wagoner said, “Only begin, and the rest will follow”.

When you stepped in class this morning and asked us what had happened, I knew you were trying your best to be optimistic, to help uplift our spirits. When you said you were very disappointed, that’s when a part of me shuddered. You were even uttering words like “where did I go wrong?” Many students in class got a low mark, but I knew I had failed the moment I finished taking the exam. You gave my paper, I saw my score. I felt like vomiting and fainting, but all I could do was sit there and listen to you as you gave kind words of encouragement.

Maybe I lacked focus? There is simply no excuse. Results show that my efforts were simply not enough. I am not proud of delivering such menial exam grade. I am embarrassed of the fact that although I studied, this is the only result I can muster. I didn’t just let you down; it’s dire enough that I let myself down. I wish I had done so much more. This isn’t easy to let go unlike old high school tests which I didn’t even try to pass in my rebellious youth. It made me question my abilities, my intellect. Am I even cut out to be in this program?

It occurred to me that this failure brings forth a relevant learning experience, one that I’ve constantly avoided all these years. This is the very thing I’m afraid of and it kept me from doing what I’m most passionate about.

Before being admitted in the MA program, I decided to forego unnecessary commitments to pursue writing. After 3 years of working, I’ve come to terms with the truth that I must exhaust every means possible in order to actualize this calling. Now that I’ve encountered this obstacle, though it frustrated me, it made me realize that I have a lot to be thankful for. It’s just part of my pursuit for Telos, it must be earned. I am merely being refined. Upon realizing that, I was able to let go of my fears. By it, I believe I am also able to change my destiny because now I can confront this head on without hesitation.

I remember the first question in the exam. It asked us about the sublime—I wasn’t able to answer that correctly. I only remembered the answer minutes after passing my paper. The sublime has the power to unite contradictions. On the other hand, I was able to answer the question about Arete: that the human person must possess philosophical virtue and moral or practical wisdom to attain goodness. I believe these teachings are now permanently etched in the core of my being. I aim to tread the Golden Mean, to be the sublime that unites all contradictions, and propagate goodness. One day, I hope to embody all these when I become a teacher, as well as a worthy writer.

I write this not in defense of my mediocre grade or to convince you to give me a higher mark. It has nothing to do with that at all. If anything, I want to be graded fairly. I only wish to receive a grade which I deserve.

Consider this a letter from a student to her teacher, assuring him that he did not fall short. You are one of the most remarkable and dedicated instructors I have ever come across in my life. I say this not to flatter you, but to let you know that I have realized and learned so much from your class (and we’re just half-way through the semester). You get through your students, sir. None of us emerge from CL 121 with the same pair of eyes. We see things as they are, more clearly now.

Hindi po kayo nagkulang.



Respectfully yours,

Corin

Howl to get there?

Howl (2010)
directed by Rob Epstein & Jeffrey Friedman

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness...
--Allen Ginsberg


I knew I should have made time to watch this a while back, but I think the timing is just splendid. Thank you, Allen Ginsberg for giving me the drive to move forward. Thank you James Franco for giving life to Allen.

I'm moving. Just moving.

The door of City Lights Bookstore
San Francisco, California

This is the publisher of one of the most celebrated poems in the 20th century, Howl. One day I'll be back in Frisco to read some of my poems at City Lights on open mic. Now, that's a plan.

Words

There is a proper time and place for things,
Mother always says. Once, she scolded me.
I had been caught using bad words, words
I heard my older brother speak, our neighbor

Yell, and my playmates giggle to. Silence, to her,
Meant submission. She had turned to face
Me, looked into my clear wide eyes and fixed
Her sharp stern stare which cut my throat

Flawlessly, like a thousand knives. It wasn’t long
Before I’d taste my own salty tears and choke
Mutely. All that trouble because I misused my
Words. I wondered, what did I say? I must have

Been too young to comprehend. I did not
Know what they meant. And so, I learned
To temper my tongue. Hold back
If I feel I must. This is what is expected

Of you. Inevitably, growing older each year,
I kept hearing the same ghastly words. People
Misuse words daily. All their pointless chatter,
Those cheeky rumor mongerers, whispering

Back-stabbers, loud and obnoxious mockers, them
Simple liars. Now tell me, you know more than you
Should. I’m sure you’ve been one of them at some given
Time and place— whether you meant to hurt another

Or admit to tactlessness, doesn’t matter. Discovering
The true weight of words is by no means easy, know
Their meaning, and understand. It is another thing
To believe. One cannot undo what has been said.

It Ain't Me, Babe