Envoi

"The truth is the thing I invented so I could live."
                                                    - Nicole Krauss

I write to you not knowing where you are

 or what form you might take. I know things

I never told anyone. They claimed parts of me;

mostly contents in the nether regions

of my brain, and a happiness that passed

before I knew it was. I marked them

from the corner where I saw the man holding

a woman’s waist as if she were glass; to the morning

they kissed and I was filled with knowledge

I failed to articulate; a toast to forgetting

what I’ve been waiting for; to love, in all forms,

within and outside the body; the need

to endure what I thought resembled it.

I made things I never told anyone.

For whom, is not important. I wanted

to savor the thought of knowing

someone could've heard. Perhaps

I made something worthy of time,

like I’ve always imagined.

Animal

Could you so arrantly of earth, so cool,
With course harsh hair and rapid agile pace,
So built to beat boys in a swimming race
Or drive with sheer terns to a salty pool,
So lean, so animally beautiful--
Your breasts look sideways like a heifer's face,
And you stand sometimes with a surly grace
And mutinous blur eye-fires like a bull--
Could you from this most envied poise descend,
Moved by some force in me I know not of,
To mix with me and be to me a woman,
Diana down from heaven could not lend
More ecstasy, or fill my faltering human
Heart's hunger with a more celestial love.

--Max Eastman

"And at once, I knew, I was not magnificent"

What ticks me off

Venting out because that's what occasional blogs are for, right?

It frustrates me when I try with all my strength and mindfulness to explain a very important point that represents the crux of my concerns. I find it irritating when a person simply shuts me off while claiming they did not understand anything I said. (If it's my failure to communicate that confuses or overwhelms people, why do others use this limitation to avoid important arguments? Why can't people for a second just stop and really listen. An urgent call comes in all unintelligible forms and yet its "incommunicability" doesn't cancel the fact that something is very wrong.) Worst of all, it angers me when these people dismiss my concerns for another petty "overreading" that's narrow/irrelevant/uncalled for. 

I beg to differ.

I think a person shuts off at the precise moment they stop seeing their own flaws. They turn a blind eye to their own errors, seeing flaws only in others, without correcting their own. The double-standards begin with the bias we have for ourselves. People commit "harmless errors" all too often that the errors become nothing more than "harmless habits." People even justify their actions by arguing that "other people have validated it and are doing it too." (I guess that's the price our society pays for perpetuating a stunted democracy in the age of severely deteriorating attention spans.) It annoys me how they can be so stubborn. They stop listening the moment someone calls them out on their misgivings. 

The most frustrating part?

They don't even acknowledge they were wrong (even in some shady aspect of the word). Hell, they would rather ride in their innocent delusion thinking nothing is wrong. If this form of denial is keeping them sane, I'd rather be swathed in madness! One day the walls of their delusion will crumble due to this unacknowledged internal defect they never bothered to address. 

I find it difficult to reconcile my emotions towards these kinds of people. We're all walking contradictions, I know, but that doesn't give any of us the excuse to 1) stop being good individuals 2) stop learning 3) stop listening. Your age and experience is not an excuse either. 

Black Zodiac

Darkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix   
And mismatch,
                             and settle about our lawn furniture, like air   
Without a meaning, like air in its clear nothingness.
What can we say to either of them?
How can they be so dark and so clear at the same time?   
They ruffle our hair,
                                        they ruffle the leaves of the August trees.   
Then stop, abruptly as wind.
The flies come back, and the heat—
                                                                 what can we say to them?   
Nothing is endless but the sky.
The flies come back, and the afternoon
Teeters a bit on its green edges,
                                                           then settles like dead weight   
Next to our memories, and the pale hems of the masters’ gowns.
________
Those who look for the Lord will cry out in praise of him.
Perhaps. And perhaps not—
                                                     dust and ashes though we are,   
Some will go wordlessly, some
Will listen their way in with their mouths
Where pain puts them, an inch-and-a-half above the floor.   
And some will revile him out of love
                                                                   and deep disdain.
The gates of mercy, like an eclipse, darken our undersides.   
Rows of gravestones stay our steps,
                                                                  August humidity
Bright as auras around our bodies.
And some will utter the words,
                                                         speaking in fear and tongues,   
Hating their garments splotched by the flesh.
These are the lucky ones, the shelved ones, the twice-erased.
________
Dante and John Chrysostom
Might find this afternoon a sidereal roadmap,   
A pilgrim’s way ...
                                   You might too
Under the prejaundiced outline of the quarter moon,   
Clouds sculling downsky like a narrative for whatever comes,
What hasn’t happened to happen yet
Still lurking behind the stars,
                                                       31 August 1995 ...
The afterlife of insects, space graffiti, white holes   
In the landscape,
                                 such things, such avenues, lead to dust
And handle our hurt with ease.
Sky blue, blue of infinity, blue
                                                         waters above the earth:
Why do the great stories always exist in the past?
________
The unexamined life’s no different from
                                                                          the examined life—
Unanswerable questions, small talk,
Unprovable theorems, long-abandoned arguments—
You’ve got to write it all down.
Landscape or waterscape, light-length on evergreen, dark sidebar   
Of evening,
                       you’ve got to write it down.
Memory’s handkerchief, death’s dream and automobile,
God’s sleep,
                       you’ve still got to write it down,
Moon half-empty, moon half-full,
Night starless and egoless, night blood-black and prayer-black,   
Spider at work between the hedges,
Last bird call,
                           toad in a damp place, tree frog in a dry ...
________
We go to our graves with secondary affections,
Second-hand satisfaction, half-souled,
                                                                        star charts demagnetized.
We go in our best suits. The birds are flying. Clouds pass.   
Sure we’re cold and untouchable,
but we harbor no ill will.
No tooth tuned to resentment’s fork,
                                                             we’re out of here, and sweet meat.   
Calligraphers of the disembodied, God’s word-wards,
What letters will we illuminate?
Above us, the atmosphere,
The nothing that’s nowhere, signs on, and waits for our beck and call.
Above us, the great constellations sidle and wince,
The letters undarken and come forth,
Your X and my X.
                                   The letters undarken and they come forth.
________
Eluders of memory, nocturnal sleep of the greenhouse,   
Spirit of slides and silences,
                                                    Invisible Hand,
Witness and walk on.
Lords of the discontinuous, lords of the little gestures,   
Succor my shift and save me ...
All afternoon the rain has rained down in the mind,   
And in the gardens and dwarf orchard.
                                                                        All afternoon
The lexicon of late summer has turned its pages   
Under the rain,
abstracting the necessary word.   
Autumn’s upon us.
The rain fills our narrow beds.
Description’s an element, like air or water.

                                                                                 That’s the word.

-- Charles Wright

Personal History

"I would love you ten years before the flood."
                -Andrew Marvell

A long time ago when cataclysms were common
as sneezes and land masses slid
around the globe looking for places
to settle down and become continents,
someone introduced us at a party.

Later on, as the Rennaissance flowered,
I fell in love with you, egged on by the sonnet
and the idea of your individuality.

We married during the Industrial Revolution,
coughing on a brown lawn above a city
humming with flywheels and dry belts.
The ceremony went like clockwork.

When we rattled the world, we shut the blinds
and huddled under a table while sirens harmonized.
Everything but our affection was rationed.

Now we find ourselves in the post-modern age,
using one of its many Saturday nights
to drive to the movies in a Volkswagen.

"It doesn't seem we've been together that long,"
you say, looking at my profile,
contractig the past into the rearview mirror,
beaming the future into the tunneling of our headlights.


-- Billy Collins

Tagged

Gela shared a worthwhile blog tag where I learned 20 practical and mostly human things about her journey as a writer (thank you, dear!). I'm much obliged to share mine. :)

Tagging Ate Tin and Andrew ^_^

1. What type of writing do you do?

I like writing esoteric journal entries that I'm pretty sure nobody will read, much less decipher in a hundred years. I've ghost written generic content for websites since 2010 and churned out online features for European tourist directories, plastic bag companies, optical stores, bridal stores, plumbing companies, construction supply, funeral homes, etc. I’ve also abridged a children's book for a publisher. When I’m not lazy, which is pretty rare, I write about my travels and exploits as well as interesting musicians who make great music. When overcome with existential spells, I write fragments of my memory whether they’re real or imagined. I’d like to think I write about human things. I also keep trying to write poetry. 

2. What genres and/or topics do you write about?

My works are mostly about isolation, love, loss, struggle, relationships (romantic and platonic), growing up and apart. I write about the world as I see it and I take it from there. 

3. How long have you been writing?

I’m a late bloomer. I regret not liking books or reading when I was a lot younger. I kept a blog in high school but I didn’t really think about writing until my third year in college.

If I count from the year I wrote my first workshopped poem, I’d be looking at seven years of trying to write poetry. But then, if I count from the year I decided to go back to school to learn how to write, it’d be about 5 years.

4. Are you published?

Ghost articles not included? Yes. 

5. What was the first story you ever wrote?

Believe it or not, I wrote a Final Fantasy fan fiction in grade school because I had a crush on Squall Leonhart. Come to think of it, I probably even wrote a Ghost Fighter fan fiction because I loved that anime.

6. Why do you write?

I try to write when I believe I have something to say, or at least have an idea of what I want to say. It’s a form of expression and the process is a way to understand the world I live in. It makes me focus and it keeps me still. I write with the hope of expanding my perspective. Finally, I hope such writing will widen a reader’s perspective. 

Unlike other really good writers, I can’t exactly say I can make a living out of the freelancing (hack-writing) I do. And as we all know, writing poetry isn’t the most lucrative of professions. I need a day job.

7. How do you find time to write?

I can’t really stick to a schedule, but my writing usually happens in the evening before I sleep because that’s when my mind tries to de-clutter. I write down all sorts of things when I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes I’d type a few lines on my cellphone in between doing errands. However, I sometimes get lazy and stop writing anything for weeks or months at a time, except of course for anything work related.  

I find it hard to concentrate on writing. It almost always feels as if I’m waiting for a mood (a miracle really). But when I do, I work straight for days. When my writing gets disrupted, I have a hard time getting back to it again. I curse the internet, I curse myself. I stop when I don’t know what to write next or when I’ve exhausted myself. Months or even years later, I’d find myself still working on the same piece. The time in between helps me assess my work a bit more objectively. 

8. When and where are the best times to write?

I guess it’s when you have something brewing in your mind. The point where you just have to write something down would be the best time. You could be anywhere when this happens, but it’s always better if you’re someplace quiet with your laptop or notebook. 

9. Favorite food/drinks while writing?

Earl grey or chai tea latte. I like sweets and I eat anything I can get my hands on. 

10. Your writing playlist

Soothing instrumental music helps. I made a post rock playlist specifically to help get me in a better mood: I like listening to Industries of the Blind, Mogwai, and Riceboy Sleeps. When it’s quiet enough, I prefer silence.

11. What do family/friends/loved ones think of you writing?

My folks have been supportive, although I can tell they worry about me from time to time. Freelancing isn’t stable and I haven’t decided on working full-time (but I most probably will soon). I’m very grateful my mom paid for half of my graduate school tuition. She told me to do what I wanted to do.

As for my friends, they were supportive of the idea. I just think few people are fond of poetry here.

My significant other is very supportive of my writing. I sometimes think he's more enthusiastic about it than I am.

12. Parts of writing you enjoy the most?

It’s good  when I find a way to articulate something hard to understand in a simple manner. The process is slow and painful, almost obsessive. While I’m at it, I appreciate discovering things about myself and the world around me. I imagine I’d enjoy finally finishing a poem or a collection, but that’s yet to happen. 

13. Parts of writing you find challenging?

Everything from motivating myself, fighting laziness, wrestling with my thoughts, choosing the right words, arranging words, struggling to make sense, revising, and revising again, and did I say revising? aiming for relatability, consistency, avoiding clichés, finding time to write, articulating complex emotions or ideas into simple writing, staying patient and focusing on work, etc. You know. The work never seems to end.

14. What do you use to write with and on?

I like big notebooks or discarded bond papers when I’m too lazy to work on my laptop. Any decent pen or pencil will do.

15. How do you overcome writer’s block?

Tough question. When it comes to writing, I’m not sure I’ve overcome dry spells. Writing for work is different; I get my ass going because there’s a deadline and the assignments aren’t as difficult. When I get dry spells it’s a sign I have to step back and simply live. I guess not writing is part of the writing process. I’ve tried forcing work before and it’s just not the same.

16. How do you motivate yourself to write?

There are certain films, songs, and books that get me in a writing mood. I sometimes pace around especially when I’m writing at home. I don’t know why, but I guess the motion helps keep my mind going. 

17. Authors who inspire you as a writer?

Carl Dennis, J.D. Salinger, Italo Calvino, Wislawa Szymborska, Mark Strand, Mary Oliver, Marie Howe, Haruki Murakami, Jeanette Winterson, Philip Levine, Robert Hass, etc.

18. Books that inspire you as a writer?

3 from the top of my head: 

Practical Gods, Carl Dennis

The Continuous Life, Mark Strand

The Simple Truth, Philip Levine

19. Best advice you’ve gotten as a writer?

Another writer once told me: 

“If you want to be a good writer, you’ve got to be willing to suck for a long time.”

While scanning my Twitter feed, I came across a post on Brain Pickings:

“Don’t romanticise your ‘vocation’. You can either write good sentences or you can’t. There is no ‘writer’s lifestyle’. All that matters is what you leave on the page.” –Zadie Smith 

Finally, this advice from Ira Glass about "closing the creative gap":

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

When we read a poem for five minutes or devour a novel in a span of days, we have no clue how much hard work goes into actual writing. While I think there are people born with talent, nothing comes into fruition without doing all the dirty work yourself. So I just keep going. 

20. Writing goals this year?

Come up with a 30-40 poem collection for my thesis. And perhaps get down to writing that nonfiction story I’ve been thinking of since 2012? It’s a long shot, I know. :)

Truth: I am a better reader/critic than I am a writer. 

As much as I’d like to claim I am a writer, I’m not sure I’ll ever be good enough to become one. I've always had to remind myself that writing poetry is all just part of it. The goal has always been to live.

Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever. 


-- Bob Hicok

Parable

Some fishermen pulled a bottle from the deep. In it was a scrap of paper, on which were written the words: “Someone, save me! Here I am. The ocean has cast me up on a desert island. I am standing on the shore waiting for help. Hurry. Here I am!”

“There is no date. Surely it is too late by now. The bottle could have been floating in the sea a long time,” said the first fisherman.

“And the place is not indicated. We do not even know which ocean,” said the second fisherman.

“It is neither too late nor too far. The island called Here is everywhere,” said the third fisherman.

They all felt uneasy. A silence fell. So it is with universal truths.


--Wislawa Szymborska, Sól (Salt) 1962

Apparition

Years later, I met my father’s ghost

one midnight in summer. He smoked

beside the house and walked inside

without shoes. In the hallway I stood

when he entered the front door

and went straight into his study

where no one’s been in ten years.

I was afraid he’d see me. I moved 

closer and he appeared as a young man

almost my age. I watched him

by the moon’s rays from the windowpane.

He unlocked a display chest, examined

a collection of watches, took one

and began to dismantle its mechanisms,

spread tiny metal pieces on his desk,

like he did during his better days.

I recalled my father always made

timely repairs. I sat in front of him,

as if to discuss my troubles

with a watchmaker, to tell him

my clock sometimes stops at certain

points in the day, that perhaps he should

take a look. Right then, he lifted his head

to address me, or so I thought. Perhaps

it was the other way around: am I the ghost

caught in the bend? I thought he didn’t see

me; he looked right through. My father stared

at the darkness of the abandoned room

waiting for something to emerge.

He raised his hands like a man drowning

in a river, eyes milky and blazing

with moonlight, till he vanished—Father,

did you find what you were searching for?

I remained where you had been, the moon

now a quarter rising above the haze of clouds.

Sleep of the Beloved

Oblivion: Happy/Sad Rooms from Amber Light on 8tracks Radio.

The National Live in Manila, Buke & Gase, Youth Lagoon

That night, three bands gave thrilling performances that moved us. The crowds grew thicker and fonder with every song. Each band fashioned a steady build-up, stirred the audience into loud raves, and stood out with their signature styles.  

The night was a rousing series of distinctive musical acts as American indie rock bands The National, Youth Lagoon, and Buke & Gase performed last February 20, 2014 at the Metrotent Concert Hall. 

Buke & Gase

Brooklyn-based indie band Buke & Gase opened the night with their unique home-crafted instruments that surprisingly yield loud and hammering riffs. Unlike most bands that begin the set on their feet, this duo sat during their entire performance. Buke & Gase is Arone Dyer (vocals) and Aron Sanchez. Perhaps it is better we leave it to the band to describe their music. According to Sanchez in a 2010 NPR feature:  "We’re trying to solve a problem, we're only two people and want to sound like a bigger band. We want to make a certain kind of noise and music. So the first step was, 'Well, we can't do it with normal instruments, so we need to create something.'” 

Photo by Kris Rocha, Manila Concert Scene 

Buke & Gase named their band after their modified instruments: a baritone ukulele (Buke) and a guitar-bass hybrid instrument (Gase). Their other customized gears include a “toe-bourine,” huge amps, and a kick-drum with noisemakers. The resulting sound is far from acoustic with its own brand of quirk—it’s well-amplified and up-beat, almost grungy, with abrasive guitars complimented by high-pitched vocals. (Not to mention Arone Dyer’s androgynous vibe that added a tinge of charm to their act.)

Songs in their set included “Houdini Crush,” “Hiccup,” “Misshaping Introduction,” “Sleep Gets Your Ghost,” “In the Company of Fish,” and “Your Face Left Before You,” among others. Hearing a band like this perform for the first time is a refreshing experience. For a group that only has two people, Buke & Gase actually sounds complex and spontaneous with a laid-back vibe. When the crowd cheered on, it’s evident the band’s first visit to the Philippines made fans out of new listeners.  

Youth Lagoon

The next band that took the stage was California-based psychedelic indie talent named Trevor Powers, more popularly known as Youth Lagoon. He carried on the previous band’s high-energy performance by playing the trippy eargasmic single “Mute” from his latest album, “Wondrous Bughouse.” For a song about failing to articulate thoughts and emotions, Youth Lagoon ironically conveys their message beautifully through complex musical arrangement, loud electronically enhanced riffs, and a catchy rhythm. He played titles like “Cannons,” “Afternoon,” “Daydream,” “Dropla,” and “Attic Doctor” among others.  The set also included songs from his old album “The Year of Hibernation” and sustained a trippy-chill-vibe for the audience to enjoy.

Photo by Kris Rocha, Manila Concert Scene

Youth Lagoon builds-up his performance and takes sound up a notch by enhancing it harmonically. His experimental work leans towards the sublime as listeners feel a sense of elation throughout every song. His music does not fail to entertain and feel personal. On the other hand, Youth Lagoon’s live vocals may appear too sharp for listeners as it has a tendency to be piercing when uncalled for. Overall, watching Trevor live is like seeing a mad scientist on the verge of discovering a break-through in his experiments—full of wonder and life, drawing you deeper into his private world.

Breaks in between the sets were considerably long (even the sets given to each band was quite extensive), especially for The National fans that came as early as 7:00PM for a chance to get a good spot in the concert hall. Most of them likely bought tickets just to see the band. I noticed quite a few of them preferred to sit all throughout the previous band’s performances; they were obviously saving their energy for the final band. I can’t describe just how psyched these fans were when The National finally took the stage.

The National

I remember the lights turning blue and green, and telling myself how surreal it was to watch The National live. Do I have to mention how everyone made unintelligible noises upon seeing Matt Berninger grace the stage? That I couldn’t believe I was singing along to “Anyone’s Ghost,” “Blood Buzz Ohio,” “Squalor Victoria,” “Graceless,” “Fake Empire,” “Terrible Love,” and "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks”? Or how the crowd jumped and moved to the music when the Dressner and Devendorf brothers played their hearts out that night? This is perhaps one of the few concerts I’ve attended where fans sang along to almost every song.  

Photo by Mars Edding

Screen shot of Matt Berninger

Though the band showcased up-beat and rhythmic tracks in their albums, I honestly didn’t expect The National to deliver a thunderous performance—and by that, I meant I didn’t think Matt Berninger would start growling a bit of the lyrics to Squalor Victoria and Mr. November towards the latter part of the set. Then again, I didn’t take into account how much beer Matt drinks during his live performances. He threw the microphone twice (or maybe more? I had limited view on the side) and spun the mic stand with his hands. I really thought he would kick the speakers off the stage.

Surprisingly, even with the stage-wrecking antics, Matt still manages to sing every word in the right tune. Moments later, guys in the crowd started head-banging and bumping people during “Graceless”. Bouncers had to restrain a few of these guys. We were on the verge of an almost mosh pit.

Just when I thought the night couldn’t get any better, Matt walks off the stage into the crowd, all the way up to the back. I was unfortunately on the opposite side unable to touch this drunken rock star. To the lucky ones who were almost crushed by Matt's crowd surfing, I envy all of you!

Check out the concert here from Coconuts TV 

The band performed a lengthy set of 20 songs, with an encore performance of titles like Mr. November, Terrible Love (of course that track belongs in the encore!), and the final song: an acoustic, almost pure vocal rendition of Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks. In my mind all the loners, weirdoes, and audiophiles were about to cry and have a group hug. And like a lot of wonderful events, we were reluctant to leave because we didn’t want it to end.

If you’re like me who expected a particular song that wasn’t played, you’d feel a little upset. My night would have been perfect if they played “All the Wine,” which is, for the record, my favorite The National song. But for now, I was content reveling at how "Terrible Love" never fails to stir so much emotions in me. For a concert full of screaming people, I felt the solitude. This is as real as it gets (yes, sad bastard right here). 

Of course I thought it wasn’t over, they didn’t play my song. This isn’t going to be the last time.

The Set List

MOG/WAR: THE AUDIO-SWOON

Mogwai & Warpaint Live in Manila

It is difficult to measure how exhilarating it is to finally watch one of the most awaited rock artists perform live, especially when you’ve always thought flying to another country was the only way that could happen.

February 13 marked a first in Manila concert scene history, as Scottish post-rock legend Mogwai and American indie rock sirens Warpaint finally touched base in the Philippines. Crowds came as early as 6:00pm at Metrotent, Ortigas for a chance to meet the bands. By the time the concert doors opened, everyone was eager and ready for the eargasm they have long waited for.

Local indie artist Eyedress opened the night with chill-beats that certainly got the crowd’s attention. The artist’s eclectic and catchy arrangement, matched with slurry, almost haunting icy vocals, and trippy electronic synths were fair enough to set the right mood for the evening. Amused with the performance, listeners took a new appreciation for this diverse genre.

*Photo grabbed from Cecila Forbes

But nothing could prepare fans as Warpaint took over the concert hall with their valiant yet unassuming stage presence. Laid-back and comfortable in their own skins, they graced the stage like it was their home. Emily Kokal entranced the crowd with her cool modulated voice, as Theresa Wayman and Jenny Lee Lindberg tore through their guitars with defining riffs, and Stella Mozgawa killed it on the drums. It’s always a treat for concert-goers when these bands show-off unique antics on stage. They move and dance just the way their music sounds. While we know they take their music very seriously, they don’t forget to have fun during performances.

The band served up new tracks from their latest self-titled album, as well as songs like “Undertow,” “Elephants,” “Love is to Die,” and “Billie Holiday” from their old albums. Our hearts flipped a little when Theresa sang lead vocals for “Hi,” her lithe figure moving with the song’s haunting base riffs. They stirred the audience with their version of “Dreams” (originally performed by Fleetwood Mac) mashed-up with their hit single “Undertow.”

Warpaint’s music and energy is quirky and spontaneous, at times noir, sensuous and permeating—the crowd gets a sense these rock vixens were not merely putting on just another show. This is the type of band that wants to make a connection to listeners, and I’m certain it was felt all the way to the end of the hall. Experiencing their performance live is one for the books; Warpaint creates music with authentic life-force.

*Warpaint signing their album for Eva 

Most of us were still reveling from Warpaint; we couldn’t get over their performance. But we couldn’t believe the night wasn’t over either—when finally, Mogwai took the stage.

Touring for over 15 years, the band has no need for any visually ornamental theatrics. We knew their music would speak for itself. And yet, we remained in awe because we honestly didn’t know what to expect from a live Mogwai performance. They made a quiet entrance with the song “Heard About You Last Night,” the first track from their latest album “Rave Tapes.” Crowds grew thicker, and thrilled raves could be heard all across the concert hall as the band catered to our auditory pleasure. Aside from playing tracks from their latest album, the band also played tracks from old albums. These include songs like “Summer / Ithica 27ø9” (B-side release, 1996), “Fear Satan,” “Helicon 1,” “Travel is Dangerous,” “The Lord is Out of Control,” and “Friend of the Night,” among others.

Mogwai is well-known for its trademark bass riffs that are sometimes dark, melancholic, and amorous, other times ambient and dreamy. While they are commonly identified under the post-rock genre, the band hesitates to limit their music with such a label. The majestic quality of their sound is marked by dramatic control of loudness and softness akin to most sensitive and ardent musicians. They have mastered the synchronicity and dynamism of a classical orchestra.

*Mogwai Live in Manila, video from Therese Jamora-Garceau 

For years, the absence or muffled quality of Mogwai’s lyrics has been the conceit of the band’s craft. No other excerpt better articulates this concept than the opening lines of the song “Yes! I am a Long Way from Home,” (taken from their 1997 album, “Mogwai Young Team”) which the band also played that night. The voice over speaks: “'Cause this music can put a human being in a trance like state and deprive it for the sneaking feeling of existing. 'Cause music is bigger than words and wider than pictures. If someone said that Mogwai are the stars, I would not object. If the stars had a sound it would sound like this. The punishment for these solemn words can be hard. Can blood boil like this at the sound of a noisy tape that I've heard?”

Just when everyone thought it was over, the crowd screamed for more. They delivered a phenomenal encore performance, one that ended with a high note. Watching Mogwai live is without a doubt one of the most sublime sensory raptures an audiophile can ever experience. Listeners should take it from the masters: those who understand that your silences are as valuable as your loud sides certainly know how to make affective connections, and Mogwai does it beautifully with music.

One simply has to close his eyes, feel the bass and rhythm, and ride the vigorous build-up of the drums. It was a night for swooning in music, and we were grateful to have been there.

The Main Drag

In this scene, we were riding our bikes toward the sunset at the end

of the road. We rushed through plumeria trees and power lines.

The asphalt was a bit of trouble, we couldn't go very fast. You wanted

to race and feel the wind course through your body. The sparrows perched

on branches reaching wires where kites were caught. They flew away

as soon as we passed the shade. Here was the summer I learned

to follow without being forced, passing the neighbor’s farm,

leaking water pipes, yesterday’s garbage, riding down a blind curve.

It was a rough turn, but you wouldn't wait for anyone. We wanted

to know what was at the end. Later you’d find me back at the curb,

my knees skinned raw from the fall. Night came and we left our bikes

to walk home. Convincing ourselves it wasn’t anyone’s fault, our visits

together became less, until we made none at all—I looked for you

to ask if there was anything back there, but that was long ago.

Today, I stumbled upon the same path, more power lines, lights,

a solid road. I’ve walked streets and boulevards in different cities,

though I still catch myself racing, reaching for something to end.

Machine

Suppose I am done with rhetoric. No question left unanswered will bother me. 

I will fall short just when I am about to see. I will remain blind, age, be
resourceful until I give in to uselessness. There is no life in a place you build
in this industry. We have only delusions, simulations, and now, 

a single idea. We die as soon as we live. 

Old Story

Memory is the only mailman moving

in and out of the city. He yearns to break

seals, take photographs, and burn letters

for a sacred ritual. Never mind the smoke

as he keeps his hands from freezing—

he is both thief and retriever.

                                    *

Liz remembers meeting Viktor

in San Francisco. She grew tired

writing him letters. In City Lights

they read books they couldn’t buy.

But don’t mention he was stuck

in Houston, that the bookstore

was closed, or why she never

made it. Now he laughs at forever

alone memes, all the jokes

on him, still wondering

what was it? Folie à deux.

               

                                    *

What is the limit of memory?

A machine fails because it is faulty.

Data occupies space; a PC stores

up to 1TB of data, only it has a slow

processor, like the mind: a complex

organ with complex flaws; how

 could you completely forget?

It has since stopped

data recovery.

                                    *

The laws of synchronicity foretell

photographs taken with the same person

will be taken again—a superstition.

All the same. This is not the case for Viktor,

the twenty-something hipster who misses

the bus again because he stares

at subway graffiti and turnstiles

too long. He thinks: it is difficult to end

a force of habit, sent mails, sans replies.

                                    *

And the mailman remains.

Few walked out of the city

before it was engulfed in flames,

long before they saw the smoke.

Compartment

There were times I tried to displace

tired memories by taking a letter

and hiding it with clutter

inside a drawer that was not mine.

Once, it held Lola’s trinkets: perfumes,

mirrors, yellowed prayer books,

washed-out scapulars and softened

photographs of post war Philippines.

I thought of age and how many times

I tried to gather memories inside

yet misplace—Viktor, she said,

was the only man she loved;

One could never be sure of the other men

who drifted worlds away with wives

and children. How they must have adored

her dark curls with haranas and dahlias

as her father warned them it’s late.

But I’ve stayed up much later, wakeful,

restless, wanting more time with another.

Today, I keep my letters in the same place;

though I could not comprehend

the source of my homesickness,

it is morning and I’m glad—by now

I’ve ceased to notice the absence.

On Loop

An unfamiliar song played on my brother's desktop in 2002. The track title: On Your Side. The Artist: Pete Yorn. I heard it one sleepless night in high school. Before I knew it, I played the song on loop until I fell asleep. It was certainly not the first Yorn song that my awkward-neurotic teenage self liked. But the moment I listened to it, I knew it would be my favorite track from the album, Musicforthemorningafter.

Today, it's been more than ten years since I first heard On Your Side. Throughout the years, I've often returned to this song when I found myself quiet, alone, and unable to articulate things larger than myself: existence, growing up and apart, love, and in the general sense, most matters that inevitably escape us. While this entry will mainly be about the song and how it has become part of my life, I have to say listening to the entire album in high school foreshadowed how most of my relationships, and I, have turned out. It's one of those useless things people find out about their lives that make them feel like funny characters in fucked-up fiction (only here there are no real gods in machines. Just machines that have real hearts trying to make sense of such absurd disjunction).

Video: http://youtu.be/jclHisjkJYI
Song Lyrics:

I’m outside your house
2 am it’s dark
So many mistakes
Come back home from bars

I am on your side
I just want to tell you off

So many lies
Are taking hold
It’s not your fault
There’s many scars

I am on your side
It’s taken me a long time
I am on your side
I’m on your side

And I listen
Yeah I listen
Can you listen?
Now I’m listening

I am on your side
It’s taken me a long time
I am on your side
I’m on your side

(And I listen) I am on your side
(Yeah I listen) It’s taken me a long time
(Can you listen?) I am on your side
(Now I’m listening) I’m heading out tonight
(And I listen) I'm heading out tonight


The message of the song is comforting, as the music harmoniously complements its warm words of acceptance, "I am on your side and I listen..."

Growing up, I've always thought the voice of the man in the song is someone telling me he'll always be on my side. It's possible I've yet to meet this person, or have in fact met such person. Nevertheless, there is that person. Someone who will be there when I'm hurt, hopeful, happy, wrong and spiteful, arrogant and weak. It's a song that simply speaks about love and acceptance; a person who concedes that all other conditions do not matter because he has accepted the other person, for everything they've done, for what he/she is. While I've often wondered if there is such a thing as complete acceptance, the thought that it or something close to it exists somewhere is comforting.

Truth be told, I'm not sure if it's entirely possible for anyone out there to accept another person through and through, to love both their light and dark sides, put up with various disappointments. Relationships entail a lot of compromise; humans get tired. While we may eventually agree in relationships, we have to be honest enough to let another person understand why certain qualities/actions are unacceptable to us (yes this is me rationalizing).

These days, I prefer to think of the song's voice as the sound of my old self telling me, "It's taken me a long time, I'm on your side, and I listen, now I'm listening..."

What I'm trying to say is, I'm old enough to realize that I do not need a reassuring voice to affirm me all the time. I think I shouldn't give that burden to anyone but myself. I do get lonely, I seek company and need friends, but when it comes to affirmation, I'm only as secure as I allow myself to be.

Accepting who I am, what I've done, and what I've become has taken me a long time. While I am most grateful for my family and friends who have stayed all this time, no amount of company or attention from other people can mend my relationship with me but myself.

"Il souffira."