Nonetheless Fiction

On arrogance

2011-12-20T10:30:00.000-08:00

Farewell to a lifelong companion
Its essence was aptly said by Hans Christian Andersen in just one sentence in The Emperor’s New Suit: “Everybody in the town knew what a remarkable quality the stuff possessed, and all were anxious to see how bad or stupid their neighbors were.” But just like everything else, there’s no better way to understand arrogance other than directly experiencing it. Yes, I have been arrogant; and here I am doing my public self-flagellation. Consciously breaking down is liberating, unconscious breakdowns are….I don’t know I haven’t experienced them yet.

So yes my past has been characterized by several highest pee contests, trying to win them every time. My mouth full of litanies coming from isms and beliefs I pleasurably scream, things I haven’t directly experienced, life I haven’t lived. It has been a heavy personal journey of suitcases of pretensions and masks. Oh my, bagging the Miss Universal Know-It-All and The Queen of the Masquerade Ball crowns would not cause me a single sweat. But what I know - or rather what I have just been parroting – is not just my flavor of arrogance. My arrogance came in different guises, among them are:

- that my suffering is the highest form of suffering
- that people don’t know what I’ve been through and currently going through so they are nothing compared to me
- that their life experiences aren’t as profound as my life experiences
- that the way they live their life is wrong and mine is the right way
- that people don’t know what to do and I should help them

Name it and I most probably had it. Fortunately, my journey led me into a crossroad: I had to choose between maintaining arrogance or admitting ignorance.

Maintaining arrogance has its good side: Arrogance can strengthen perseverance. But thinking about the highest pee contests I have engaged in, I realized that my journey need not smell of urine and my life need not be my urinal - especially someone else's. Admitting ignorance is just the hygienic way to go.

The things I’ve been parroting: I can intellectually dissect them, sometimes forcefeed them to other people, sometimes put them in banners as slogans and ostentatiously parade them to let people know how much I have learned to parrot; but my words are nothing but just words for I can only believe them and not live them myself. I'll just be deluding myself if I'm going to say that I have directly experienced them. My realizations continued with admitting that there is no such thing as hierarchy of suffering because each suffering is just suffering. And please, people don’t really know what I’ve been through or been going through because they have never been in my entire life, in every millisecond of it. Most importantly, I do not know what they’ve been through or going through either. So why do I kept defacating this bullshit? As for the profundity of life experiences, profundity my ass. I don’t really know what is profound or shallow when it comes to life experiences as they aren’t measurable things just like the ocean, the river, or the stream. So how do I know whether mine is profound and other’s are shallow or the other way around? Other people’s way of living is not necessarily wrong or right, it is just their way of life. Just like me, they are in circumstances, which I do not know, that make them live in the way they do. And I do not know those circumstances and why should I butt in into their private lives? “People don’t know what to do” this is such a condescending way to view other people. What am I thinking? Ahhh….that is the problem I am thinking for them, thinking that they need me to think for them.

Reflecting on how my pompous ass farted pretensions made me realize that arrogance is the sophistication of ignorance; and the beliefs, isms, and all those hand-me down knowledge with which I have surrounded myself are the threads of the fabric of The Emperor’s New Suit. This suit has been my suit all these years. And I am just so afraid of admitting it because I will lose face(s). Though there’s the fear of loss involve - a very strong one, losing face(s) has been cathartic for me. In losing these face(s) I have found my nakedness. Undergoing this conscious imperial breakdown is never easy. The ego just doesn’t like it…

But I have a choice: keep the ego and climb the stairs of the imperial tower or drop the ego and fly the flight of freedom from its imposing attitude and manipulative politics. On paper, dropping the ego is easy but this isn’t for me. All my life I have had my ego with me, in every second, in every inch of my skin it has been with me. It has been there all along. Dropping it and letting go of it is just hard. But as I inspect my ego, I realized that it need not be dropped. The ego must be healed for it is just one fresh wound. Just like any wound that dries, the ego dies its natural death, and there is nothing left to do but fly. Each day I see the wound drying up, but at times it freshens up a bit because from time to time it seeks to validate itself. But I am letting it go... And of course, I have learned the lesson: When flying, don’t look down for arrogance is the worst kind of gravity: it comes from within.

Is now at

2009-08-15T06:21:00.000-07:00

A Gazelle at Sundown

Stunned by ocean blue

2009-08-05T15:35:00.000-07:00

I: Freetown Christiania

We sat by the lake in Christiania
watching the waters rippled silver
somewhere, bells were twinkling
sunbeams to breeze to our face
The ducks were gracefully floating
A strip of plastic leaped on the path
then nestled itself in the blades of grass
The guy beside me skipped a stone
A drop of the lake jumped
and dived back soundless to its source
The heavens rolled themselves
into sticks
Our hearts puffed the warmth
of their joy
You put your arms around me
and a fragrant tenderness
billowed up into the sky
that watched how we kissed
as the grass beneath
felt much greener than they usually do
On our way home, we ate cookies
from Sunshine Bakery
Then you let me ride your bike
while you pushed it as you walked by my side
Cool whispers brushed my hair
as the beauty of your streets found my eyes

And the stones within us
glowed like fireflies

II: Nørrebro

There you were walking in your skinny jeans
red plaid shirt and white Converse shoes
while I was riding my little pink bike
You smiled a shy hi, I slowed down to nod mine
then continued to look for the street
where the People’s House is
But I couldn’t retrace the path I took last night
I turned around then saw you standing in the corner of a street,
looking at me
Something in you pulled me, a gravity
familiar to the moon and tides
In a moment, we were sitting in a café,
talking about where we come from
and what we’re doing here, here
where the weather is as spontaneous
as two dreams knowing in an instant
they have to wake up together
“How strange,” you said
as you removed your sunglasses
And how strange how silence
charmed the space between us
You then invited me for a walk
and asked if you could buy me lunch
We settled to have a take away
from a Thai restaurant
We ate it with two cans of Carlsberg Elephant
in the park by the People’s House
As moments passed us by, we learned
how Lost in Translation endeared us both,
how we share the same taste for music,
directors, and that I haven’t yet tried prawns
from Scandinavia
Grabbing and pressing my right hand, you said
“You have to try it! Promise me!”
Your eyes looked funny while saying it
Laughter went on and on,
and you were still holding my hand
Then everything dissolved into beats
of people biking around,
and what remained were the pulses of lips
and the stillness of the afternoon sky
We then decided to stroll by the lake nearby
We watched how the waters rippled silver and sigh
How life lets us cross the paths
of people who can’t stay with us
longer than a sunset allows
Then the heavens rolled themselves
into sticks
Our hearts puffed the warmth
of their joy
You put your arms around me
and a fragrant tenderness
billowed up into the sky
that watched how we kissed our goodbye

And the roads around us
felt much wider than they usually are

III: Raw 2009

Suddenly, our friends were gone
and found ourselves alone
You put your arms around me then asked
“Have you seen the lake?”
Hand in hand we walked towards it
then leaned by the rails
My head rested upon your shoulder
Your hand beat with my hand
And the night, in all its splendor,
dwelled upon our eyes
We had beer
We danced
You swayed behind me as I bent backwards
into your arms
Then the heavens rolled themselves
into sticks
Your heart puffed the warmth
of their joy
You blew a fragrant tenderness
towards me
and I billowed up into the sky
We then climbed on top of a trailer
for us to be as high as our ecstasy
Laser lights turned to lines of rhymes
The crowd gathered into verses
The clouds was already golden
when you asked me if I would just like to sleep at your place
“Yes,” I said
You drove your bike while I was sitting on the steering,
my back leaning on your chest
It didn’t take so much time to reach your place
but every second felt timeless
I climbed onto your bed and slept soundly
with you by my side
Then the hours reminded me that I had to leave
I woke you up to say goodbye
You opened your eyes
and asked for a big hug
We had it deep, serene, and warm

And the buds of time
blossomed into eternity

IV: In the still zone of the S-Train, en route to Ny Ellebjerg

You rode the train at Central
You were carrying so many bags
You looked at me and whispered a hi
I smiled mine
You sat by the window
Then you drifted away
Soon, I heard you crying softly
You tried to control a full wail from erupting
You muted your gasps
But your hands betrayed your pain;
they were shaking as you wipe
your relentless tears
You stopped when someone sat by your side
You took your i-Pod out and escaped
Now came my stop
As I walked by your window,
I looked at you and gestured “Are you all right?”
You bit your lips and nodded slowly
I continued to walk
The train started to move
I saw you giving me a gentle smile
as the train ran to gone
And the station was empty
The heavens rolled
my heart into joy
The wind blew a fragrant tenderness
and I billowed up into the sky

...To realize that we are really alone in life maybe wise
but to realize that we live in each other’s warmth is courageous
and that, perhaps, is what it feels to be stunned by being alive.

(Copenhagen)

The Lake

2009-07-21T03:01:00.001-07:00

Be alone
sometimes
If you are lucky,
it might come to you,
on a falling leaf,
or from that distant solitary tree
in an empty field

It's quite wild,
untamed Its beauty
escapes the mind

There's no way
to approach it, or to hold it,
but sometimes
if you will stand by the lake,
watching a flower or a tree,
and if you're silent
with a silence in its intensity,
then
perhaps
it will come to you
as the texture and beauty
of the slow current,
the reflections,
and the deep quietness
of the water

*a found poem; words from
J Krishnamurti's "The Lake"

[sass]

Courage

2009-07-18T04:46:00.000-07:00

Courage lets itself felt in different ways.

It awakens when we stand up with an undaunted "Let us be..",
even while being strangled by the leash of conventions and beliefs.

It breathes with a graceful flow,
even if there are restrictions in our streams.

It continues to dance gracefully,
even in places where our song is forbidden to be sang.

It is the patient movement of the hands of a clock,
even if they strike a dark hour.

It is the smile that keeps on shining,
even if circumstance invites nothing but the darkness of a frown.

It is the laughter that never fails to heal,
even if the wound is in deep misery.

The terror called Love

2009-05-10T00:57:00.000-07:00

Love is a terrifying Thing.
When its splendor whispers the chill of its warmth
we dissolve into strands of light.
And we understand that the nights of our lives
are just moments of a more intimate sunrise.

If what we are is but a dream,
love is our dreamer.
When it awakes,
we are its reality.
It fetches to our hourglasses
the grains of bliss;
It fills our emptiness
the flow of totality.

And we realize a Thing frightening
to our numb existence:
Our hearts never break
but open up
whenever there's goodbye.

Blow

2009-04-19T13:22:00.001-07:00

a certain moaning
luminates your spine
with a glow
of a red
cloud at sundown
rising like steam
your body lifts
to the crest
of a mountain
in deep trance
from your toes
a cantering spiral
tickles your neck
your jaw trembles
your cheeks ripe
warmth conquered you
your eyes shut
to everything but
to your ecstasy
my tongue strokes
your volcanic reveries
then you erupt
those undulating rhymes
your navel articulates
your every ahs
into spastic verses
and i swallow
everything that flows

[c]sass

dear O

2009-04-16T03:39:00.000-07:00

Even if the wall of goodbye is now in place
When memory starts to play the laughter we once shared
A rain stick still shuffles in my chest

still life

2009-04-10T00:51:00.000-07:00

i will paint my heart in a beating canvas
it will be plain and simple, as if painted by a child
but will be life-size, just right for your wall

Eve

2009-03-23T20:43:00.000-07:00

Adam,
I'm not offering you any fruit
just my hand.
I want to dance with you
for I have seen:
The way back to your heart
is the way back to my heart.

Into the Infinite Gape

2009-03-21T23:31:00.000-07:00

LOVE, spark of wakefulness,
stretch every beat of my being
into a white surrender to the Infinite Gape

stir my conditionless Yes
to the downpour
of creative currents
to the touch
of the unknown call
to the fleeting shapes
of the clouds of time
to the dusk
of nameless nights
where stars rise
pulsating a pure sparkle
wildly as a rebel's roar
yet tenderly as a morning mist

the clouds
let me weep them all
and lay them flowing
on the shore of the inner gaze
they dry into grains of grit
grain by grain courage takes them
into the deep of bliss
where the nacre of acceptance
turns them into pearls

then dive my soul harvest those pearls
they are the wings of this voyage
out of the cage to the Infinite Gape

The Gathering

2009-03-20T05:04:00.000-07:00

We are palms of hands meeting in prayer
Thumbs aligning as bodies turn to lotuses
Lips lost in each other's gaze
We are what napes set free in every bow
Between us is a solemn togetherness
The blindness of love: A sense more profound than sight
For love is the gathering of the senses
Love feels, tastes, scents, sees,
Love listens, luminously

Horizon

2009-03-03T20:51:00.000-08:00

A warm nest where tears can finally hatch
a horizon, please
I'm quite dizzy right now to walk
What's beneath my feet
crashes

I am falling in a haystack of
masks, as if I'm peeling
an onion -- afterwards:
swollen eyes, a sodden smile,
and just another story.

A warm nest where tears can finally hatch
a horizon, please
a horizon,
please…

These shoes are made for walking...and that's what they'll do

2009-02-12T21:27:00.000-08:00

...one of these days these shoes are gonna be thrown all over you!

And one of these days, stilettos will be the new Molotov cocktail. And one of these days, invitations to political functions and events will read: COME BAREFOOTED.

First: "This is a farewell kiss, dog"
Shoed George W. Bush
in Baghdad

Then, It was Wen Jiabao
"How can the university prostitute itself with this dictator?"
Shoed Wen Jiabao
in Cambridge University

The latest: "Murderers! Intifada!"
Shoed - and booked - Ambassador Benny Dagan, Israel's ambassador to Sweden
in Stockholm University

Who's going to be shoed next?

For the moment, Nancy Sinatra sings the soundtrack of the above events

I resign

2009-01-23T19:33:00.000-08:00

“This paper is a crane
when its wings unfold
it will be pure and empty”
- Marjorie Evasco, Origami

Whenever I look at you I do not see you. I see an origami of your age, your job,
your class, your gender, your sexual orientation, your race, your nationality, your religion, your beliefs, your thoughts, your past, your future; labels upon labels, conditionings upon conditionings, time upon time.

To look at you is not to be with you but to relate with the images, ideals, and impressions I have made of you.

To look at you is not to interact with you but to interpret you, sizing you up, fitting you in a category, molding you after my thoughts, turning you into an object of my interest, comparing you to my standards, breaking you into analyzable parts, transforming you into something compatible with my beliefs.

To look at you is to get trapped in the skein of our mental projections about each other: we read the script of the conventions and traditions of society, performing an addictive and convenient drama, a persistent pattern of relating indelibly imprinted in the deep recesses of our minds.

To look at you is to separate myself from you: I am your other and you are mine, mine for you have become something I can own, and therefore I can control; as my other, you are a prisoner of my expectations and demands.

To look at you is as addictive, persistent, deceptive, and subtle as its identical twin: Look At Me.

To look at you is to kill you. I'm tired of being your murderer. I resign.

Now, I am just here, with totally naked eyes, looking beyond you, connecting with you not with words, thoughts, nor beliefs, but with the brilliance of the burning silence of our unmediated presence. And in this space, I listen to the melody, smell the fragrance, relish the rapture, and feel the warmth of what you are as you unfold and not as how you are folded by your conditionings, by my thoughts, by my desires, by my interpretations.

The Silence of the Mirror

2009-01-19T18:33:00.001-08:00

I.

the silence of the mirror
reflects what's beyond this flesh:
an empty shore where thoughts cannot walk.

what i am is just a mere wave,
flirting with the winds of consequence and chance,
dissolving as it reunites
with the emptiness of this shore.

II.

the silence of the mirror
reveals a secret devastating to desire:
between you and me is not separation but distance.

whenever we let each other's solitude be,
we meet beyond our desires;
we embroider space the braille of poetry
blind inspiration reads to our hearts.

III.

the silence of the mirror
whispers to me the vesper of illumination,
melting me into liquid chants.

i evaporate to form the musical clouds
streaming across the boundless sky.
into the ears of the earth i shall pour
as the humming radiance of the stars.

IV.

the silence of the mirror
ignites me to burn merrily inside.
my heart beats its final beat.

now it bursts into a bonfire of laughter.
ecstatic warmth runs through my veins.
my eyes gleam at the sight
of my cheeks blushing enchantment.

V.

the silence of the mirror
unties the ribbon of pain tied by the past.
the box imprisoning my being unwraps.

out of the box a blaze of fireflies flashes.
the dance of the northern lights springs out.
after the flood of light recedes,
the mystery of my being ascends
naked, awakened, untouched
by the remembrance of time.

Stealing Reykjavik!

2008-12-22T06:46:00.000-08:00

Click picture to enter gallery!

IVN

2008-12-03T03:16:00.000-08:00

doubt, where were you
to stop a violent dream
from stealing his smile

uncertainty, what made you
skip this instance
and let certainty rule
this game of chance

forgive me, my tears
refused to flow outwards
for this is not the death
my mortal tears can recognize,
can appease, can heal
for this is not the death,
not the death
anybody deserves to die

...and the flowers sighed
where was compassion
when it was needed most?
asleep in the darkness
of someone's heartless night?

yet we know, there you are
and will be, our dear friend,
living eternally afloat, awakened
as a star throbbing
in the pure emptiness of light

(Manila | 3 Dec 2008)

Reykjavik

2008-11-25T11:57:00.000-08:00

in your streets,
in those coy smiles,
as your tranquil skies
embraced my eyes,
i heard Steinarr whisper
that in the melting of the snow
"Það er sólskin og hiti (there's sunshine and warmth)"

no matter how you're bruised
your fresh breath
shall awaken once again
as the tower of light
extending from your land
undressing the wilderness
of the night

you burnt my heart
and there's nothing i can do
but beat the flame, o dear,
you are so beautiful
i had to weep my goodbye -
bless for the moment

(Reykjavik, 23 November 2008)

VD

2008-11-10T09:45:00.000-08:00

i shall remember you
just how the trees remember Spring
as they sleep in Winter:
gently, silently, patiently,

awaiting to blossom
as the lush that never fails
to inspire our sleeping hearts
to awaken and burn

ardent as the Summer's day
our hands held
Autumn painted our eyes
the golden dream
our lips caught together

(stockholm, 10 nov 2008)

The biography of autumn

2008-10-26T00:57:00.000-07:00

Part 1 : The Astronomer

lost among
impersonal city lights,
neon lights blinding life

the gaze of the astronomer within
drowns
for what else remains in the sky
but hearts clenched
by a laminating glance

hands are raised as fists
and not as salutation
to the sun

Part 2: Autumn

i have never seen Autumn
but chances are
she'll be as golden as she falls
in my imagination

even without my eyes
leaves will still slip
from strength to fragility
as trees sing the lullaby
of Autumn's vulnerability

the drummer within
listens
to the lullaby of the trees:

with madness as wings
and love for your wind
my dear leaves, Fly!
fly like the last wisp of smoke
leaving a candle's twig
quenched by Autumn's tears
into The Void
arise and perish
like thoughts falling
to return to The Ground

i have never seen Autumn
but chances are
she'll be as golden as she falls
in my imagination

Part 3: Dear Darkness, Dear Pain

dear darkness
i know how much you long
to stand triumphant
as this body breathes its last

dear pain
all these years you were holding
my hand, inviting them to clench
a fistful of anger to scare
the joy running through my veins

forgive me, for all those times,
i had only the eyes to judge you
but not the inner gaze
to have compassion for you

O dear darkness, O dear pain
thank you, i now understand
that loneliness is just the denial
that love is always there

O dear darkness, O dear pain
let us be free, now
and here, i'll watch over you
as you return to The Ground
my goodbye is your peace
and your peace is this smile

Part 4: From darkness and pain

let us go
as an eloquent laughter fading
with a lilting grace

we'll bring with us
your sadness, loneliness, and fear
but not your happiness

as we go
just sit with naked eyes
and just wear that smile you had
when you felt us for the first time
with the hands of your heart
as tears of compassion
gushed from your inner sight

and with love for our wind
we'll sail back to The Ground

Part 5: I woke up

I woke up
with the astronomer within
caressing a star
breathing so tenderly
with a passionate light

the drummer within
with her untamable beat
marches

(photo from stock.xchng)

These times when outside runs

2008-10-19T05:39:00.000-07:00

These times when
outside runs, raging
like flapping tongues of flame, darting
as strands of penetrating chill, rising
as waves of despair, anger, and fear,

vulnerable forms tremble like falling leaves
sickled from their twigs by a swift autumn's whisper.
Yet this turmoil, this crunch, and this collapse
can be angels in wolves' clothing,
messengers of the sharp, bright light, shining

in the darkest hour of our sleep, awakening
our courage to accept that sorrow and joy,
victory and defeat, are but a foam, frothing
on the surface of existence, forming
as impermanence shakes the circumstances
of appearance.

O fellow creatures of the bang,
what's beneath and beyond you and i never forgets,
eternity understands: For the moment, we are sounds
chaotically adrift; but in the Great Nothingness,
we are formation flight of words, flying
as beautiful verses the universe sings.

Dysphoria & Euphoria

2008-10-14T12:08:00.000-07:00

i woke up to a chill
intimately intertwined with my bones
the walls of my room were shaking
i laid as a stain of pain, blemishing
the bedsheets with my damp eyes
i felt tired but
enthusiastic to inhale burning charcoal until
nights ascend from it
as fragile wisps of dread

i no longer can't deny:
the clock's face has no smile, just hands
juggling dysphoria and euphoria -
the fraternal twins pushing and pulling
the swing hanging stationary
in this lucid interval

how i long to laugh
laughter that is well

In love

2008-10-10T02:28:00.000-07:00

Someone asked me:
Is it possible for "me" to love anyone?
Can I "give" love?
Is it possible for "someone"
to love you at all?

Using this dear little self as the laboratory,
here I share my reflections as I look into this, deeply
and with a courageous sense of intense inquiry:

I see that in “giving or receiving” love
there is a separation among the giver,
what’s being given, and the receiver.
But this separation is the very negation
of love.

Love is this unity. I cannot give nor receive this unity.
For me to say that I can give or receive
this unity of which I’m but a part is nothing
but the romantic arrogance of the mouth
which only speaks about love
but can never speak the language
of love.

There is love between us which comes and extends
from within you and i. Perhaps when one is “in love”
one is “in the realization”, and not "in the conceptualization",
that there is no separation, no “other”,
just love.

Yet one understands that there is
distance but not separation
in love.

I can fall in love with someone, something,
whatever form. But “falling in love with” is not akin to
“giving love to or receiving love from”. As I fall in love
the walls of separation collapse - even for just a moment.
But as these walls collapse, I can see something in “me” resists;
in this resistance, jealousy, possessiveness, and all smokes
associated with the flame of love waft and resurrect
the walls of separation, chanting "Love Me, Love Me".

yet i understand: what is this one that falls in love?
can the “i” and the "you" in the “I love you” still survive
in love?

The annihilation of an "i" and a "you"
makes love very dangerous, very dangerous
to someone who would rather give and receive love
than be in love.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Coincidence? love? or a coincidence of love?

2008-10-08T02:07:00.001-07:00

In a span of almost a year, I saw two humongous perfect rainbows in exactly the same location. Coincidence? love? or a coincidence of love?

Rainbow Sighting 1:
Date: 20 November 2007
Time: 4.59 PM
Location: right across my building (Boni, EDSA)

Rainbow Sighting 2:

Date: 06 October 2008
Time: 5.40 PM
Location: right across my building (Boni, EDSA)

*My camera isn't capable of capturing the entire stretch of these rainbows.

Fragile star

2008-10-07T21:48:00.000-07:00

my heart understands
what you are
O fragile star

be not afraid
you are safe
before my eyes

let your wonder
come and fall
into my devoted gaze

with much care
my sight will hold
the hands of innocence
extending from your light

with tamed desire
my eyelids will embrace you
glow by glow
until your sparkle’s kiss awakens
the sleeping beauty of my bliss

(photo from stock.xchng)

The first time our hearts learned to walk

2008-10-05T17:07:00.000-07:00

do you remember the first time our hearts learned to walk?
how we stumbled, wobbled, and fell? it hurt so bad, didn't it?

do you remember how excited we were
when our hearts finally found its balance?
we ran, and ran, and ran until our desires outpaced
the natural beat of our hearts.

do you remember the struggles that crippled
the feet of our smiles:
the phone rings we never heard,
the poisons of our choice,
the lights we eagerly switched off,
the goodbyes we received without hellos,
the silences we dishonored,
the lies we made,
the deceptions we endured,
the letters we never wrote,
the masks we wore,
the possessiveness that snapped our sanity,
those one night stands that can never understand the star
this star that throbs the glimmer of joy that shimmered
when our hearts learned to walk?

we are so exhausted, aren't we?

we just want to go home, slow down
and find, just find
and follow, just follow
the footsteps of this star
to rediscover, and remain true,
and forever be true to
the first time our hearts learned to walk...

Meditation 8: On War

2008-09-26T21:19:00.000-07:00

1. before i proceed: we don't really know what we are going
to do or say unless we are already in the situation that
we are just hypothesizing about.

2. going to an area where there is war going on, and telling
the people there that "Peace is only now. Ending war is very
simple" is a ridiculous action and an utterly useless act.

as i understand, awareness, enlightenment, or whatever you call it
is not an an anesthetic that dulls you and make you incapable
of intelligent action.

3. certainly, ending war, the war that is actually going on, is not simple.
you cannot just go in the middle of it all and shout "Let there be peace" and
the peace shall come. no, it doesn't happen that way. but someone
who acts "intelligently" (i don't mean intelligent as in cunning but
intelligent as in without fragmentation) will know what to do when
there's war. what that person will do, we don't know.

4. at this point, let must just distinguish between conflict and war. conflict
is inevitable because we are in a state of fragmentation. war is one of those
ways humanity use to resolve conflict: since we cannot agree let's just kill
each other (or better yet, since we are too lazy to think of a better solution to
our dilemma, let's just kill each other).

i've mentioned that conflict is the outcome of our "state of fragmentation".
perhaps one may think that this state of fragmentation is the way things
"really" are; hence, conflict is inevitable.

in wholeness and the implicate order, david bohm offers an interesting
insight about this fragmentation. let me just quote his exact words here:
"some might say:'fragmentation of cities, religions, political systems,
conflict in the form of wars, general violence, fratricide, etc. are the
reality. wholeness is only an ideal, toward which we should perhaps
strive.' But this is not what is being said here. rather, what should be said
is that wholeness is what is real, and that fragmentation is the response
of this whole to man's action, guided by illusory perception, which is
shaped by fragmentary thought. in other words, it is just because reality
is whole that man, with his fragmentary approach, will inevitably be
answered with a correspondingly fragmentary response. so what is needed
is for man to give attention to his habit of fragmentary thought, to be
aware of it, and thus bring it to an end. man's approach to reality may then
be whole, and so the response will be whole."

5. i do not believe that there will "always" be war. i don't know what "always" is.
saying that something is genetically programed to us doesn't mean that it will
surely happen. as i understand it, and i may be wrong, genes interact with
the environment, when the environment is favorable for the expression
of a "gene" it expresses itself; otherwise it remains dormant. a gene doesn't
act in a vacuum: it needs the "proper" conditions.

6. another distinction, war and aggression are not one and the same.
aggression can be considered a "spontaneous" reaction of a person but
not entirely spontaneous for aggression is determined by conditions happening
inside the person. we can say that aggression is a "conditioned" reaction
just like any reaction is.

war is never a spontaneous event. war doesn't just come into being in a day.
it has recipes and takes time to be cooked. we prepare for war.
it is systematic. it is strategical, scheming, a long tedious "thought process"
is involved.

though we cannot just "simply" stop an actual war, we can prevent an
actual war from happening.

7. the trauma and all the hideous effects of war will surely be there.
one face it and we do what we have to do in that situation. certainly,
telling people "peace is now" in the face of someone in trauma is not
one of those things.

when your house is on fire, you don't light a candle nor get your bible
and pray nor sit and meditate nor gather your neighbor and talk
about enlightenment or being in the now. you do everything you
can do to save what can be saved and let go of those that you cannot.
but you can only do this if you yourself is safe.

8. and yes, i would not offer these musings to people who are "actually"
experiencing war or suffering the trauma of war. that's not what their
situation needs.

BUT before anything else, i should bring sanity into myself to put total
attention into my thoughts, call it awareness or whatever you like.
i'm doing this not because i was told to do it but because i have
seen the danger, the distraction, the suffering that inattention
causes me and other people. every one of us is another hitler in
the making if we don't put an end to the war that is happening
within us.

AND if i don't have the courage to end the war within myself,
i'm of no help to the people who are in shock, in pain,
and who are suffering. i only amplify and add to their burden....

i don't know if i'm making any sense here. :-)

P.S.
and yes, the human animal is no longer killing for physical survival.
war (as in World War 1, 2 what have you) is not for physical survival
but for the survival of our "beliefs".

It is

2008-09-18T21:55:00.000-07:00

it is this afternoon
swaying the city to awaken
into a vibrant day

it is this night constellating
a full moon, an array of stars
occasional clouds, fields of grass tickled by the wind,
a solitary glass of wine: red, deep, tenderness

it is the warm yes of the body
as every cell respires
the thick fragrance of this moment:
the breeze moaning like leather rustling;
the rain applauding at sunflowers bowing;
the sea sparkling like eyes in tears of bliss

when the murky puddles of the mind has dried
it is the moist clarity of understanding

when there is loneliness
it is the courage to face happiness alone

when everything else is forgotten, foregone, and forgiven
it remains

when everything fails
it conquers defeat

when appearances wound
it mends

when time turns rigid
it bends

when one gets stuck
it whispers: flow

when the heart dares to clap again
it is the dove that returns

when it returns
it is this dance:
the grace
fluttering within

(photo from stock.xhcng)

Dance

2008-09-08T09:11:00.000-07:00

The wall clock is ticking

2008-09-07T00:38:00.000-07:00

In each question I posed, a thought came after another thought.
Some I could recognize as something I’ve read and I’ve heard -
from where or from whom I'm not always sure.
I can hear cars zooming by, the wall clock is ticking -
sometimes loudly; but, at times, getting faint
when a thought crosses my mind.

Sometimes I can feel my pulse, my heartbeat
from inside. Sometimes I can only feel I’m breathing.
Suddenly, I’ve forgotten the question…

Have I found any answer?
There are ones that arose that satisfied my fancy.
Stuff that I currently believe or once believed.
I see them, they are there, a lot of them.
Shall I select one to be the answer?
On what basis?

The more I questioned each
the whole exercise just gets ridiculous
and confusing. I left the questions alone…

Then I hear the cars zooming by...
The wall clock is ticking.
Felt this body breathing
and beating…

(photo from stock.xchng)

Porcelain tears break

2008-09-02T02:13:00.000-07:00

Now love awakens

2008-09-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

now love awakens
so we can finally die
and be reborn as fireflies

so we can accept our insignificance
and just yield to the resplendent embrace
of sidereal affection

so we can glow with,
and not against,
the darkness of the night

in this irrevocable iridescence,
one cannot do anything
but live in gratefulness

(photo from stock.xchng)

Stars are blushing

2008-08-31T00:29:00.000-07:00

by your presence

2008-08-28T09:06:00.000-07:00

and then there's this lovely crescent moon

2008-08-27T00:04:00.000-07:00

and then there's this lovely crescent moon
forming as I beam the sky a smile.

a patch of night catches my heartleaps
a star encodes this joy --

the pulse of your afternoon sun
must have decoded it by now.

if it hasn't, just pay attention
to the moments passing you by. it is

the old couple walking affection hand-in-hand
drowning in the bursts of their laughter;

the unsolicited smile from a stranger
stitched and glued in your eyes;

the warmth sinking into your body
as someone's hands touch your skin.

it's just everywhere and everywhen,
how can one deny:

the infectious flame of stubborn love
so unrelenting
even shadows get burn.

Blades of grass

2008-08-21T00:17:00.001-07:00

“Every blade of grass has its angel
that bends over it and whispers,
'Grow, grow.'”
(The Talmud)

don't they know us?
we were the blades of grass
on which they steamed their flesh,
thinking libido understands
and can speak even a syllable
of the language of love

have they forgotten?
they poured
champagne bubbles on us,
we were stained by icings of cake
on the day they officially declared
it was time for love
to sign a contract

perhaps they can't remember?
when they have turned
a mere biological duty
into a prescription
for the fulfillment of love,
we were the cry vibrating
with their first-born's tears

or didn't they notice?
we were crushed cans of beer
when he left her
for a much younger woman;
and broken bottles of wine
when she eloped
with a much richer man

how insensitive!
we were inks bleeding their signatures
as their middle fingers raised
at each other's face
as the negotiating table
divided the profits & losses
of the contract of their love
finally, their ring fingers sighed,
throwing us for they no longer
wanted our hug

why, they don't know us at all
why, they never felt our warmth
nor plunged into the depths of our whispers
why, they didn't even care about us
when we were still those blades of grass
will they grow
how will they know
the meaning of us...

(photo from stock.xchng)

Lost to water

2008-08-20T20:36:00.000-07:00

Wheat and weed

2008-08-20T03:30:00.000-07:00

Meditation 7

2008-08-19T09:49:00.000-07:00

asking someone what happened
that lead to their "realization"
is akin to asking a caterpillar
what happened that lead it
to spin a silky cocoon

it happens just as
a butterfly happens
to emerge from the solitude
of something that's no longer there

how do we see an evolution happening
when one can't separate the movement
from the one that moves?

What silence thuds

2008-08-19T08:31:00.000-07:00

Breathing so wild

2008-08-16T14:15:00.000-07:00

The Beloved

2008-08-16T07:24:00.000-07:00

(photo from stock.xchng)

i'm afraid that...

2008-08-13T20:04:00.000-07:00

i'm afraid that
the love descending
into the folds of my heart
is too insane to be versed
in logical rhymes
too pure to be broken
even by the starkest pain
too rebellious to yield
to experts, authorities, and kings

it is too late
too late to put it on a leash
for here it comes ascending
fluttering around,
its wings humming a song,
flitting
in and out this dear little self,
celebrating its metamorphosis
from a silken solitude

i'm afraid
even gods can't stop
its galvanic fizz
even happiness is too weak now
to contain its frantic joy
soon i'll just pop a sparkle
and cry champagne

(photo from stock.xchng)

so forgive me, dear world

2008-08-12T07:23:00.000-07:00

(photo from stock.xchng)

Laughter

2008-08-11T19:05:00.000-07:00

a language
that mutes
the tongue

a jazz
whispered
in braille

rain
tap dancing
on our skin

(photo from stock.xchng)

Voices

2008-08-08T21:53:00.000-07:00

there are voices in the head
each is a mindset:
an elaborate system of emotions,
behaviors, feelings, and thought patterns -
a tiring constant repetition of
"what was" and "what will be";
a constant rejection of
"what is"

they come and go
like house flies
they don't like to say
"i don't know"
nor to hear a hearty laughter
they demand to be treated
like a news article
they hate the uncertainty
of poetry

they seduce, and one can be surely seduced,
to let them speak through ones mouth,
write through ones hands, see through ones eyes,
hear through ones ears, and feel through ones skin

yet no matter what they do
they cannot possess the heart
nor ride the breath
for the heartbeat
and the breath
do not judge,
have no identity,
have no ideals,
have no impressions,
have no memories,
and they die a graceful death.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Hello boomerang

2008-08-07T19:05:00.000-07:00

"...a Japanese astronaut has thrown
a boomerang in space
and confirmed it flies back
much like on Earth."
(The Courier-Mail)

be my guide boomerang
throw me into the lair

where the wild still lives
and darkness does not scare

let me glide with you
back to where you're from

oh boomerang, i'm not lost
just don't know where to go

now, i've been hit and found
and it is painful, sometimes

(photo from stock.xchng)

Nothing but gratitude

2008-08-06T14:38:00.000-07:00

suddenly sleeping is no longer
another (in)activity of the body

we close our eyes to open doors
that otherwise remain close
when we remain awake
in a foregone reality

we enter these doors
to rise higher and higher
until we are grasped
by the awakening

one of these doors
opened to the spacetime
where we both woke up
together

and there is warm, redeeming belongingness
but no forever in our past nor in our future
just an eternity in each of our moment
if this isn't enough, i no longer know
what ungratefulness is

(photo from stock.xchng)

The unselfish sound of rain

2008-08-05T01:11:00.000-07:00

To understand a poem

2008-07-29T22:07:00.000-07:00

"I am not your friend, your lover,
your enemy, your citizen, your woman,
your man, nor your child...I am, like you,
a poem."

sometimes a poem leaves a trail
to guide you in understanding it.
but most of the time, poems
respect and protect your freedom:
it will not deprive you
of the joy of finding out for yourself,
of the ecstasy of discovering, of experiencing
the moment that wrapped the drop
of the stream of life into a word, a line,
a verse.

the difficulty lies not in a poem
but in ones resistance to accept
a poem as it is, for what it is,
in its entirety.

poems cannot reveal itself
completely
they can only point the sky
but they can never give this immensity to you.

a poem renews itself
over and over again,
remaining ever mysterious
even to itself.

a poem is breathing
and pulsating life.
like breath,
you grasp it in a moment,
in the next moment, it slips away,
then it will re-enter you
again and again
just for you to let it go
again and again.

analysis kills the
magic of a poem.
changing it depresses
its enchantment.
every poem resists control.

instead of controlling it,
understand and connect with it -
this begins with letting go
of the illusion of separation
between you and the moment
of reading the poem
and the poem itself.
don't force yourself
to understand a poem
you can't comprehend yet.
frustration easily begets
hate.

but above all,
you can never understand the poem
if every cell of your body hasn't remembered,
realized
that you are a poem yourself.
if they haven't
perhaps you've forgotten
how you've arrived in this world:

we knew that it would soon
be over, and so
we put it all into a poem
to tell the universe who we were,
and why we were here, and what we said,
and did, and thought and dreamed
and yearned for.

we wrapped our dreams in words
and patterned the words so that
they would live forever,
unforgettable.

then we sent the poem
as a pattern of flux,
to wait in the heart of a star,
beaming out its message
in pulses
and bursts
and fuzzes
across the electromagnetic spectrum,
until the time when,
on worlds a thousand sun systems distant,
the pattern would be decoded
and read,
and it would become
a poem
once again.

you cannot hear, see, feel, taste, smell
a poem
without it changing you.
you hear it, it colonizes you.
it inherits, inhabits your DNA.
its rhythms becoming
part of the way
you thought;
its images permanently
transmuting your metaphors;
its verses, its outlook,
its aspirations
is life itself.

we are born
reciting a poem,
and, sooner rather than later,
as these things go, there were
no more children born.
there was no need for them,
not any longer. there was
only a poem, which took flesh
and walked and spread itself
across the vastness of the known.

there are places where one can
read ones poetry out loud, openly
but there are places where poems
are regarded as noxious weeds,
or as diseases, something
immediately to be quarantined
and eliminated

for a poem is dangerous
to the stagnation of tradition
for beneath every syllable,
unstoppable,
the ocean advance
relentlessly.

* This is a found poem. The materials I've used are poets.org's "How to read a poem" and Neil Gaiman's "How to talk to girls at parties".

A boy and a girl foxtrotting in my superior vena cava

2008-07-28T23:04:00.000-07:00

Sexily rare

2008-07-27T04:15:00.000-07:00

as much as possible, lets explore
this country with no maps. i do
understand how functional maps can be, but
they can be so restrictive, so planned,
so contrived

let us explore this country
on our own. you know, discovering
stuff by ourselves. for ourselves. so utterly...
hmmm...alone...fiercely alone, just

like how we explore each other's
body and soul: guided not by maps
but with the heart as the arbiter of the walk,
the running, and of the discovery. now

the tongue slides down to where the
heart goes. and your body, in its entirety,
is my braille: your neck, the sides of your tongue,
the edges of your lips, your chest, the sides of your
tummy, the shaft of your dick, its head, the perineum,
the cheeks of your butt, your spine, your nape, the back
of your ears, your jawline, your hands, your fingers.
in each inch, there's poetry to be read, in silence,

by the heart, strengthening the soul. it's the mixture:
you are inside her, and she is inside you, merging. when
you're lost, totally lost in each other, just utterly lost,
intoxicated by the exchange of energies. you become
so oblivious of where your pleasure starts and the pleasure of
the other begins. you don't know where "you" start
and "i" end anymore

so why are these things so rare? and if there's
one, why s/he has to be so fucking far? perhaps
we've been given wrong directions for this, and those
experiences are supposed to be glimpses of heaven,
so our souls will see it within and not without

yeah, we got enticed by the directions
of the map instead of the guidance of the heart

...you're sexily rare

and i am, as you've said: a fucking sensual looking
creature combined with a spirit and leather understanding,
a neck that any hetero would give his right testicle for...

and we know by now,
it's a rare thing to find - and fucking,
when used in a sentence, makes the sentence
so warm

shall our bodies,
hearts,
and souls
cum
now?

(photo from stock.xchng)

The misplaced self

2008-07-26T18:26:00.000-07:00

- one can misplace oneself

there is fun in looking for it, an exciting
hide and seek. but the game arrives at
a frustrating nag of the futility
of the search. one declares it lost.

- frustration displaces the self

one steps into a tub of expectations,
sinking deeper. the water rise
an accidental discovery. eureka!
one finds a legend to live.

- the legend replaces the self

one becomes a narrative: a bunch of characters,
conflicts, plots, adventures abound, becoming,
becoming, becoming, a hero, a sinner, a saint,
a performance on a stage.

- eventually, one is lost again

go there, further, somewhere, elsewhere,
wherever, but not here. in the tangle of
getting out of here, of becoming someone else but this,
one seeks the misplaced self.

- but suddenly

a boomerang of light hits you. it hurts
ridiculously painful you can't help but laugh.
like those keys you've been looking for,
you're holding it all along.

- now, it's time to let it go

one stops
acting the story
one starts
living the glory.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Transpinay Rising

2008-07-25T00:00:00.000-07:00

for my sisters

*click here for more info about the term Transpinay

The moment i stopped smoking i

2008-07-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

i is used to deluding myself, unawarely,
addicted to the delusion, that
this is love:
a game of projectors
and silverscreens

the projector rolls,
obligingly filling the desires
of the silverscreen

the silverscreen lays
a mere stretched cloth, playing out
the fantasy of the other

one sends, the other receives
illusion upon illusion upon illusion
until the reel becomes real

when the reel ends,
another role comes upholding
the mechanical exchange

the cycle continues
as if every projection is new
but time reveals the rust

of mechanical hearts
and light makes evident
a thick build up of grease

the burden of the machine
is too heavy to bear to the heart that beats
the deluded i goes on searching the how-to-love

but any attempt at how
effects a method, a procedure,
a rehearsal, but not, never, love

deluded and delighted by a particular how,
the i just go on finding another stretched cloth
to fill - to fill but not to feel

how can
a mere stretch of ideals,
impressions, and images feel

that's what i is addicted to -
the safety of being anchored
and armored by the seductions of these i's

...to love what is alive
is a dangerous dive
into the unknown and uncertainty

one just gets deeper
and deeper
into the abyss
and fluidity of reality
one goes on flying,
falling,
floating in the ocean of the actual

there the deluded i
dissolves,
drowns:
the deluded i is denuded

the waves of the eternal
grasp,
crush,
and pound
this mere dust into a tender star -
an extremely painful process
for withdrawal symptoms surely come
when addictions start to cease

a relapse is unavoidable:
the deluded i resists
for there's so much pleasure in the game
of projectors and silverscreens

but resistance is futile

for what can a mere drop of rain do
when the Great Ocean beckons it to fall

and

here

it

falls

(photo from stock.xchng)

Dear silence

2008-07-23T01:06:00.000-07:00

(photo from stock.xchng)

I hear your heartbeat

2008-07-20T21:20:00.000-07:00

i hear your heartbeat, pounding
miles from here.

i am listening so attentively
while the sun shines on this side of the world,
while you're with your night.

i am listening so deeply
as it sings a solitary night or as it's protected
by a gentle moonlight, laying warmly
in someone's sweet arms, or as it's steamed
by someone's breath.

i hear it so clearly, so gladly
i'm listening to it
in the smile and hellos of strangers,
in the whistling kettle,
in the toilet's flush,
in the traffic's din,
in the boredom of the day,
in the turning of book pages,
in the laughter bursting behind these walls.

but
i hear it most as it silence me
as i hear your heart
beating
an eternity hanging in my ears
like strands of silver
linings of mid-afternoon clouds.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Venus won

2008-07-19T00:00:00.000-07:00

The smell of burnt sulfur and brewing coffee woke me up.

I shouldn't be waking up this way - I live alone. I went down
and, to my surprise, a smile welcomed my day.

It was from a demon. Yes: horns, pronged tail, purple skin,
pointed goatee, a sharp face, well-toned body, long pointed
fingernails, and dry delicate bat wings. He was sitting on the
dining table, with a cup of freshly brewed coffee, smoke still
wisped out of it.

"Coffee?" he asked.

Bewildered, I replied: "No, sorry, I no longer drink coffee..."

"Oh, yeah right. Sorry, I forgot." He raised the cup and
sipped a bit.

Still remaining on the spot I was standing at, I asked:
"You are a real demon?"

His answer came with rolling eyes:
"Obviously."

"What are you doing in my house?"

"Relax, I'm your demon."

"Sorry? My demon?"

"Yeah."

I stood there in silence, contemplating what I had done
to merit an apparition from my demon. He looked at me,
gave a long sigh, and broke my contemplation with
a cantering tap of his pointer finger against the cup.

"I don't believe this. I'm going to take a shower....," I started
climbing up, "....and when I'm done you're no longer here."

"Hmmm..," the devil stood up, "that is such a tall order.
We'll see."

I heard the TV went on as soon as I entered the bathroom.
As I was taking the shower, I tried to convince myself that
I was just having a bad dream. But as soon as I settled to nurse
that thought, a breath of insight drifted it away: "This couldn't be
a nightmare - no. He was friendly, and...and he wasn't nagging me
nor tempting me. He was just there drinking coffee and now he is..., "
I paused to pick up what he was watching, "...cheering for
Venus Williams!"

Clad in bathrobe, towel wrapped around my head, I went down
to continue my chat with my demon. "You're really real aren't you?"

"Yeah...shhh...can you just let me finish watching this match?
My goodness, it's Wimbledon finals and it's the Williams sisters
playing against each other!!"

I hushed and sat in the dining room. I studied him as he lay cozily
on my couch, his eyes faithfully watching the match. Venus won.

"I'm here to tell you that you're going to fall in love..." the demon
turned the TV off, "... very soon."

"Isn't it the job of cupid to -" I asked.

"- you're going to fall in love with yourself . And it's not the job of
Cupid to make you fall in love with yourself. That's too difficult
for him to do."

"Isn't loving myself what I've always done?"

The demon stood up and walked towards me and looked deeply
into my eyes, "But this time it's for real."

Silence swallowed us.

"Well...that would be it. I have to go now. And by the way, before
I lose the chance, let me give you a hug. I might not be able to do
it anymore..." The demon readied his arms.

I played along: I reciprocated. We had a deep hug.

"Ei," I whispered, "what do you mean by 'you might not
be able to do this anymore'?"

Unwrapping his arms, he said: "You'll see. And you'll never know what
hit you. Goodbye..."

He left not through a poof but through the door. I woke up.

"Oh, my, it was such a real dream!" I said to myself.
But when I checked my email, Google's news ticker announced:
Venus won.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Flushing by Chan

2008-07-18T05:13:00.000-07:00

A dance of dust formed

golden azure

A waterfall gushed
the universe:

Celestial tears sweetened
the creation,

a wave advancing.

(photo from stock.xchng)

The fragrant harbor

2008-07-17T06:05:00.000-07:00

The sun was setting and I was with Dancing with Joy.
A couple, perhaps in their thirties, was sitting on my left,
three bodies away from me, kissing -
I could hear the sound of their locking lips.

A gang of girls passed by behind me, laughing
in a foreign language. Yet, despite our language barrier,
I understood their joy.

Photographers of all ages were trying to capture
the most photogenic skyline. The lighting was perfect
after all: the blue hour gracefully blending
with a golden horizon.

Then came an old couple. They sat beside me,
beside the younger couple. A story got woven in
my mind; I just hope that the fabric of my imagination
would come into being: This old couple is the future
of the younger couple.

Came a handsome young guy with a can of Coke.
He sat on my right, two bodies away from me.
He lit up a cigarette and perhaps thought about
the girl he danced with last night.
He smoked too fast.

Then I surveyed the entire harbor: there were laughter,
toddlers with noisy shoes, giggling twiggy girls, cameras
flashing, and lovers walking hand in hand, sometimes
a couple or two pause to give each other a kiss,
the kind of kiss you give at dusk: soft, velvety,
and just a little bit dark.

I stood up and left them alone.

(photo from stock.xchng)

A love story

2008-07-15T03:33:00.000-07:00

A garden in bloom laid in my dream.
A particular flower arrested my attention.

Its beauty captivates totally:
the mind, the senses, and the heart
all halted into a silent rapture.

The mind began to move to perform its usual act.
"Pluck it!" it ordered. "Pluck it so you can
have it forever - just yours and only yours."

The senses were alerted; they remained open and aware.

Yet the mind surged stronger.
"Hands," it commanded, "go and pluck the flower."

Still, the senses kept open and aware.
And as the hands was about to pluck the flower,
a flame awakened and flared an ecstatic presence.

The hands rose up surrendering.
The mind was utterly broken;
its profound pain burst it into submission.
The garden streamed
a joyful fragrance.

I woke up with a beating heart.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Meditation 6: On Freedom

2008-07-13T08:54:00.000-07:00

1. Between freedom and love, freedom and compassion, freedom and responsibility, freedom and sensitivity, freedom and enlightenment, choose FREEDOM.

2. Without FREEDOM, what we call love, compassion, responsibility, understanding, sensitivity, and enlightenment are bound, sooner or later, to turn to their opposite: love becomes hate; compassion becomes condescension; responsibility becomes carelessness; sensitivity becomes apathy; and enlightenment becomes delusion.

3. Without FREEDOM, love, compassion, responsibility, sensitivity, and enlightenment are states of acting rather than states of being.

4. Fear is the absence of freedom. Fear cripples the spirit.

5. When the spirit is crippled, we can never flow; we go on circles over and over again.

* There's a danger in defining what freedom is. Whatever one say about it can be misleading.

Shrub roses

2008-07-11T02:14:00.000-07:00

these tears are deeper today
deeper like the rain outside

rain comes from a clear sky:
clear and empty sea -

empty - an empty rain -
empty - outside pouring empty

pouring like these tears
these tears are deeper today

deeper and hurts harsher,
hurts of a guileless pain -

a guileless wailing drum,
wailing a beat of raw intensity,

raw and sheer they come,
they've gone emptying the deep

the deep now subsides: here i am -
i am, i know, i have, Love

have it rooted inside, growing, standing tall,
standing as shrub roses, elegant and strong,

and i feel the pain of thorns leading to the bud
the bud now opens as these tears drop and fall

and whisper in its skin: grow love as i watch Love -
watch Love awake a fragrant wild abundance...

(photo from stock.xchng)

Thank you

2008-07-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

sailing through these streams
of images and roles
is an unending affair
of tired bodies, muted spirits,
and numb souls taking shots
upon shots of affectations

but life is a movement of mysteries
a moment arises when we reach
an affectionate shore where we
can let our tiny little selves
lay safely in each other's warmth
not as actors reading scripts for a drama
nor as spectacles in each others stage
but as plastic flowers wilting
to give birth to our moist, fragile,
and naked buds

slowly, we bloom
patiently, we keep on blooming
wide, wild, and free,
until our blossoms mirror
our fragrant beings
buried and bruised
by the manifold
of our conditionings

undauntedly, we drown
in each other's fragrance,
awakening each other's awareness
that we are interstellar flowers
just strangled and stranded
in this stream of dreams

with a boundless trust
we let the wind carry our fragrance
to share it to every sleeping flower
our life encounters

and courageously
we keep on blooming
until this stream dries and unveil
an immense shore where
every bud can safely lay and flourish
in each other's warmth

(photo from stock.xchng)

in This, a gift

2008-07-03T00:00:00.000-07:00

selfgazing

2008-07-01T22:18:00.000-07:00

the most poetic verse
you'll ever read
is your Self

the most compelling film
you'll ever watch
is your life

the most graceful dance
you'll ever see
is your journey

the most absorbing landscape
you'll ever encounter
is your body

the most sparkling star
you'll ever gaze at
is your eyes

the most heart-opening story
you'll ever listen to
is your smile

the most inspiring music
you'll ever hear
is your laughter

the most helpful map
you'll ever have
is your heart

and the most enchanting place
you'll ever set foot on
is your world

(photo from stock.xchng)

oh love, dear Love

2008-06-30T18:59:00.002-07:00

love! what a moment of lucidity
the grip of memory cannot hold!

desires may bend
but never they can break it

doubts did flourish
but they failed to outgrow it

so strong it endures
intoxicating seductions
so pure it triumphs over
the indulgence of temptations

affairs come and go
but love remains, unmoved;
here it is inside,
almighty and incandescent,
a burning authenticity whose flames raze
even ardor moments of sentimentality

Love has arrived;
and you, oh love,
steers the arrival
unstoppable,
Love flows
a cascading marvel

and no matter how the mind tries,
i shall not possess nor own
even a drop of the flow
for i have become a vessel open in both ends
and from end to end to beyond
Love gushes on and on, lively and free

oh love, dear Love,
you are our oyster
and we are the grains of sand
you silently, patiently turn into life's pearls

oh love, dear Love,
we are divided streams
and you are our ocean

The day ends this way

2008-06-27T23:45:00.000-07:00

the day
ends
this way:

the clouds drain
while the sun bleeds

a metamorphosis
is suspended
until further notice

a clock is wasted -
a rehabilitation
is in order

a pianist is tired -
forgot to hit
three notes;
nevertheless,
the audience
grants him
a standing ovation

(photo from stock.xchng)

A performance art that is now showing

2008-06-25T17:44:00.000-07:00

Do you know those things that you can only choose between “you like it or you don’t like it”, “you get it or you don’t”, “it’s for you or not”? Yes, exactly, hold that thought. Well, Raya Martin’s Now Showing is not one of those things. It’s the most difficult film, so far, that I’ve ever watched. Not because it’s a 5-hour film but because it’s a film that gave me a lot, haunted me like how the static image of a painting haunts the imagination, but at the same time left me afloat in a tub of ignorance.

Fresh from its world premiere at the 40th Director’s Fortnight section of the Cannes Film festival, Now Showing had its Philippine premiere on the 12th of June, in the 13th French Film Festival. Though I’ve heard a lot about him, it is the first Raya Martin film I've watched. And, oh my goodness, what an experience!

The synopsis of the film tells a very simple plot: “Rita is named after a famous American movie star whom her late, former actress grandmother once adored. She lives in one of Manila's oldest districts with her busy mother and entrepreneurial aunt. Years later, she is still the same girl enamored with television, now also tending to her aunt's stall selling pirated DVD movies. Elsewhere, there survive footages of a movie done before the war.” But, for me, this plot served more of Now Showing’s background rather than its life and soul.

Martin brought me back to the dizzying world of childhood. I see Rita but, in some strange way, perhaps blame it on the semblance between her childhood exploits and mine, I see my childhood: The role-playing alone in your own room: Pretending that there’s an audience rolling with you as you roll along with the karaoke yet there was only you and your exhausted body. The frenzy of playing patintero under the night sky. The parties – birthday, Christmas, New Year – when you see your relatives cramming in your tiny living room. Being absorbed by the telly. The climbing up and down the stairs of your house with your feet stumping like a horse’s gallop – and you hear your mother nagging you about your “heavy feet”. The solitary comforts of the bed: tucked in its sheets you stare blankly at everything within your eye’s grasp. And there were times you feel sad about something, crying without any reason at all, tears for a melancholic – or perhaps feelings of intense regret for something you portentously sense is going to happen – somewhere, elsewhere in your future. And amplifying this childhood chaos was Martin’s camera works: He literally walked along with and through this chaos.

Then there was silence. A tattered 1939 film played – without sound, just images. It was a long chilling silence. And just like any silence, it disturbs. But it wasn’t the silence that disturbed me, it was the chat that was going on beside me! Two guys were talking about When Love Begins! I considerately hushed them.

A grown-up Rita emerged from this silence. The camera works steadied, giving an illusion of order. An order to the way scenes ran on the silver screen but not to life of the heroine.

The film ended just like how it started: dancing in a terrain unknown to spectators. A terrain accessible only to those who participate in the world that forms the fabric of the realm of the “everyday”. This is a very personal world. And this is the world that Martin captured in a heavily enjambed piece of poetry that is Now Showing.

Meditation 5

2008-06-22T16:51:00.000-07:00

1. The heart that breaks is not the heart that beats.

2. Forever is a moment.

3.1 When individuality dissolves, fragmentation sets in.

3.2. Identification is separating myself from what I consider as not I. To identify is to fragment: I am this, therefore I am not that.

3.3. Individuality can't be identified because it has no identity. It has no identity because it is not fragmentation.

4.1 There's no periphery when there's no center. There's no center when there's no periphery.

4.2. To have a center is to have a periphery and therefore is to have boundaries.

4.3 Everything that has boundaries is fragmented.

4.4 Individuality has no center.

Your smile

2008-06-21T03:52:00.000-07:00

fetching your smile
from memory lanes
is impossible:

its felicity
has a dimension
neither time
nor space knows

but light knows it

and in this solitude,
on my lips,
light paints
the colour of your smile:

its hue sets it apart
from the rehearsed stretch
of the crowd's lips;

its intensity invites
wandering eyes to settle
in a particular gaze;

and its brightness allures
even shy mysteries
to manifest their glories

(photo from stock.xchng)

19 August 1999.....2007

2008-06-16T03:48:00.000-07:00

you and i
cease to be
nothing matters
everything disappears
divinity manifests itself
beauty reflects
life completes its cycle

and there's nothing else to say
but yes
and there's nothing left to do
but fly
and there's nothing we can hear
but this

(photo from stock.xchng)

Scribbles

2008-06-10T04:19:00.000-07:00

on breathing:
it's impossible to fully let go of your breath
if you aren't going to fully let it in

on relationships:
every relationship is
an opportunity to be yourself

on coins:
heads or tails?
no matter how you flip,
it's the same coin

on shit:
when shit happens
turn it into a fertilizer

on shadows:
don't be afraid of your own shadow
or anybody else's

on this journey:
to appreciate your own journey
start by appreciating other people's journey

on stairs:
it's more tiring, exhausting, and maddening
to climb an imaginary stair than a real one

on change:
people, things, and times don't change
they unfold

on love:
love is a moment to let go

(photo from stock.xchng)

A burst of a million fireflies

2008-06-02T20:30:00.000-07:00

The pretty and the beautiful

2008-06-01T21:32:00.000-07:00

prettiness is

individuality sleeping
in a comfy cage
dreaming dreams
that are reasonably safe

beauty is
individuality dancing
on a boundless stage
vending visions
that are stubbornly brave

(photo from stock.xchng)

The Garden

2008-05-31T21:21:00.000-07:00

Upon hearing his goodbye,
she watched him walk away
through the fog which consumed
the clarity of the night.

He was gone before cold wind
had set her hair streaming
into an endless night
which had just began.

She sat there, in the middle of everything,
facing every wall of their house.
Walls of glass, thick and strong
but very transparent.

Outside, a garden lay unattended.
Through the glass walls, she watched
every flower, every grass,
every stone dry until they die.

The hues of each day
rolled an expanse of meaninglessness.
Each day was a growth of molds and mildew,
rendering the glass walls opaque to light.

Still, she sat there, in the middle of everything,
facing the darkness of their house.
Darkness of a web of desires,
waiting to possess a prey.

Inside, a garden lay unattended.
Just a web of desires spinning
a revelation of an imperial prison.

Then after a pile of whiles,
footsteps came again and again,
tiny careful ones, emanating from the garden.
She nursed expectations that those footsteps were his.

She stood up and ran herself a warm bath.
After the bath, still slippery and wet,
the mirror revealed a seduction
beyond her imagination.

Her nipples swelled, blossoming into delight.
Her clit burst, frolicking into freedom.
Her skin…her skin released
an aroma of an awakening petrichor.

Her rain was over.

Then again, the tiny footsteps came.
Still slippery and wet, naked and aflame,
her heap of flesh came running with leaps of joy about the house,
out of the glass walls, into the garden to clinch him back to….No.

The footsteps weren’t his.
Not even a semblance of him.
The footsteps were of a girl.
A little lass with dainty little hands weeding the garden.

The heap of flesh stood muted
by the site of a garden abounding
with life. Though her vision was embracing everything,
her gazed was at the little girl.

Alerted by a heavy presence in the garden,
afraid and shy, the little girl motioned to run away.
“Wait!” The heap of flesh prayed.

The little girl stopped, with her back to the heap flesh,
her fragile body trembling with fear.
“Thank you for taking care of my garden.
How can I…Who are you?”

The little girl fetched a mirror
from her gardener’s bag
and handed it to the naked heap of flesh.

The mirror reflected
nothing but a heap of flesh.

Serenely, the house collapsed.
No more glass walls.
Darkness…gone.
The web of desires…untangled.
The night came to an end.

(photo from stock.xchng)

The fragility of grass

2008-05-29T21:28:00.000-07:00

Tears

2008-05-27T06:32:00.000-07:00

My (K)Night

2008-05-26T07:07:00.000-07:00

the last shafts of sunlight
is playing daintily
with the sea

this world
is turning its back
away from the sun

slowly
a million sunrise
we shall see
their rays will be
our poetry

(photo from stock.xchng)

The Ice Vodka Bar Incident

2008-05-25T21:31:00.000-07:00

PEOPLE LIKE US

Hey velvet

2008-05-22T08:39:00.000-07:00

catch those falling stars and
swallow them till they dissolve.
if you find the courage to do it,
care to share the starlight that will
shine through your fingertips with those
who are afraid of their night.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Staled

2008-05-21T02:39:00.000-07:00

as his tongue
fondled the hood of her clit
he noticed something different:
she smelled not of talc
but of dark red wine.

his tongue retired.

his eyelashes
fluttered
down.

drifting out of her skin
were thick wisps of melancholia.

they haunted his hard on.

(photo from stock.xchng)

He danced

2008-05-19T21:12:00.000-07:00

And so he danced
as she danced

He danced with her
through her, beyond her

But above all
he danced with himself
finally

And finally
he danced
past his boundaries
past her boundaries
letting go, letting be

(photo from stock.xchng)

To fly a kite

2008-05-13T23:52:00.000-07:00

i never learned how to fly a kite -
it's the strings.

i'm too clumsy to be able to control them;
and too stubborn with my trust
that kites only fly

when there are no strings at all.

of course, there were lots of voices
insisting on how things should be,
some loud, others furtively subtle.
kites don't fly without strings, they say,
without them, there'll be no kites at all.

the voices are very seductive.

and kites flying steadily, settled,

controlled by those strings
can be alluring spectacles.

as they are repeated

over and over again,
one gets deeply conditioned
to fly a kite in their way.

but each of my attempt

to heed this way
makes the heart

beats decay.

so, i'll keep my trust:

kites only fly without strings.

go on with your wishful thinking!
the voices resonate,

no strings, no kites.
go on, let the kite fly without the strings
and you'll only break your heart.

then let the heart break!

let this kite fly

untethered,
soaring not into my sky
but into the unbounded sky,

guided not by strings

but by a trust so immense

it rends the heart.

i'll let go. and i'll keep on letting go
until this heart shatters into pieces
until the heart that breaks
sets the heart that beats
free to burn

without smoke,
without the voices,
without me,
without the strings,

just ablaze

with the actual glory

of flying a kite.

Sailing

2008-05-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

the clouds were tired -

very tired

slowly, silently everything drowned:
the roads, the windows, these words
but not the paper boats

they kept on sailing
carrying a visceral knowingness
of where their shore is

it's not where the clouds were

The train

2008-05-06T09:50:00.001-07:00

this train has

a single destination
but of different stops

its windows open
to the same landscape
but each frame
reveals different views

as the train moves
the track lays steady
what's outside rolls by
while what's inside
remains the same

the train stops
passengers alight
new ones get in

then its journey continues

where it started
when it ends
no one knows
just as much as
nobody can tell
why it's there

speculations do abound
among the passengers
groups have been formed
to pursue a particular hunch
like spiders they weave
their own particular web
waiting to catch a new recruit
to further their explanation

but the train is indifferent
to any conclusion
it just goes on
moving, stopping
moving, stopping
on, and on, and on

(photo from stock.xchng)

Where pain can talk

2008-05-05T09:52:00.000-07:00

i'm ready to go

Kit told herself

she kicked the chair
she was standing on

numbness started crawling
from her feet as the sound of
a straight lifeline rang in her ears

her pulse gave up

Kit woke up
her death changed nothing

only Kit knew she was already dead
a cold body of nothing but silenced
throbbing pain

she was no longer there
but somewhere else
where pain can talk
where rain can be stopped
from pouring
by chalk-drawn suns

(photo from stock.xchng)

To walk alone

2008-05-04T09:21:00.000-07:00

To walk alone is

to look straight into
your own eyes
it is to see yourself
until you dissolve
among your selves

To walk alone is
to bridge the gap between
you and your others
it is to disarm yourself
until the need to isolate
becomes forgotten

To walk alone
is to walk
until nothing remains
but an undulating presence

(photo from stock.xchng)

Neuroscience is a very sexy science

2008-05-01T16:08:00.000-07:00

I am seduced

The discussion about the nervous system is the only thing that I enjoyed in my high school biology class. The brain, and everything about it, has always charmed my curiosity. Who wouldn’t be? From the simple toothpick, to space exploration, to psychedelic experiences, to numerous ideological assertions, to great arts, to smut, to what we consider real and imagined, to prejudice, to compassion, all of them are processed, produced, replicated, and transmitted by our brains. After reading the book Phantoms in the Brain: Probing the Mysteries of the Human Mind and watching Jill Bolte Taylor’s My Stroke of Insight, my interest about the brain aroused to an incredible sustainable mind blowing orgiastic intensity.

Written by Dr V.S. Ramachandran and Sandra Blakeslee, Phantoms in the Brain is a very accessible exposition, discussion, and reflection on the curious medical cases which deepen our understanding of how the brain works. Divided in twelve chapters, it is based on Dr Ramachandran’s findings and studies on phantom limbs, body image, and the illusory nature of the self. Each chapter begins with his investigations and ends in a way that leaves the reader in an introspective state.

Reading it has been a fascinating journey. There were times when tears accompanied my fingers as they leafed through the pages of this book. I was just iridescently inspired by Dr Ramachandran’s elegant experiments, moved by the eloquence of his wonder, and dazzled by the energy he emits in his quest to understand the brain.

In A journey to the center of your mind, a discussion he presented in the 2007 TED Conference, Dr Ramachandran discussed some of these cases: Capgras syndrome, Phantom limbs, and Synaesthesia.

-----
Neuroscience, a Western literal/rational interpretation of reality, is deliciously blending with the Eastern poetic realization of reality. Dr Ramachandran is just one of the enchanting things that are going on in neuroscience. Jill Bolte Taylor is another.

Ms Taylor is a neuroanatomist who had a stroke in the left hemisphere of her brain. As her functions deteriorated, she remembered every detail of the experience. In her 2008 TED conference talk below, her memory of the event weaves a mesmerizing story that invites us to flow into another dimension in the fabric of reality, into another state of being. Call me a crybaby but I cried after watching her talk.

Meditation 4

2008-04-30T01:51:00.000-07:00

1. No amount of carnage can bring about the beauty of death.

2. Beauty externalized is a bouquet of plastic roses: muted fragrance and harmless thorns - just tremendously pretty. It doesn't grow, doesn't age, doesn't die. Beauty internalized? Dangerous, just dangerous to those who are afraid of their own death.

3. To be acquainted, engaged, and involved with one's own Insignificance is the start of an ever unfolding romantic involvement with Life as it unfolds and not as how it was told by those who left us with theories for the sake of their eternal Significance.

4. Living poetically is often misinterpreted as living intellectually. Ahh, the price of being misunderstood: either you're an intellectual or a fool - nonetheless, they are the sides of the same coin.

5.1 The phrase "Work hard and efficiently" is an oxymoron. Isn't it that the harder a machine works the more it becomes inefficient for it will consume more energy? So how come we want humans to work harder?

5.2 When efficiency replaces productivity we would become less tired for the more we become efficient the less energy we use.

5.3 We often mistake efficiency for productivity. They're not one and the same: Productivity is doing more things while Efficiency is doing things right.

5.4 Speed is not an input to but a necessary consequence of an efficient system.

6.1 The greatness of any endeavor and discovery derives its magnificence in its capacity to make us more and more Insignificant. As Nietzsche observed: The higher we soar the smaller we become to those who cannot fly. Which is just similar to this Chinese proverb: The taller the bamboo grows, the lower it bends.

7. Infinity is nowhere but here. Eternity is nowhere but now. And the the beyond is just beyond...

8. I am therefore I am no one.

Lost

2008-04-28T03:30:00.000-07:00

The sun was painfully shy today:

Every thing assumed a darker hue.

An ant was struggling to sniff
a pheromone trail;

a drop of rain struck it
before it was able to do so.

(photo from stock.xchng)

O

2008-04-27T13:54:00.000-07:00

softly
my body flows
in your leather streams
my arms
cinched in gloves
our souls
like doves, cooing

from your hands
a string of rope runs
around my neck, into my arms
across my legs
my spirit
tied exquisitely tight
in layers and knots
of your bliss

steadily
candle burns
a fragrant solstice
ascending
our eyes
like rain, dripping

(photo from ShibariJapanese Rope Art)

The prisoner's dilemma

2008-04-25T02:00:00.000-07:00

From the branches of trees, hang threads of resting
twinkle lights. Street lamps shine of orange splendor.
Occasionally, a car drives by.

The moon is high and almost full.
A solitary star admires its brilliance.
Hand-in-hand, a couple stroll around the paved path.

In the silence of this park, the empty benches,
flattened grasses, and steady swings sigh:
Everybody gets tired. Yet nobody wants enough.

(photo from stock.xchng)

Meditation 3

2008-04-24T10:46:00.000-07:00

1. Through us the universe asks questions, falls in love, goes to war, creates its problems, solves its mysteries, pollutes itself, pampers its ego, produces art, gets horny, decodes itself, believes in a God, dispels the myth of God, dwells in fantasy, gets depressed, studies itself, experiences ecstasy, deludes itself, become aware, lives, and dies. There is nothing that we do that is not an activity of the universe.

2. We are not puppets in a string but the stage upon which a string of drama of chaos and order rolls.

3. The more we search for significance the more we become insignificant. When our quest for significance stops, either by giving up this quest or by reaching its end, magnificence reveals itself. We fear the end of this quest for this magnificence bears no I, me, and you. Distinction and separation ends. Everything blends into nothingness.

4. We are nothing but incarnated and animated information.

5. The Ego disentangles the whole to entangle the bits and pieces, producing its own version of the totality.

Words are ribbons

2008-04-23T06:02:00.000-07:00

words are ribbons:
they are not clues of
what's beneath
the wrap

hands
walk a mile,
tying them in thousands

mouths
shred them,
benumbing the inner ear

so the wrap remains tight

(photo from stock.xchng)

Unwrap

2008-04-21T09:40:00.000-07:00

when time gets tired of distance
we'll sleep in each other's arms
whispering each other's songs
until dreams turn to rhapsodies

we'll trip the light fantastic
to lift this world from its knees
we'll spin threads of smile
to weave pulsating hearts
so that everyone can unwrap
the gifts they hoard inside

(photo from stock.xchng)

How to copulate with creativity

2008-04-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

first, make sure

you're still breathing,
beating,
most importantly,
bleeding

look for the vital signs:
letting go of The Wall
acceptance of vulnerabilities
regaining permeability

let levity
be your gravity
so that the brilliant
beautiful and the beloved
can fall with you

it can be a flower
a river, a moment
a boy of the reel
a girl with a poem
a day without clouds
anything, anybody
everything in an instant
or everybody all at once
- it doesn't matter

undress
every of your garb
precious or not
has to go
be nothing but the flesh
unarmed, uninhabited, uninhibited

it always starts with a kiss
until everything gets warm
electrifying
you surrender into the wetness
you get hard
and soft and juicy
until you're ready to blow
and be blown
away
to EXPLODE!

the world shakes, breaks,
ready for the great release:
a volcanic eruption spins your sanity

after the rapt,
the world redeems itself
a fuzzy dreamy feeling arises

replenished

now
give it some time
and you'll get sick
a vomit heralds it:
the seed has been implanted

it will grow by itself
you become heavier
you swell
the guts strengthens

in time
you'll feel its little kicks
expect lots of hard ones
the ones that make you
mellow

there will be times of discouragements
abortion is seductive
for the real world
is not always ready for The Brave
and The Insignificant

yet for the aflame
patience triumphs over cowardice

then you become fluid:
it's time
you flow with intense goshes
everything shines irrelevantly
mesmerizing

you will get tempted
to tie it with strings
afraid to lose, afraid to let go
set it free, it doesn't need our cage
surely it will hurt
for the possessive ones -
we all are sometimes ...

then it is here, there, born
you hear it cry,
see it fly,
feel it smile,
joy chills the spine

frogs turn into princes
pumpkins into carriages
dusts into stars
ashes into birds
revelations into incarnations
the miracle sparks into Life

(photo from stock.xchng)

A poem without armor

2008-04-18T07:56:00.000-07:00

i like to write
a poem of verses
without armors
of naked words
and of shadowless lines
punctuated by courage

it can only be read
by unadorned eyes
and a mind
that need no rhymes

for to bleed such a poem
is to open a scar

(photo from stock.xchng)

Paper boats

2008-04-17T08:01:00.000-07:00

my memory pours
into a rill

i will fold paper boats
and set them sailing
across the stream

paper boats sail to sink
to unfold deeper into
what is real

i will keep on folding
until nothing remains
of this dream

(photo from stock.xchng)