sleep like love eludes me tonight
and if sleep like love holds the promise of a sigh
then unlucky me and my cursed eye
that beholds too much and that none beholds
and light is wary to grant respite.
sleep like love eludes me tonight
and if sleep like love holds the promise of your kiss
then deprived am i of this simple bliss
that deepens depths to fathoms fathomless
and whose silence soothes my wakefulness.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
In the Name of the Father, the Mother...
Every evening, my late stepfather would kneel down in front of an altar bearing the limang kadeusan, raise his right hand and recite an orasyon, beginning...
Sa pangalan ng Deus Ama, Deus Ina, Deus Anac, Deus Espiritu Santong Wagas; Deus ubod utak Karunungan ang Kalangkap sa dilim at buong liwanag.
(In the name of the Father, the Mother, the Son, the Holy Spirit; God source of all knowlege and wisdom that encompases light and darkness.)
It is only recently that I learned that he was a member of the Lapiang Malaya, who we had read about in our Lithis class, and that he had evaded a raid on their Pasay safehouse with the help of an amulet that reportedly kept him invisible even as policemen combed through the house for days. Supposedly a favorite of Valentin de los Santos, my stepfather would be assigned to buy lunch for the followers with just enough money for one jueteng bet and a winning combination chosen by the leader. My mom tells me the story with a laugh, remembering her own initiation into the group - an approval signaled by the appearance of flowing water in a lightbulb in a nondescript house in Sta. Ana.
She recites for me their version of the Sign of the Cross, and I'm struck by how beautiful and wise it is compared to the Roman Catholic Church's with its acknowledgment and honoring of the Mother and forces of light and darkness.
Sa pangalan ng Deus Ama, Deus Ina, Deus Anac, Deus Espiritu Santong Wagas; Deus ubod utak Karunungan ang Kalangkap sa dilim at buong liwanag.
(In the name of the Father, the Mother, the Son, the Holy Spirit; God source of all knowlege and wisdom that encompases light and darkness.)
It is only recently that I learned that he was a member of the Lapiang Malaya, who we had read about in our Lithis class, and that he had evaded a raid on their Pasay safehouse with the help of an amulet that reportedly kept him invisible even as policemen combed through the house for days. Supposedly a favorite of Valentin de los Santos, my stepfather would be assigned to buy lunch for the followers with just enough money for one jueteng bet and a winning combination chosen by the leader. My mom tells me the story with a laugh, remembering her own initiation into the group - an approval signaled by the appearance of flowing water in a lightbulb in a nondescript house in Sta. Ana.
She recites for me their version of the Sign of the Cross, and I'm struck by how beautiful and wise it is compared to the Roman Catholic Church's with its acknowledgment and honoring of the Mother and forces of light and darkness.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Remembering the Wowowee Stampede or Fuck You ABS CBN
Three years ago, I was bedspacing somewhere in Ortigas. I woke up one morning and walked to the carinderia next door for breakfast. To my surprise, jeepneys were plying the street, their loudness incongruous with the relatively quiet neighbourhood which saw mostly pedestrians and lost vehicles. Someone commented that they had been rerouted. When I turned my attention to the television sitting above the trays of cold hotdogs and galunggong , I learned that just a few blocks down at the Ultra, something had happened.
Three years later, survivors and relatives of victims of the Wowowee stampede remembered the incident with candles and prayers at the gates where 73 people were crushed to death.
Today, the Inquirer ran a story on the anniversary, noting that the Pasig RTC has dismissed the charges against the ABS-CBN top brass. ABS-CBN News Online meantime had no mention about the anniversary but did have some pictures of Willie Revillame and the Wowowee gang cavorting in Dubai on their first leg of a world tour. Very classy.
Three years later, survivors and relatives of victims of the Wowowee stampede remembered the incident with candles and prayers at the gates where 73 people were crushed to death.
Today, the Inquirer ran a story on the anniversary, noting that the Pasig RTC has dismissed the charges against the ABS-CBN top brass. ABS-CBN News Online meantime had no mention about the anniversary but did have some pictures of Willie Revillame and the Wowowee gang cavorting in Dubai on their first leg of a world tour. Very classy.
Detoxifying
I have been reading some classmates' blogs and can identify with their struggles to make a living out of writing. There is that gnawing feeling that you are on the verge of selling out or doing a disservice to your craft by wielding the pen as a renegade for hire. You learn how to write by template to suit the bubbly superficial temper of most magazines or the narrow requirements of newspapers.
There comes a point when you feel you can't write anymore. You don't want to write anymore because you know everything you write is crap. You hesitate and cringe at calling yourself a writer because you feel more like a monkey at a keyboard. And this is not what you had in mind or heart.
You feel a need to detoxify. You don't just want to make a living out of writing. You want to make a writing out of living.
There comes a point when you feel you can't write anymore. You don't want to write anymore because you know everything you write is crap. You hesitate and cringe at calling yourself a writer because you feel more like a monkey at a keyboard. And this is not what you had in mind or heart.
You feel a need to detoxify. You don't just want to make a living out of writing. You want to make a writing out of living.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Looking down at a dog looking up at the Buddha
Although, I'm not much of a poet, I have an experience I'd like to try to explore through that form.
A couple of days ago, as I was studying (nax!), I leaned back to take a break and caught sight of my dog lying happily by my feet. Watching reclining dogs (especially sleeping puppies) relaxes me. I watched Chelsea for while before I realised her eyes were gazing up at a faded green stone Buddha my mom bought in Bangkal.
Looking down at a dog looking up at the Buddha. Who's the really evolved one again?
A couple of days ago, as I was studying (nax!), I leaned back to take a break and caught sight of my dog lying happily by my feet. Watching reclining dogs (especially sleeping puppies) relaxes me. I watched Chelsea for while before I realised her eyes were gazing up at a faded green stone Buddha my mom bought in Bangkal.
Looking down at a dog looking up at the Buddha. Who's the really evolved one again?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Note to Self 1
When opening freshly popped bag of Caramel Apple popcorn, keep steam away from eyes. Combination is like pepperspray.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
A Letter to Mr. Arturo Perez-Reverte
Dear Mr. Perez Reverte,
First an introduction. I am a reader from the Philippines who enjoys your work and the worlds you create and convey. I am also an aspiring writer and like yourself (but to a much less notable degree), share a background in journalism.
With a knowledge of your career before fiction, some understanding of the journalistic mind and curiosity about the creative process, it was with immense interest that I read your novel, The Painter of Battles, and with some hesitation but great anticipation that I write you to pick your brain now.
In particular I am interested in your views on the act (or non-act?) of observing. In your novel, Faulques is a photographer who becomes a painter with an obsession to neatly define the nature of war or the rules of chaos. In reality, you are a war correspondent who has become a writer who in this novel depicts the nature of war and its effect on participants and observers (I apologise for my simplistic breakdown).
That you end the book with Markovic abandoning his initial goal of killing Faulques by implying that the latter is already dead inside suggests the dehumanisation of the observer. Is this the inevitable end for artists trying to make sense of the horrors of war through the instruments of their craft? Or is it a warning against obsession? If as Markovic says, "photographing people is the same as raping them", can any observer of war emerge innocent?
From behind the photographer' s camera, the painter's brushes, the journalist's recorder and the writer's pen; the observer's eye is passive but not unaffected. To be completely unaffected I think would be complete dehumanisation without even going through the process. However, in addition to dealing with the experience of war or seeing a war as a human being, the peculiar species that is the artist must also go through the creative struggle to process and express what s/he has seen – an experience that is no less tumultuous or dangerous, I think.
As a journalist who has lived conflicts, did you feel that traditional reportage was inadequate to accurately convey the story of lives lost and man's brutality unleashed ("The sound of a bullet as it bursts a skull. The laugh of a man who has just won seven cigarettes by betting on whether the foetus of a woman he just disembowelled with his bayonet is male or female.")? And how does the inability to do so feed the guilt and impotence of the observer? Does the writing of fiction somehow fill in those spaces of helplessness? Or is the presentation of the representation the safest vantage point from which to pursue the project?
If painting is the artistic cousin of photography and fiction of journalism, do you feel that journalism has too limited a palette to capture the essence of war? Or are all palettes limited to achieve that sublime?
I thank you for your time in reading this letter.
Sincerely,
Friena P. Guerrero
First an introduction. I am a reader from the Philippines who enjoys your work and the worlds you create and convey. I am also an aspiring writer and like yourself (but to a much less notable degree), share a background in journalism.
With a knowledge of your career before fiction, some understanding of the journalistic mind and curiosity about the creative process, it was with immense interest that I read your novel, The Painter of Battles, and with some hesitation but great anticipation that I write you to pick your brain now.
In particular I am interested in your views on the act (or non-act?) of observing. In your novel, Faulques is a photographer who becomes a painter with an obsession to neatly define the nature of war or the rules of chaos. In reality, you are a war correspondent who has become a writer who in this novel depicts the nature of war and its effect on participants and observers (I apologise for my simplistic breakdown).
That you end the book with Markovic abandoning his initial goal of killing Faulques by implying that the latter is already dead inside suggests the dehumanisation of the observer. Is this the inevitable end for artists trying to make sense of the horrors of war through the instruments of their craft? Or is it a warning against obsession? If as Markovic says, "photographing people is the same as raping them", can any observer of war emerge innocent?
From behind the photographer' s camera, the painter's brushes, the journalist's recorder and the writer's pen; the observer's eye is passive but not unaffected. To be completely unaffected I think would be complete dehumanisation without even going through the process. However, in addition to dealing with the experience of war or seeing a war as a human being, the peculiar species that is the artist must also go through the creative struggle to process and express what s/he has seen – an experience that is no less tumultuous or dangerous, I think.
As a journalist who has lived conflicts, did you feel that traditional reportage was inadequate to accurately convey the story of lives lost and man's brutality unleashed ("The sound of a bullet as it bursts a skull. The laugh of a man who has just won seven cigarettes by betting on whether the foetus of a woman he just disembowelled with his bayonet is male or female.")? And how does the inability to do so feed the guilt and impotence of the observer? Does the writing of fiction somehow fill in those spaces of helplessness? Or is the presentation of the representation the safest vantage point from which to pursue the project?
If painting is the artistic cousin of photography and fiction of journalism, do you feel that journalism has too limited a palette to capture the essence of war? Or are all palettes limited to achieve that sublime?
I thank you for your time in reading this letter.
Sincerely,
Friena P. Guerrero
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