Tag Archives: random

Right here; Right Now

In Woody Allen’s 2013 film, “Midnight in Paris” Owen Wilson accidentally loitered into the roaring twenties and ended up having drinks with Ernest Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds. And he did not want to go back.

Can you blame him? A struggling writer barely even sustaining the creative momentum to finish a novel, and there he was caught in the orgy of the most creatively brilliant people to ever walked the beautiful Paris streets. If it were me, I would definitely not want to go back.

There is something grand about the past and how the present creates a romantic notion that it is something worth looking back to. Like an old lover, a first love. The past indeed makes up the present but the present could erase the past. If we allow it to. Had we stop clinging so tight to that love we had in the past, we could have made a better present. We are too caught up in celebrating the events of yesterday and we slowly forget about the now.

I realized that dangerous inclination I have with obsessing over the past when I constantly tell everyone that I am born in the wrong generation. When people dance at a rave party, I wish to be rolling in the mud at Woodstock. When everyone goes crazy over JK Rowling, I raise my brow and remind everyone of JRR Tolkien. I have become this disgusting walking breeding ground of every filthy dirt of cultural snobbery. I have only one rule in appreciating culture, modern art is a watered down version of a classic. Popular belief has cemented this as a solid irrevocable fact. But no. What we create today will be the future’s past. And because of that, the more reason why we need to make it best.

I was reading Kurt Vonnegut’s “Slapstick (or Lonesome no More!) and thought this man said everything everyone could think of better. He was a past so glamorous in a nasty surreally realistic way. A monster of writing. I want to be stuck in a pub drinking bottles and bottles of beer with him until I piss golden literature in my mouth. While I was at the thought, I remembered to acknowledge the past, I opened my notes and typed this.

Just Another Bio

Here I am for the nth time writing about the topic I oftentimes love and sometimes dreaded, myself. This ambivalence came from the necessity of explanation of ones self for societies impossible clarity.

First and for the most society annoys me. That hatred proves to be beneficial since I’ve been incessantly trying hard to change it. I planted a mangrove and it branched into anti- coal, renewable energy and cleanliness campaigns. Questions have vagued my judgement, some of them open ended, unfortunately most of them are unanswerable. There are a lot of things I just dont agree with.

If you see me buying a self help book that is a gift for someone. Aside from the love of sharing the beauty of reading, I hate self help books. They are literature’s biggest fiction. But one day I would like to write one. Life is ironic, mine especially.

Just like most people music is one of things that my world wants to revolve around to. I am not a musician. In music, there are two kinds of people; the one appreciates, the other creates. I am neither. They’re all inside a circle and I am outside writing about them.

My real friends are the shadows on my barren walls. They throw me words when I need them. Just like right now. The people I talk with, they’re my resources. The people I hold hands with when I cross the street I call them my family. The people who brought me to the Earth are my home. The rest are just nuisance intricately arranged like a maze, and I knew them as my enemies.

Love exists everywhere. It is the higher source, if not the highest. My first love was drawing but I have fallen truely in love a number of times. You could consider it a phenomenon like the thunder, some brief, others last, but they all are definitely real. Currently, I’m on the lookout for lightnings.

When people asked me what I do, I used to answer with my wide grin “I’m a bum”. Now everytime I get the question, I confidently answer “I write”. There isnt much difference actually. Writing is like bumming around in your imagination but you get paid doing it.

I have eyes that hides themselves in my laughters, teeth that are outgoing, cheeks like the chocolate hills, freckles like a constellation and a pretty friendly face that creates a barely noticeable presence. My physical appearance is my stealth, when I speak I begin to dissolve into people’s attention. But mostly I choose to be a flower on the wall.

Above all of this there is only one sentence you need to read to know me. I want to create order from chaos, pleasure from pain and love from hatred.

There it is, now let me go back to what I’m reading.

The Endless Pursuit of Creative Churva

Note:  This was written on May 23, 2011.  Right after the presumed Rapture.

Another note:  Written against a dose of Hiligaynon.

Too bad the world didn’t end, the journey continues. We have to face same struggle and shit while we wait for 2012. Yes, our seemingly unending desire to discover that gift Bob Dylan, Woody Allen, Van Gogh and Lester Bangs has been abundantly receiving all their lives. Fuck you dreams that just wont silence itself from screaming in the head of the reluctant people who deluded themselves with your grandeur.

Enough deep stuff kay indi man ta deep nagapadeep deep lang.

This is going to be a serious multidialect attack. Go eat shit with perfection, you grammar Nazi.

When did this whole “I’m special, I must be an artist” kachurvahan started, anyway? Siguro sang ginhambalan ka loser sang elementary ka. They just dont understand the things I do. Or maybe when you failed your Algebra sang first year high school ka. I have an illogical mind that only means I must be an artist. Nagsala ka gid kay si Descartes ang naghambal nga “I think therefore I am” sya man ang nag-obra sang planes nga rason kun ngaa bagsak ka sa Geometry. But then again just like all reality realizations, this too came later in your life.

Teh kay creative mind ang ginpili mo, maano ka? You cant sing like Stevie Nicks, not even Janis Joplin or fucking Joan Jett. And you’re not famous enough to harass record execs into producing you an album. You try to make friends with musicians because you share their lie of them being the coolest people in the universe and even the parallels. Well, bad news, even Jesus aint cool. You wont go far with them than a) watch them smoke b) join them smoke c) fuck them after you smoke. It’s not the 70’s or the fucking 80’s but that shit is still true. And so with a VERY FEW EXCEPTION rock n roll is still a dirty lifestyle. Dirtier than the garbage they left during free concerts. Dirtier than the puke your guts pushed out of your mouth while you kill your liver with alc. So gwa ka na nga daan samtang wala ka pa nag 27.

Kay you’re good enough for rock n roll(which seems to be the only real art in music form aside from Broadway) you dived into its darker twin universe, literature. So sobra mo nga basa you blurred the line between reality and the books. The sad part of literature is when life imitates art. That’s when all emotional hell breaks loose. Better see a shrink before you go all Edgar Allan Poe and shit. Try mo magsulat but writing is stubborn the more you push it the more it pulls away. Kun makasulat ka man wala man publisher, and the bad news is you’re not the good old sport, F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Damu ka na dayon crowd nasudlan, your attempt to transcend cultures has been too damn successful, that you went on to confuse yourself.

“Daw hippie ka hu.”
Mental protest dayon.
“Hippie man gid ko? Daw naligo man ko.”

You better wear a shirt that says “Punker than Johnny Ramone” that might silence labelling. You have emersed into a lot of stereotypes you became a cultural mongreal. Amu na to ang paggamu sang identity mo, the more you struggle for an individuality the more it gets out of your grasp. “Indi nyo ko pagpamangkota kun ano na nga kanta kay indi ako rakista.” But then again you cant tell that to people when you are wearing an AC/DC shirt.

Your angst is driving you so fucked up you need to scream “fuck you” at somebody. What’s a better rage absorber than of course the government. It’s the fucking Rage Against the Machine taken literal. It is easy to shout profanities at the government because they normally wont shout back at you. Instead they’ll take you to an institution, educate you and train you to be their enemy. People this is where your taxes went, well some of it. Kulang pa gid. Damu damu ka gid kaakig sa life. Religion naman eh kay gincage ka. Parents naman eh, kay they’re not the Lopezes. Until you realize you keep on blaming people and you’re never satisfied because the real person responsible of those fuckeries, is you.

This is the unromantic existence of a romantic.

Allyn: Maobra man ta ya movie ah.
Nonoy Jeffrey: May script ka na da aw?
Allyn: Ginahulat ko pa creative awakening ko ah.
Nonoy Jeffrey: Tapungulon ta ka bla para maawaken imu creativity.

Men, kinanglan ko tapungol, subong na.

PS:  Just in case you are wondering what is the meaning of the word ‘churva’ here are some definition from Urban Dictionary.