GRACEFUL EXIT

by Ayn

Huffing my last four puffs,

I sit back and look yonder

The rabbit's cage has swung open

It's time to let go

The first moon was of hope,

the last, of forgiveness

Yet I can't bring myself to muster

What ensued in between

Uproot, I hear them bellow

In my spot, a soundless cry

One eye inside the tunnel

Leaves me no choice but to Die

The Moral Fiber of my youth

Strummed the strings of my dream

Where every echo resonates

There shall I commence

Farewell, little rabbits

Your duties are fulfilled

From this fulcrum I witnessed

No luck is greater than Faith. #

"There’s a trick to the 'graceful exit.' It begins with the vision to recognize when a job, a life stage, or a relationship is over — and let it go. It means leaving what’s over without denying its validity or its past importance to our lives. It involves a sense of future, a belief that every exit line is an entry, that we are moving up, rather than out." — Ellen Goodman

THE WORLD IS BIG

by Ayn

First post for the merry month. Supposedly MERRY month.

Contrary to my previous route where I can just conveniently take the shuttle bus to and from work, now I have to take three rides to go to my new destination. Pretty inconvenient, but after 5 days, I'm getting the hang of it. After all, I missed UP. (No I'm not a Maroon, we just used to go to church and jog there) The static Sunken Garden hasn't changed much, and the dynamic Ikots and Tokis still relentlessly travel the loop that has been there for more than a hundred years.

I have been quite hesitant to write about how I've been these past few days. With all due honesty, I can't exactly define how an emotional mess I've been, constantly having nostalgia attacks in the middle of everything. Right. Everything. But one thing pushed me to finally let it all out --- a fateful jeepney ride.

As I sat on the half-filled Katipunan-bound jeep in front of the Business Ad building around 8pm the other night I got pissed off by a couple of college students. Noise is one of my weaknesses, you know. The girl next to me was laughing really hard like she was talking to someone from the college of Engineering when in fact she was plainly conversing with the guy RIGHT in front of her. Anyways, the four of them were reminiscing and reenacting some electoral campaign hullabaloos (is it the time of the year, I dunno. As I said I'm not a Maroon). There was nothing wrong with the whole scene, besides that eardrum-shattering "jeje" noise. But what caught me was that despite how innocent these young kids still looked, their auras exude a certain kind of confidence that speaks "I own the world." Perhaps election is a big thing, and I definitely felt the same hype back in college. But little do these kids know what awaits them after stepping out of State U. Can't blame 'em, though; didn't know it back then either.

It's been years since I stepped out off college, and the years we count after that will be collectively termed as "experience." And they say experience is the best teacher; but sometimes, most of us learn things the hard way. True. We never really realize what we're getting into until we get there. Some people go to far places, some switch jobs, and some just stay. I wouldn't want to delve deeper into what I'm going through, because some people might not be ready to know just yet. All I can say is, I never really used the words "I MISS YOU" the way I'm using them now.

The world is big. That's what I wanted to tell those kids. But I can only paint a smile on my face, sit back, and just wait till they see it for themselves. And me? Hell, do I want to see for myself how enormous it really is. But for the meantime, I can get used to some harder blows as dry run. After all, I'm still on schedule. Right, Ducky? #

WALK TO FREEDOM

by Ayn

Only today, I quit.

I quit a life spelled with nothing

but blue trays stacked with paper heaps,

Filled with vague sketches in pencil.

It took me quite a while.

Once I stood in belief.

But waiting has purloined from me

That youthful hope I held on to.

Now I'm nothing but pragmatic.

Age corrupts us, at times.

Just yesterday, I dreamed.

I yearned for a life of Freedom,

Filled with pride in every sunrise.

I woke up and this isn't it.

Vastly deplorable.

You do not understand.

You don't know life outside your rock,

the Wars We wage each fleeting day.

You're not a fellow Countryman.

I thus cease to explain.

Sitting on my front porch,

I gawp at the Walk to Freedom.

I wait for the rain to subside.

The first rung looks quite rickety.

I take it anyway.

Tomorrow, I wonder.

Will the colors of the sunset

Be as magnificent as how

it awes the forlorn soul at dawn?

I sit, pray, and wonder. #

JEFF WHO?: BIRTHDAY CHEERS TO THE LATE JEFF BUCKLEY

by Ayn

Did I ever wish I was born a little earlier? Definitely. Besides the less complicated life and people back then, I wish I had experienced seeing Jeff Buckley perform live in the flesh even once at least before he died. Ok, I just heard someone say, "Jeff who?"

I remember having heard of Jeff Buckley the first time way back 2002, while listening to NU 107 playing some of his well-known hits "Forget Her", "Everybody Here Wants You", and "Last Goodbye". His voice was one of the most unique I've ever heard, with an unusually wide range that can go from acoustic (in "Best of Me") to heavy (in "Grace"). His music, too, was just memorably and poignantly distinct. I got more interested whenever the DJ referred to this artist as 'the late Jeff Buckely.' I reduced to thinking it must have been of drug OD, like Kurt Cobain, Hillel Slovak, or his very own father Tim Buckley, a legendary Folk musician. An artery ruptured in me when I learned that it was the Mississippi that took him back to nature--- not mysterious, simply accidental. He drowned in the middle of writing songs for his second album.

That was in 1997. He was 30. And I hated myself for not having been born a little earlier, around the 70s, to at least have had the chance to get a copy of his first album or a draft of his unfinished second.

A lot of you might not totally dig me making a big fuss out of this dead guy who didn't even stick around long enough after signing with Sony BMG to taste the full glory of being an international rock artist. I also don't, sometimes. But thinking about it, Jeff Buckley was the rock musician I always thought never existed. He never took drugs, never got hooked on alcohol, never got linked with several women, and never used hate as a tool to express the deepest emotions he wanted the world to hear. He drew on a sad childhood as a leverage to create music that inspired a thousand souls, and it definitely included mine. In short, he showed me it was possible --- in a world where rock artists are stereotyped as black disciples of Satan, I'm proud to contest there once existed a Jeff Buckley amongst them. Sadly, God probably took him that early to prevent unnecessary influence and further pollution.

On his 45th birthday today, it won't hurt listening to at least one Jeff Buckley song. I'm sure you have his rendition of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" in your iPods, but try his originals. There's a lot you can download, from Limewire, 4Shared, iTunes, wherever. "Grace" is a personal favorite --- it's of hope that's loud enough to awaken that person in you cast by the shadows of fear and doubt. "We All Fall In Love Sometimes" is a classic; and "Morning Theft" is just beautiful, beautiful.

I don't want to die as early as Jeff did, but I sure hope I could have shared a piece of me to many by then. #

www.jeffbuckley.com

ARRYTHMIA

It's those unwarranted instances where your heartbeat skips (or seems to skip).

Fifty-five beats this minute reduces to forty-three the next.

The momentary skips dilate time and give you space to think ---

Is it a physiological phenomena that's a cause for alarm? Go see a doctor.

Did you just forget to breathe? Lord knows how stupid that sounds.

But it's painful.

And each day it recurs like the irregular rhythm becomes your regular heartbeat.

You've been through a lot lately. Or so you thought.

Surprises and suppresses go up and down together in spiral staircases.

Human instinct permits you to hate, feel stronger, and pick yourself up again.

That's always the sequence. Or so you thought.

Because in the middle of everything, arrythmia suddenly holds you up.

You have a choice. You can choose the sequence.

Patterns are the most beautiful symbols in this great Architecture.

Lines, Curves, Numbers, Sounds, even Emotions.

Heartbeats are but one part of the unfathomable human and non-human abyss.

Do you choose and dare to break your Pattern?

Thank God for arrythmia, I get the chance to read divine signals. #

THE PERFECT DRUG

Kill me, Trent Reznor, for ripping off the title of your 1997 classic Nine-Inch Nails hit, but there's no other way I could, for the first time, discuss a real medical condition with my friends here.

It's been years since I discovered I have this course specifier depression called 'seasonal affective disorder' or SAD (more commonly known as 'winter depression' but I refuse to call mine such since there's no winter on this part of the planet). It's a kind that occurs regularly every year at the same time, and in my case, starts when the leaves start to fall and ends when the trees begin to flower once more. I never tried seeking for professional help, because I know it's not exactly serious or perhaps for fear of discovering more, but upon doing a little research I found out that one, 75% who are affected are women and two, it is usually caused by the changes in the availability of sunlight. At least those facts make me normal somehow. Plus, I'm not in a stage of denial after all.

That explains why I get abnormally down when I hear Christmas songs. People find it funny, but those beautiful tunes remind me that down time's here again. I sleep longer than usual, feel more comfortable being alone, and eat more as a defense mechanism. Despite the excitement and the hype of the holidays, my biological clock tends to run slower than usual with the absence of light. I hate it when I get out at 6pm and the evening sky looks like a 10pm. I usually just recover when the 6pm sky looks like a 4pm again --- but that can happen only when summer approaches.

Mommy always tell me to carry my own weather, but it's not at all easy. That's why I admire people who have this great disposition, that whatever the weather, they see blue skies and sunny days. It's been years but all I did was search for the perfect drug. Not Prozacs or light therapy but rather something that can help me divert psychologically. Honestly, I can't remember year on year now whatever those were. I just know I'll eventually feel better.

S.A.D. might have been proven physiologically, but I still want to prove there's no perfect drug but our own minds. #

AUTUMN

by William Morris

Laden Autumn here I stand

Worn of heart and weak of hand

Nought but rest seems good to me

Speak the word that sets me free.

PROJECT: LIBERATION

Of all my most beloved fictional characters in high school, there's this one guy which Rizal created that I've always wanted to identify myself with: Simoun. Playing both the hero and villain in El Filibusterismo, he came across to me as the strongest and coolest character ever written. As the alter ego and evil version of Noli me Tangere's Crisostomo Ibarra, he delivered the rightful vengeance for Filipinos who were wrongfully treated by the bastards of Spain. But towards the end of the novel, this guy failed me--- and I know that's what Rizal exactly wanted us to feel.

It's hard to wake up every morning feeling all the sun rays trickle down happily against your cheeks. When you get up, there will always be two things that you ask yourself: WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY, and WHAT WILL I DO TODAY. And if that yesterday wasn't exactly good, you summon the rain clouds and start to create a scheme on how to get back to those people who hurt you. No matter how much encouragement you get from people around you, your mood will always boil down to your very own mindset. And when that mindset spells H, A, T, and E, you sure are blocking those sun rays for the rest of your day, week, month, or year. Or even years. It goes on and on, and before you know it, it's eaten up your whole character and has transformed you from an Ibarra to a Simoun.

Question number one: When you hate, whose heart feels bad? Whose mood gets destroyed? Whose work gets affected? Whose friends turn away due to negative vibes? Answer: None other but YOURS. Your supposed enemies would be the least affected, I'm telling you, and they don't even give a damn about your bottle of hatred. The Spaniards went on with their daily habits of plunder and violence while Simoun created a bigger ditch of hatred every single day. Life goes on for them, and so should yours.

Yes, you'll tell me it's easier said than done. We're not talking about issues like Ghadafi or Marcos or that one person who you want to cut the throat of here. That's another story and I'd be glad to refer you to a psychotherapist or to an anger management coach should you get yourself caught between these crazy caricatures. I'm talking about those little feelings that accumulate from your day-to-day experiences, that which can be healed with the first aid we call LETTING GO. To put it bluntly, you DON'T have to MAKE A BIG DEAL out of unnecessary things.

Question number two: How many times did it occur to you that, after getting yourself so pissed with people who were just being their plain 'antipatika' selves did you just laugh at the very thought of even hating them? Answer: ALWAYS. Annoying things and people have their purpose, first and foremost, to annoy us. Second, to annoy us further. And third, to annoy us to the farthest. Point is, that's their ONLY purpose so just let them do their day jobs while you attend to yours. Freakazoids.

As I grew older I understood the metaphor of Simoun when I had my share of tests of hatred and annoyance. And because I haven't perfected the art just yet, I let these emotions drive their way to block my finish line. But even though I know this could be THEIR race, I force myself to realize that I have MY own finish lines. Annoy me all you want, if that's your ONLY freaking cheap purpose --- because I'm pretty sure I do have a BIGGER one. :)

MONDAY SICKNESS?

by Ayn

Monday is unarguably the laziest day of the week. But besides that fact, Mondays can also be one of the bloodiest in history.

Almost a year ago on the last Sunday night airing of NU 107, filmmaker Quark Henares played The Boomtown Rats' "I Don't Like Mondays" as his last song, because in a few minutes then, the station that his father took care of for 23 years will finally be signing off. But that's another story altogether. I, wanting to know more about that catchy Bob Geldof hit from way back 1979, Googled a little and was quite surprised with what I found out.

One day in the summer of 1979, Brenda Spencer, a 16-year old girl from San Diego, California, looks from the window of her home and started shooting elementary kids in nearby Cleveland Elementary School with her own semi-automatic .22 rifle. She killed the principal, a student who tried to help the principal, and injured 9 others. When the police asked her why, she simply said: "I don't like Mondays; this livens up the day." Thus inspiring the Irish punk rock band's UK hit that same year.

And whatever inspired Brenda Spencer must have inspired Seung-Hui Cho's Monday rampage inside the Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University on April 16, 2007. Using a Glock 19 pistol on the first hour and a Walther P22 on the third, the 23 year old South Korean citizen committed suicide after killing 31 students and staff, and injuring 25 others. To date, it is 'the deadliest shooting incident by a single gunman in US history.'

Of course we have local versions of famous Mondays.

Just a year ago on August 23, Pres. Aquino's first 30 days in office was rocked by a hostage-taking incident at the Quirino Grandstand. After hijacking a tourist bus containing Hong Kong nationals that morning, former senior inspector Rolando Mendoza of the MPD took hostage all 25 people aboard, spending the whole day negotiating with police and politicians his illegal dismissal from duty. After failing to get what to him was what he deserved after 30 years of service, the rescue attempt began and lasted for 90 minutes, leaving 8 Hong Kong nationals dead and several injured. This resulted to a strain in Filipino-Chinese relations and a black alert travel ban that lasted for months.

And who would forget that Monday on November 23, 2009? Early Monday morning in a small town in Ampatuan in Maguindanao, Mindanao, silently passed the convoy of mayoral candidate Esmael Mangudadatu, then the vice mayor of Buluan town, that would file his certificate of candidacy to the municipal office. Out of nowhere did several armed men block their way, took them to a place where mass graves where ready, brutally gunned them down, and buried them on the very graves, probably some of them still alive. A total of 58 people were killed, including Mangudadatu's wife, sisters, 34 journalists, lawyers, and even civilian motorists who were just thought to have been part of the candidate's convoy. Up until today, there hasn't been much progress in the trial of the primary suspects, mostly members of the Ampatuan clan, more often being delayed due to 'lack of witnesses' and 'insufficient evidence.'

These four separate incidences make me think, what's in a Monday, really? There is such a thing as Monday Sickness, or that ailment which occur upon going back from a weekend, but did it even have something to do with all these?

My answer to that is, OF COURSE NOT. Monday sickness is a mere state of mind, whether it's a simple longing for a longer weekend, or just about any reason you can connect with the poor first day of the week. Our characters might have had the most excusable excuse for doing the crimes --- Brenda Spencer was plain bored, Seung-Hui Cho had anxiety disorder, Rolando Mendoza wanted justice, and the Ampatuans, a sure win. But they sure all bore the societal causes that brought all these back to the same society, this time magnified more than a hundred times, and with an alarming level of violence.

Spencer wasn't plain bored. She was a girl who was abused by her father and was given a gun on her 16th birthday. Cho was teased and laughed at due to his unusual speech patterns brought about by selective mutism disorder. Mendoza was relieved from duty only due to command responsibility and did not get a single retirement benefit despite 30 years of dedicated and decorated service. Obviously, things could have turned out better had their background stories became less disturbing.

I'm not trying to rationalize what they all did, but rather asking you to look at the bigger picture. It is never enough to arrest these suspects and punish them for murders. We have to start addressing the real ailment that brings about these harsh realities. For as long as we don't start recognizing the roles that we play in each shocking occurrence in the society, we will forever be pointing at Mondays as a lazy excuse for our indolence. #

THAT PERFECT ARTICLE

by Ayn

A topic you thought was brilliant dawns on you and you are compelled to write a full-page essay about it. Upon drafting the first line, you hear yourself sounding like Thoreau or Longfellow. You fail to finish it in one sitting, save the file, and proceed with the thing you were originally doing. After a few hours (or days), feeling like you already are back on your feet to add a few more words to the envisioned masterpiece, you open the file and type your heart away. Upon editing, you realize that from the line where you picked up after having left off, you sounded like Knipfel or Foote. Edit, edit, edit. Yet no matter what kind of surgery you do, you still feel the tear. So you decide not to publish it, thinking maybe another topic shall come down to you next Tuesday afternoon. Or maybe a Thursday morning. Or never.

For two minutes there I was talking to myself.

For years I struggled writing that perfect article. Every single day I get a good amount of topics and perspectives which I believe can give me a little push to get back seriously into writing. But I never finished even one lame page, or if ever I did, it was a blurry rendition of something-I-could-have-said-this-way-but-did-otherwise because I didn't want everybody to know what I was talking about --- call it poetry and Twain will kill you. Or, I simply never published them at all.

I stopped blogging regularly for two reasons: one, I felt like pretty much everyone was doing it (and I'm anti-fad as most people would know) and two, I get the feel that those people just wrote like writing was as easy as saying what you want to say and getting enough publicity for it. It was a third crime in writing, next to cliches and plagiarism.

Writing for me has always been a serious thing, more than an art or an expression. Whether it's a line, a verse, or a whole page, I always believed every single word should bear a certain kind of responsibility. And I'm going back now for the same reason, not to mention a friend who's inspired me to do so (Hi Xiaoi! :)). In a world where blogging has been about the latest food joint or gadget or bullying people like Christopher Lao, I dare write about your most hated topics on the philosophy of life and a healthy dose of current events and the new culture. Or anything that needs a little boost apart from this materialistic and consumerism-injected generation. Call me boring, corny, or out-dated, but hey, I'm just trying to be a Filipino here.

Oh and that perfect article? It will follow. #

* Thanks to Sharon Lumanog ---> http://akosisharon.wordpress.com/ :)

Genuine and Essential: A Take on Cinemalaya 7's "Ang Sayaw ng Dalawang Kaliwang Paa"

by Ayn Torres

Admittedly, poetry is a territory quite a significantly huge audience nowadays finds daunting, intimidating, or simply incomprehensible, at the very least. If not for classroom requriements and discussions, I highly doubt if average teenagers would busy themselves collating notes on image-stricken verses and rhyme-induced lines. That’s why when I was browsing through the synopsis of this year’s Cinemalaya I was particularly struck with Alvin Yapan’s “Ang Sayaw ng Dalawang Kaliwang Paa,” being a Philippine poetry fan myself. So by Thursday I immediately got tickets in advance, wishing we won’t miss another target this time since we heard screening for entries this year unusually got easily sold out. I waited for Sunday with much anticipation, thinking how the hell would these new breed of filmmakers fuse my beloved literary genre with an art I don’t exactly find as equally interesting--- dance.

True enough Yapan proved how hard-hitting his movies can get. After “Ang Panggagahasa Kay Fe” which won the hearts of the international independent film community, “Sayaw” proved to be another poetry, but this time, in motion.

If you don’t look closely, you could easily dismiss the plot as quite common, perhaps something you’ve heard quite some time ago. The story revolves around Marlon, a well-to-do college student whose admiration for his literature professor Karen pushed him to hire his classmate Dennis to teach him basic dance lessons after learning Karen moonlights as a dance instructress after their classes. Marlon merely wanted to impress Karen through the secret dancing sessions but instead develops a certain interest in the art of dance, and a special bond with Dennis that later on complicated matters. The story therefore is not cliché, but rather familiar, something we know happens but we tend to ignore. This is where Yapan uses his strength in telling stories that tackle gender, this time surprisingly from a masculine point of view.

The issue of gender politics has been one that society continuously tries hard to address, focusing more often on pushing for equality between the female and the male. Intentionally, not much is discussed about Karen’s background; but the feminist poems used in the film helps the audience understand her standpoint on the politics of gender as she tears the verses into bits and pieces, in the process keeping a considerable distance between the two male leads. Dance, on the other hand, was creatively used to ask an intelligent question: in a society comprised of masculine figures or ‘two left feet,’ who dare leads and who follows? There’s no other way to discuss this but to introduce the subject matter of homosexuality, a topic whose concept has often been twisted by the unforgiving culture of the new media. “Sayaw” allowed me to feel how this gender group deeply feels by eliminating the formulas of physical contact and words to show affection --- it simply poured pure emotions through the arts, that one ought to forget it’s angling towards a kind of love exclusive between merely one gender. The issues were beautifully interwoven yet individually given due time for exploration.

Execution was exceptional. The story-telling was non-linear; but instead of flashbacks, the film moved in a back and forth motion, just like how one does it with waltz--- slow yet with high precision in every point of the toe. The first ten minutes showed a beautiful capture of the setting, which is unusually steady, shot mostly inside FEU. The use of contemporary Filipino poetry --- 6 poets including Ophelia Dimalanta, Rebecca Anonuevo, Merlinda Bobis, Joi Barrios, Ruth Mabanglo, and Benilda Santos --- was a very challenging task yet beautifully rendered, paired with the interpretative choreography of Eli Jacinto. Music, too, played a significant part in helping the audience feel every emotion conveyed by the characters. The actors might not be great dancers, but they sure did the characters justice. Jean Garcia personified Karen’s strong figure of an ever-knowing feminist living by herself, standing by the arts in which she believes in, yet ironically dismisses the idea of pursuing it as a living. Paulo Avelino effectively portrayed Marlon, tactfully exhibiting his character’s slow progression from a young stalker to an enlightened performer who finally understood the intersections of poetry and dance, evident in the poignant delivery of the last scene that left the audience with nothing but pure awe. But I guess the stand-out was Rocco Nacino, whose subtle acting brought those very meaningful scenes straight to the soul. Though not the lead, he gave Dennis’ character so much life and soul. Nacino was convincingly gay, piercingly glancing with so much expression at Marlon several times. It was a hard act, given that his character can’t overtly be depicted as a straightforward homosexual like Maxi from “Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros” or Wilson from “Last Supper No. 3.” Rocco’s solo dance to the lines of Joi Barrios’ “Paglisan” was one of the unforgettable highlights that one can call silent killers, extending to the viewers the poem’s every line that suggests the pain of one being left behind.

I believe “Sayaw” revolutionized the stereotyped elements of Philippine independent cinema. It has been a joke that to be able to win the critics’ nod both locally and internationally, you have to show and emphasize at least one of these --- poverty, gay element, and prostitution. “Sayaw” might have been set in the third world, but not one scene did I see dumps of trash and shanties filled with grimy street children. It might have raised concerns on gender particularly gay issues, but there was not one hug nor kiss, but merely glances that weren’t malicious but artistically meaningful and will surely not freak homophobics out. “Sayaw”’s emphasis was on the arts and how the issues were told, not on any other attention-grabbing ‘realities.’ It was a huge risk for Alvin Yapan and Alemberg Ang to approach the chosen issues in a rather serious manner since observably, the audience nowadays leans to a lighter picture of reality seeing how they enjoy the humor of “Last Supper No. 3” and this year's winner “Ang Babae sa Septic Tank.” Nevertheless “Sayaw”’s attack was spotless, at times even unbelievable.

“Sayaw” is not merely a reminder of forgotten arts and issues of society; it is a big question on where do you stand as a Filipino. Although it might take a while for some percentage of the audience to healthily comprehend the issues in “Sayaw,” the film helps us recognize what merely is genuine and essential as we continue to live our interwoven lives. #