Says who #16

Life is a string of lessons we either reluctantly learn from or miss entirely. But only a Lifegiver can salvage what's lost and give meaning to pain. Our life is not our own inasmuch as we weren't there when it was conceived. What we lose in this life wasn't ours to own in the first place. Be glad it was once there at all.

Says who #15

          PHILLIP
It's puny!

          BUTCH
Hell no Phillip. Good size for
a boy your age.

(A Perfect World, 1993)

Says who #14

The pursuit of passion in any subject is like the filling of pollen into every cranny of the honeycomb—it's a lifetime of labour from joy!

"The Ghost of Bampfylde"

The ghost of Bampfylde is who I am,
By the clear, swift creeks I roam.
My loved ones lived south of the dam,
My story in the hearth of home.


The attics of boyhood hid secrets
Only the brave dared to know;
No thrills satiate the palates
Of hijacked pubescence for show!


Before boys grew up a crisis struck,
From which men were keenly made:
Damn rascals turned from shooting ducks
To chasing after girls with braids!


Without any training love debuted,
Hormones started a new trend;
But quickly came a news most skewed
Of heartbreak beyond any mend.


No-one ever told those teenaged boys
That with joy sorrow must come,
And sorrow marched without a noise
To the beats of a dead man's drum.


In their old age all these men wondered
About things they could have done.
In their rues they deeply suffered,
But none knew why, not even one.


If only they could see what we ghosts see
From beyond the graves that enslave man:
Death does not end a lifelong esprit,
Oh but a heart unbridled surely can!


So with regards to the matter of life
This is what a spirit has to say:
To end the wars of your inner strife,
Honour your love—and forgive now—today!

Haiku: Smuggled Love

like a smuggled torpedo
smoked in spain
my pain is no longer local

Haiku: London when he cries

sorry letter
c'mon, bruised pride
new air
disappearing world
rushed breakfast in
a different city

Two minds of @JeffSchweitzer

Schweitzer calls the gap between Christianity and science an "unbridgeable gulf", yet his theorizing of primeval times subverts his own opinion:

"Traits that we view as moral are deeply embedded in the human psyche. Honesty, fidelity, trustworthiness, kindness to others, and reciprocity are primeval characteristics that helped our ancestors survive. In a world of dangerous predators, early man could thrive only in cooperative groups. Good behavior strengthened the tribal bonds that were essential to survival. What we now call morality is really a suite of behaviors favored by natural selection in an animal weak alone but strong in numbers. Morality is a biological necessity and a consequence of human development, not a gift from God." (from Two Americas: Rationalists and Arationalists)

How convenient for Schweitzer to deploy his criticism of theists to dovetail his own faith in the undocumented human evolution of morality! Nowhere in his argument were the evidence and arguments of the best from the other side (say, Michael Behe's irreducible complexity) reasoned against or even mentioned. If this is all his article amounts to—a gross double standard in his own reasoning—at least I now know not to take Jeff Schweitzer's layman's ramblings seriously.

Haiku: The Carnival Prince

fairy floss machine
tired midnight in empty carnival
the clown transfigured

Haiku: Dark enclosed

dark enclosed
concrete garden
no way out
of a song

Says who #13

It never ceases to amaze that people often go out of their way to state their particular worldview that all worldview are basically the same. How self-defeating! But if you hear them carefully they are actually saying "all beliefs are wrong EXCEPT MINE!", which makes them guilty of the same alleged hypocrisy that they accuse others of. A true neutralist never speaks a single word for or against. Probe; don't parrot.

"Season"

You supplanted morning with a kiss:
Like a rain that never ceased;
I can't forget, to say the least,
A love as sweet as this.


You poured me wine from the dew,
And loved me in a season—
Still I can't supply a reason
For the season that is you.

Says who #12

The detective story differs from every other story in this: that the reader is only happy if he feels a fool. At the end of more philosophic works he may wish to feel a philosopher. But the former view of himself may be more wholesome—and more correct.

- G.K. Chesterton, Generally Speaking (1928)

Says who #11

The problem with contemporary Christian praise and worship is that its object defies the very thing it claims to be doing. They are songs of a desperate man denying himself the right to his God. There was a time when we used to know the object of worship when both congregation and choir sang facing the Icon. Instead of offering his veneration to his God through hymns the contemporary man offers himself the comfort of an experience through the musicians onstage. Bach trounces the modern church any day in the retelling of God's amazing grace.

A note from the future

My dear friend Adelaine wrote a post on her blog that nourished my parched imagination and set in motion a mental exercise in nostalgia.

Here's the big idea: If I could go back in time (and space) to slip myself a note from the future, what would I tell myself?

What does someone like me has to say to "himself minus 10 or 20 years", having lived a wonderful life many out there can't even remotely hope to have? What rues or regrets could I possibly have in my life that warrant a rewrite of my story at large?

If I ever get a chance to thwart time and space (I'm pretty sure I've just offended Einstein mid-sentence), I don't think I ever want to give the minutest detail of the future away to me in the past. Contrary to what I first thought it would do, doing so would not give me an upper hand in life—whatever I thought was important enough to justify a second attempt (which, as a good Sci-Fi flick would have it, was to happen at the exact anchor point in spacetime when and where "it" first presented itself).

Part of a well lived life consist of learning life's tough lessons the hard way. To slip myself a note from the future is like telling a school kid all the answers to the finals before he even learned any of it in class. To say the least it wouldn't have made any sense to him. And then there's the butterfly effect (no explanation of the term necessary thanks to Hollywood). What I would get after I make the round trip and pull the time machine over at the curb of Present Time will in fact be a lesser me. In both substance and quality. In the end I would have been better protected from the brutalities of life—and at the same time been made a dimwit in the truest sense of the word.

So there, one of the biggest Sci-Fi aspirations of mankind deciphered. Don't bother cracking the codes of the spacetime continuum, folks. I've figured it out and it's not worth the hassle.

Although I wouldn't mind meeting myself incognito ten or twenty years back just for the kicks. Or conduct history's first double-blinded, conscious, out-of-body experiment on oneself. Just to find out if I've really been the product of my own good opinion of myself.

A challenge to Rick Warren

Challenging Rick Warren... is it possible? So I asked myself.

The pastor from Saddleback Church, California tweeted today saying Tweet! Tweet! (not exactly, follow link to read). Though I would just as soon pass over his tweet amidst a rapid stream of tweets I follow in a day, something about what he said has to be challenged.

But I want to say something here about the guy before I unpack my challenge. I'm a fan of Rick Warren. I benefited from his book The Purpose Driven Life and I believe God is using this man mightily to advance His kingdom. For those who aren't familiar with this guy, he's the man who delivered invocation at Barack Obama's inauguration. So I just want to say that I respect this man and what he aims to achieve as my brother in Christ.

Having said that here's the challenge to Rick Warren. More than 27,000 people were following his Twitter feed as he said in one of his tweets, "Everytime u hold ur tongue when attacked or misrepresented your spiritual power grows. Humility gives u authority."

I could almost see the folks who nodded along with Rick's statement. My brothers and sisters in Christ who buy into this seemingly harmless piece of advice. But of course, they would say, that's what Jesus himself would have done! How do I know? Look, Rick gave the evidence in Matthew 27:12: When [Jesus] was accused by the chief priests and the elders, he gave no answer.

I get a shiver down my spine whenever a verse is plucked from the Bible and emblazoned with a be-all and end-all finality. The attitude that slaps the slogan "thus saith the Lord so nothing more needs to be said about it" on top of every Bible verse taken out of context to support our own agenda or misreading of the Bible.

However I don't believe that's what's in this man's heart. Still Rick holds Matthew 27:12 as one of the examples for Christians to keep their silence when, as he put it, "attacked or misrepresented". Let's say we give Rick the benefit of the doubt. What happens then when another verse from the Gospels is quoted where Jesus did speak out when he was attacked or misrepresented? Like the time when the Pharisees accused Jesus of breaking the law of the Sabbath in the beginning of Luke 6, or the time when Jesus answered those who tried to trap him by what he said in Mark 12:13-17?

In light of these and many other verses in the Bible that demonstrate the exact opposite of what Rick teaches, would you think Jesus himself was misrepresented when Rick say "Everytime u hold ur tongue when attacked or misrepresented your spiritual power grows" and tag Jesus' signature on the dotted line?

There's literally more to a Bible verse than being read in isolation. And it's called context. Ripped off of its context, I could make any Bible verse say whatever I want it to mean!

You read the paragraph, not just the verse. You take stock of the relevant material above and below. Since the context frames the verse and gives it specific meaning, you let it tell you what's going on (Stand To Reason). Things would clear up if only Rick Warren starts his reading of Matthew 27 at the very beginning... from verse 1 where it says: Early in the morning, all the chief priests and the elders of the people came to the decision to put Jesus to death.

With the context in view, we now understand the real reason why Jesus was silent on this occasion. He must have known that the chief priests and the elders already had their minds made up to kill him. Doesn't that make much more sense now? In fact that also coincides with what Jesus taught his disciples earlier when he said: Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and then turn and tear you to pieces (Matthew 7:6). Obviously Jesus thought it unwise to defend himself when attacked by a bunch of goons who weren't seeking to listen to the truth in the first place!

Therefore I believe Rick Warren was seriously mistaken when he paints an inaccurate picture of humility. The Bible urges us to speak out for the truth whenever there is a willing audience:

But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. But do this with gentleness and respect, keeping a clear conscience, so that those who speak maliciously against your good behavior in Christ may be ashamed of their slander (1 Peter 3:15-16).

Be wise in the way you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone (Colossians 4:5-6).

There is no reason for followers of Christ to carry on a sort of victim mentality tradition whenever persecution enters the picture of evangelism. I understand where Rick Warren is coming from. He is teaching humility but he only painted half of the picture. Unlike Rick's encouragement to hold your tongue everytime so your spiritual juice overflows, it takes true spiritual discernment to know when to respond and when to be quiet. And Jesus is the best teacher to learn that from.

Here's your take-home message: Never read a Bible verse. At least read a paragraph.

Says who #10

"Some want to live within the sound of church or chapel bell; I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell."

- Charles Studd, English cricketer and Christian missionary

"Our Friendship", by Maycol and TS

Our friendship is like a book I read.
I hear of you but I cannot see you.
I see you in photos and only read about the things you tell me
But I cannot see you.


Our friendship is like the sun above me.
It lights up my world and warms my heart.
When it sets on me
It is because I ask the sun to send my love to your sunrise.

"Pepi's Dress"

Pepi lost his favorite coat,
In which he kept his secret.
He took his apprentice by the throat
And almost blocked his gullet.

"¿Dónde está mi chaqueta?" Pepi shouted,
Not ready to loosen his hold.
For his virtue Pepi deeply doubted,
And he feared the coat had been sold.

"Perdóneme, profesor," came the weak reply,
"On my mother's grave an oath I pay,
And to you I dare not lie,
But your missus gave it away!"

So Pepi ran to the marketplace
With half a head and all seriousness.
He sought till he was red in the face
And couldn't find his beloved dress.

Then came a beggar with one glass eye
Asking Pepi to buy him a cena,
And Pepi noticed under his tattered bow tie
The velvety fabric of his chaqueta!

"¡Ay, caramba!" Pepi roared,
"¿Donde tu encontró esto?"
And the coat he at once restored
Without spending a single peso!

"No-man wants it, no-man loses -
En los desperdicios de un hombre rico.
A poor man gathers if he chooses,
And I should've hidden it under my pillow!"

For earlier today when Pepi was away
His wife had opened his bottom drawer.
She found in said coat a huge dossier
Of shameless letters from a whore!

On the courage to act

In the span of a normal week we find enough opportunities to be brave. But more often than not we do not step up to the plate and live out the courage that we believe is hidden in us. The things that we know to be right are the hardest to perform because we believe they are the exact same things that would bring about our downfall if we fail the test.

The moment we look out from our threshold of choice into the largely uncaring world, what we care about suddenly takes on a bright significance and trembles us to the bones. We know we are about to take a stand, to walk onstage, into the spotlight and say the line that would proclaim who we are to the onlookers of our life's drama, if unconcerned. Suddenly death doesn't seem like a bad alternative. But since the mention of death in this case is really just a melodramatic whinge with no real relevance, we withdraw to fight another day.

But then order is not yet restored by our failure to act. If this is something we genuinely care about, the pressure would only escalate until we head-on deal with it. Now here comes the question: How do you know if you are prepared for the bravest moments of your life?

You can't. So I was told. No one knows if they are brave until they have been brave. "Act first to deserve the good opinion of yourself." There is no secret in being brave, you just do it despite your fear, doubt, worry, reservations and all that. Act, and then you can tell yourself if you're brave.

Lyrics that stick #5

"Standin at the door of the Pink Flamingo
Cryin in the rain
It was a kind of so-so love and I'm gonna make sure it doesn't happen again
You and I had to be the standing joke of the year
You were a run-around, a lost and found and not for me I feel

Take your hands off me
I don't belong to you, you see
And take a look in my face for the last time
I never knew you, you never knew me
Say hello, goodbye
Say hello and wave goodbye..."


("Say Hello, Wave Goodbye" by David Gray)

Says who #9

Rather than thinking aright, we throw in the towel too quick and decide nothing's ever true in its own right, and on that account saw off the branch we ourselves are sitting on. The real human progress lies not in moral relativism, but in recognizing what's universally true and beautiful, and practising it.

Says who #8

Not many years from now, Michael Jackson will surely join the ranks of Sasquatch, UFOs, and Elvis Presley as we hear about rumoured sightings of him. Maybe we shall finally relate to Elvismaniacs of our parents' generation who believed he was still alive long after he was gone.

(from All the Little Things)

Says who #7

I no longer know who I am. Just who I want to become. And it's a helluva job getting there.

A postcard from Colombia

Maicol told me in his last letter that he would really like me to visit him... Nuestra amistad es como un cuento que lei solo escuchas pero no lo vez asi es contigo; solo te veo en fotos y leo lo que me cuentas pero no te veo en verdad. Quisiera que vivieras a visitarme... "Our friendship is like a book I read. I hear of you but I cannot see you. I see you in photos and only read about the things you tell me but I can't see you. I would really like that you come to visit me..."

I knew this boy would go far. And he's only ten! A poet lives in this kid and he's gonna do some serious damage when he realize what he is capable of. He has asked me once before if I have ever visited Colombia. This new letter reveals the reason behind his question. He wants to meet me in person.

And meet me he shall. I've decided after reading his letter to plan for a trip to visit Maicol in Colombia. I'll write him and tell him that I'll start saving up for the trip and hopefully it won't be too long before Little Chief and I see each other.

Lots of things to do in the meantime. Besides saving up for the trip, I want to learn my Spanish beyond song lyrics and basic greetings. Although I will be accompanied by an interpreter throughout our meeting, I want to be able to comprenda firsthand, as mucho as I can, what Maicol would habla...

¡Ay, caramba! The task looks nearly impossible but for Little Chief it's worth it.

"A Little Lullaby"

I guess this is all there is to it:

Little star, little star,
How you twinkle near and far.
Have you ever wondered why
Time goes by, time goes by?

Sing along, sing my song
As you twinkle all night long.
Till I wake to sail the deep,
Time to sleep, time to sleep.



Little boy, little boy,
Though you're like a rusty toy,
The time has come when you may
Sail away, sail away.

Fight for love, all for love,
Voyage to that distant cove.
Lest you're lulled by mermaids' cry,
Sail on by, sail on by!



Little girl, little girl,
Dry your tears now, precious pearl.
Though you're let down by your fate,
Love will wait, love will wait.

Guard your heart, search your soul,
What was once part will be whole
When you see his triumphant sails—
Love prevails, love prevails!



Little boat, little boat,
In a sea of woe you float.
Time stands still as you wonder:
Home yonder, home yonder?

Surrender all, abandon all,
Journey to your port of call.
Led by a secret from eternity past—
Home at last, home at last!

My secret life as a normal person

One thing that anyone who has risen from the dead would notice is the surprising drudgery of a new beginning, along with the overwhelming freedom of what can be.

Another day goes by without any writing done. I still have time to make up for the pagefill before the day is over. The wicked thing is I don't want to. I don't feel like it.

It's not the first time I don't feel like writing. Normally I would be able to trudge on no problem.

I just wish she hadn't looked at me the way she did every time I see her. We barely have a chance to talk after that day. Any construal in the meantime, if I let it, could easily make a dash either way.

Maybe I should just scrap the alter ego and resume my true identity as a thick-glassed writer with no life beyond his imagination. Trying to have a life and write at the same time is too damn hard, if at all possible. Every bit of energy disbursed in life is detrimental to the work in progress, as is already evident.

The pill bottle of life's little quandaries reads: Apply on fictional characters only. Not suitable for writers at work.

Tommy Emmanuel is back!

This will be my first cultural event in a long time since I settled in Melbourne. And the first time in three years Tommy Emmanuel is back touring Australia. He'll give his one-night-only performance in Melbourne on Tuesday, in the Arts Centre's Hamer Hall. And I'll be sitting back cozy up in the balcony, right of the stage, watching him perform live for the first time.

There's a couple of numbers I hope he would play that night. But no matter how the night will go down I can't wait and already know it will be an extremely pleasant evening.

Says who #6

All writers live with some kind of alter ego. You can't write and have a life at the same time.

What is this thing called inspiration?

Inspiration is a funny date. She never promises to turn up each time you ask her out. But neither has she ever turned you down. All she does is smile. Yes. Smile. So that you know your invitation is a move in the right direction. But whether or not she decides to show up is something you'll have to find out when the time comes. Put on your tux and chill the best champagne in the house. You might suit up for nothing but when she does make an entrance you know you're in for a very special evening.

She might have a good reason for being uppity or she might not. But if you've ever spent an evening with her you know she's worth the wait. She didn't show up tonight though. Instead she left a note that reads,

"I didn't know we're an item. Words get around that you're a new man with me in your life. Explain."

I can't. How do you explain rumours about yourself? Did people pick up something different about me since I first pursued her? If there is any truth in the stories then they must have...

"Dear Inspiration,

As much as I welcome the idea, no, we are not an item. At least not as you would have it. Do not believe everything you hear through the grapevine. Then again I can see how the buzz might have got around. You see, despite the scant number of times you appear at our rendez-vous, asking you out everyday has inadvertently changed me. Please forgive my saying so, but the magic I have been trying to seize from your company has fallen on my doorsteps just from trying. I myself have heard something of the sort since you brought this to my attention. Some say I'm bolder, more extempore. The truth of which I can validate, for nothing trains a man's boldness and extemporaneousness more ruthlessly than courting you..."

Having known this Inspiration might never find me again. Or being the funny thing she is, one day out of the blue I might see her again.

Says who #5

There's no magic in writing. Only discipline and a stoic patience to wait the good stuff out.

"Little Star"

The missing stanzas from "Little Boat":

Little star, little star,
How you twinkle near and far.
Have you ever wondered why
Time goes by, time goes by?


Sing along, sing my song
As you twinkle all night long;
Till I wake to sail the deep—
Time to sleep, time to sleep.

Says who #4

The best way to forget about something is to write it down.

Introducing a new blog

With my recent commitment to fulfill my dream of writing a novel-length book, I give you...

WRITING IN MELBOURNE

InNoWriMos, if you may

I want to give myself a gift for my 30th birthday in November. And I thought of a most delightful thing I could ever give myself. A novel. Written by me. For me.

Or the first draft of a novel, anyway. For years I have wanted to write a book but never got to starting. I know if I don't do something about it now I might never do it. I don't want to wait another thirty years before I start. So from today onwards I shall pace myself to finish a 50,000-word first draft (thanks to the guideline from NaNoWriMo) by my 30th.

And I've worked out the maths. From today until my next birthday I have 167 days to fulfill the word-quota. That's approximately 300 words per day. Compared to the daunting timeframe of NaNoWriMo my "InNoWriMos" (Individual Novel Writing Monthsss) is a breeze!

Says who #3

All your life you're only telling one story - over and over again...

On the pleasures of pain

How can you tell if you're a grownup? When you look back on your life more than looking ahead.

I was rereading some of the recent stuff I wrote and the mind is suddenly submerged in a lot of old sensations... Funny how I branded 'recent' as 'old'. A month easily feels like a decade when so much life is lived in the granules. Time dilates in the microbial universe of emotions and remembered emotions; it passes so slow these usually transient feelings are as though time-coded onto their assigned junctures - you cannot recall them without recalling the events they permanently affix to. Sense memory.¹

There are two ways of responding to days when you don't know how to go on with so much water under the bridge. One is forbidden and the other is unspoken. The forbidden way introduces excessive fear that quickly leads you into despair. Too bad it is also the natural way because it is the easiest state to attain. Like rowing downstream. The unspoken way is unnatural but is unfortunately necessary to achieve sanity. It is rarely spoken of if ever. Hugely because not many people know what it is. Like seeing a caterpillar for the first time and being told its upshot is a butterfly. We just can't see it.

The only path to seeing what we need to stay sane is pain. There's no other way. Old age does not grant a person wisdom, nor does an infinite amount of learning at young age. Old people who are also wise only happen on old age by chance; the wisdom they have gained through painful experiences unwanted and unsought after their entire life. No one welcomes pain. Not even those who have had a pain-laden life and know deep down it's good for them. So a student of life asks, how is it any good to me?

The only way - in fact the only time - pain is good is when it is used as an antidote to itself.

The negation of pain is more pain. Don't think for a second that a masochist has spoken. If it were up to me I wouldn't have come up with such an oxymoronic idea. Life has amply terrorized me with its solemnity I know full well the denouement of a lying mountebank. All my life I have been captivated by a sort of lasting and honest pleasure I believed the world at large gives no credence to. Through providence even with faults of my own, I learned that the world at large is in fact looking for the same thing I do, and they, too, have been denied it. Instead of pleasure, they, too, were handed pain beyond belief.

But something happened after the pain: a silent, well-concealed pleasure like nothing else in the world. Silent because it is too modest to speak when it can. Concealed because it has no language of its own save the process itself; you cannot explain it to another even if you want to. But the closest I have ever come to a true, lasting pleasure was found in the scrapes of the deepest pains I have known.

It is useless to advise my fellow students to welcome pain hereafter if they, too, want a piece of this sublimity. I certainly did not when it happened to me. The language of the deepest secrets of life is very difficult in the first place, if not impossible. All I can effect is the recount. Whether or not it could happen to you too is a secret that you shall share in when you do!

¹An aside: The reason why sense memory is false as method acting is perhaps because it is exclusive to life. The point of a play is not to mimic real life but to suggest it. Mimicry is the lowest form of theatre.

The New Silent Generation (or "What I hate myself for")

Two things turned me inside out today while I was out taking a walk in the city. The first was my response to a comment I heard that fumed me, and the other was a display of apathy including my own; both belonged in their own ways to a disability to speak up caused by what I believe to be a derailed sense of morality that is weaving through the fibre of society.

When I boarded a tram a lady in the tram who was trying to get off after the other alighting passengers were gone said to her companion referring to the boarding passengers, "How rude these people are," and then raised her voice saying, "excuse us! We're trying to get off!" Then and there, my ears turned fuming hot and I so wanted to give the lady an earful about how it was her who dilly-dallyed when other passengers were alighting before her. How dare she blame others for her own indecision!

Another frustrating incident also happened to have taken place in a tram! - does public transport bring out the worst in people? A half-drunk youth was harassing two ladies seated next to him and for minutes after insufferable minutes, the women were left to their own limited resort to ward off the slurring nuisance and nobody went to their rescue!

The bottom line is, men from my generation (myself very much included) are incapacitated from acting as men when it counts. We are more than glad to stand by and watch others suffer than jump into the hot seat to relieve others. We haven't been taught how to stand up for the needy, but how could we? Men my age were raised by men and women born in the Silent Generation. As the Time magazine described our parents in 1951:

Youth today is waiting for the hand of fate to fall on its shoulders, meanwhile working fairly hard and saying almost nothing. The most startling fact about the younger generation is its silence. With some rare exceptions, youth is nowhere near the rostrum. By comparison with the Flaming Youth of their fathers & mothers, today's younger generation is a still, small flame. It does not issue manifestoes, make speeches or carry posters...

...so their children naturally follow in their footsteps.

I'm not asking my generation to issue manifestoes, carry posters or burn books. These things have been and should continually be debated for their validity. I don't even have the right to ask anything of others until I do something about it myself; as Chesterton was rumoured to have supplied the two-word answer to the question what's wrong with the world, "I am." All I can do is to refrain from inaction in the future when action is needed on the side of good. No more silence when speaking out could save. There would be no more fear of declaring the truth if the fear of God triumphs.

People suffer when we fall by the wayside. What are we going to do?

"The Rhyme Apocalypse"

Quick, Mick, kick!
Heck, Jack, pack!
The shit is hitting the fan!
So run, it ain't no fun!
No, Jo, just leave 'em and go!
Find a safe place and stay low!
My, Ty, what's with the sigh?
You're gonna be blown sky-high!

"There Is Danger In Love"

There is danger in love, and it lies in the will
Of one so drunk in the rumor of greatness
That love is enlarged and all its bridges burned,
Not knowing nor ever allowing a lesser life resumed;
Yea, I once trod a realm of desires so defined
Where men were perceived as lost in the submission
To love's wildest demands, slaving and encountering,
Only to be strangely cited for gallantry unknown
By a fearsome order completely distant and familiar,
Rising against fortified walls of condemnation.


But let me be drunk in love than sober in safety
Or wade in heaven's marsh than stride in hell's atrium!
For what joy is there in love if it cannot be
Paid in death?—My love is dead until it dies in love!


Why does man favour security over the hope of triumph?—
Would he not court the danger that is love so that
What makes love glorious also befits its pursuit?
If a morbid fall comes in the stead of glory,
What of it? Tell me love is too small to fight for
And you shall hear the last of it. Love mayn't be all—
But all that one seeks to venture in pure love shall
Withstand all; still love desires all, and shall
Consume even hearts that day and night bleed sulfur,
And in the face of all odds be made complete.

"It Was Very Good"

It was very good—
Your loving me.
It did no last but
We thought it would, didn't we?


It was very good—
You helped me see
What I couldn't
If you didn't love me...


Then I understood.
And it was very good.

More thoughts on writing

Through the years I learn that it is not up to the writer to be interesting, but merely to be truthful. For writers are nothing more than conveyors of truth when they can latch on to it, even if it meant doing it in various disguises of lies or wildly disconnected images.

In that regard, whether or not the writing is good is not to be determined by the writer, who in any case is only a messenger waiting or coaxing on the edge of the tangibles. A master of his craft he might be, his craft serves solely as a facilitator of truth echoed from the beyond, therefore the only way he can progress in his trade is in improving the accuracy at which he relay what he received. That's all any artist can do; learn the basic rules of the means - in this case, language - and learn to pay intense attention.

Then again there is this relatively new school of thought that propounds the idea of making art for art's sake; such as a door is no longer a door but a cat. In all that a writer does, his primary task is to be truthful, and then to make sense. I believe these two are one, or came from one single source. To be truthful is to be boldly honest. By making sense I mean keeping the truth in check, for we can be overly bold unto self-indulgent and forget to be truly honest.

The truth conveyed could make sense without anybody yet recognizing it, but it must make sense. The internal coherence has to be there and conform to the shared principles of reason or the whole message breaks down. To make a door a cat might sound avant-garde but is in fact dangerous. Art could be an overlooked message projected into space that never falls onto a right-distanced wall, but it isn't nothing. Art for its own sake isn't a form of art. Art for art's sake, like any meaning turned on its head, is nothing. And it is always dangerous to make something out of nothing - a task even God does not attempt.

"The Golden Streak (The Rise of the Adiós Chorus)"

Some men have it if you looked
Against the evening shadows of
Their purified walks - that crystalline gold
Like burned honey or virgin oil, cast
In the light that diffused a rough silhouette
Into deep tangerine.


You catch fire when you play
In harmony with him, stroking drums
And shouting in unison with
That morbid Adiós chorus -
Though the crowd gathers
The fire spread despite of it;
You answer life's profoundest questions
In his quietly approving presence
After a long drawn-out sigh
Perfected in pitch and tune.


The young is lost in the throng of
Human activity in pitch black street,
They always learn a moment too late...
But you'll never find wisdom in night -
At best, polite telephone messages
Exchanged out of salvaged traditions.


You let your face be kissed
For an affirmation you never reject
Not because of the residual pride in you,
But a walk to the cafeteria
With instruction whether it's plain or white
Never felt this dignified -
For what satisfies more than
Knowing to be known?
In the matter of changing songs
I never doubt your capacity;
For it is always right to trust the selection
To the old - the mightily wise!


And the chorus gigante sings on:
Adiós, adiós, buenos hermanos!...
Adiós, adiós, buenos hermanos!...

To the lasting memories of Compay Segundo, Ibrahim Ferrer y hermanos, who paid me a brief but grand visit in dream. Words are scarce and all fall short of capturing the divine streak of their music.

"Young Lovers For Life"

Twenty years he's lived,
The last five loved the girl who's been
In and out of his twenty.


Day their carriage fell, she whispered
She's glad to die by his side, then
His arms felt like wings taking flight...


When he had just turned nine, he said
At the end of a swinging-rope,
"Just don't let go!..." And she never did.

The power of certain songs

There are certain songs in my playlist that I only listen to when I need to jog a particular segment of my memory.

Or should I say: when I'm brave enough to relive certain memories.

There are a handful of songs I know that attach only too closely to certain emotions. Some songs only you know them. Others you shared with someone wishing they would become theirs too. And yet others someone told you about and had since become yours forever.

Whichever special song you're listening to, it is as if a whole disappearing world came back to life as it slowly spread out with the unfolding of the meshes of tunes and words... and that's when you know they've never been gone.

Just locked away behind those special songs.

Lyrics that stick #4

"...Fly the ocean in a silver plane
See the jungle when it's wet with rain
Just remember 'til you're home again you belong to me."


("You Belong To Me" by Sue Thompson)

Lyrics that stick #3

"It's a sweet, sweet dream
Sometimes I'm almost there..."


("Looking For Space" by John Denver)

"An Old Grudge"

Exactly two years after she disappeared,
A serious rebound and
          two unsolicited calls later,
She paid and turned around
          and there I was,
In a shop where she bought tea.


"...How's your mother?"
She just stared,
Looking for rescue that wasn't there...


Two years ago I would have bought
          anything she said -
If she would only lie to me
I'd forgive her...


"I lied about my mother..."


"I've forgiven you."

Says who #2

A man is most miserable when he is finally acquainted with the truth. For he now sees what he wants and the shackles that inhibit him from attaining it.

Lyrics that stick #2

"In the silence of the garden
Moss arising on the wind
And the beast is pondering love, love, love
Till the rusty nail grow dim..."


("I Can't Seem To Make You Mine" by The Clientele)

Lyrics that stick #1

"Ya follow me when I tell some old story
You're Pied Piper's dream to the core...
I'll follow you even though I know there's danger
I'll follow you no matter what's in store..."


("Follow" by John Pizzarelli)

Says who #1

Poetry-making is for people too lazy to write a novel.

Some thoughts on writing

I never gave much thought to the act of writing until I took up a different practice and made comparisons.

Photography (a recently acquired interest of mine) is, I think, not that much different in nature from writing - the word literally means writing with light. Except writing is more entrenched to the human experience than taking photographs, in that the artist's equipment to form his art is built-in. Photography is more like working with a very smart partner compared to writing, which is a sole proprietorship for better or worse.

But we tend to believe that anyone could just pick up a camera and take a decent photo (just as we believe anyone could write a book), it still doesn't discount the fact that a captivating image, like a coherent sentence, involves some thoughts that went on behind its creation.

Because the art is born through the artist himself (vs. a lens-mounted camera), it is easy to mistake writing as more elemental than photography. A photographer plays around with light, shadow, composition, etc. to define his artistic choices. To assist his expression he needs the knowledge of, say, the relationships between aperture, shutter speed and ISO value. But the amazing thing about the mind is that its workings - what we generally call instincts - are so ingrained in our experience that we give no conscious thought to subjects, predicates or any such sentence constructs. You would have thought it doesn't take any more to form a thought than it does clicking the shutter release to snap a photo. You don't normally see the things going on in the black box, as Chase Jarvis calls the photographic process.

If an association has to be made somewhere, then the writer has more in equivalence with the camera than with the photographer. For a person writing is essentially a camera taking off its lens cap and deciding which combination of aperture/shutter speed/ISO to engage before pressing the shutter release - all by itself. Maybe put in another way, a photographer without his camera is like a writer losing his mind!

"Picturebook"

The Thursday he was screening
He saw her in the crowd
     avoiding eye contact.
Somewhere else
A waiter slipped him a note
     and a courtesy:
     "She heard you tonight."
She handed him a picturebook when they met,
Declared it "the only thing I didn't
     pack up from his room."
Two days later she was
     sunning in the park
     with a man -
He
     looked on.


Thursday after that firefighters prepared
To leave the scene of a misdemeanor -
A reel had caught fire and
     set off sprinklers
That wrecked the machines...
As he recouped himself, a boy nudged him
     holding a picturebook -
               and asked for autograph.


In a hushed corner of the city
Among gravestones
A visitor leans back against a
     marble cherub
Preparing himself to
Read
But sobs
     under his breaths instead.

My silly season

I did a pretty silly thing. I've finally forgiven someone but that's not what's silly.

The person who said sorry to me two months ago had left my life without waiting to hear what I have to say. Even if she did wait long enough I don't think I would have been able to utter the appropriate words right then—well... appropriate as for now, not then. I still can't ascertain what could have been an appropriate response then given the circumstances.

So I wrote her a letter that was never read—and perhaps never will be. And that's a bit silly. The original draft was, believe it or not, penned the very night she plummeted me to my death. To be fair: it was a very long night. And what came out was probably not the most forgiving thing anyone could manage on paper. Luckily that wasn't the version that got signed and sealed.

Appropriate as this gesture is a thing to do, appropriateness isn't the reason behind it. I could have held my peace about it for the rest of my life without ever willing to forgive. But then what rights have I to deny someone her pardon, even if she wasn't looking for it, when I was undeniably grateful for what immense beauty I was left with, just in as equal an extent as I was nicked by the sting?

There's this little hope that she would somehow know that she's been forgiven and could go on living the life she chose without the slightest trail of guilt. That would in turn help me to forgive myself.