Jigsaws are falling into place, yet dust gathers
In spaces between the pieces. Willingly, I knock
Them over. Wreck a focal segment, just to entertain
The thought of destruction, to see in what ways
I could adjust to the ruin. Pick them up once again,
Undo the damage, test my ingenuity. I never once
Bothered for the entire picture. How can I?
Maladies erupt within days, the ones with the privilege
To dismantle an era. I put to sleep the resolve
I once had, the dissolution of daydreams, and whatever
Was keeping me alive. And now, I will just breathe.
On Still Nights
Someone decides to play
God on an impulse, taking
Advantage of the hour
Before anyone glorious enough
To stop you is awake. An exercise
On digestion: stretch the tract’s
Limit before it churned the last
Excess dose. If one is lucky
Enough, you’d taste what
Mother made for breakfast, brew
A fresh pot of coffee and limp
Through another day. Here’s hoping
The next time that thought
Plays, you’d be strong
Enough to recognize it.
Respeto is on Netflix!
Hip-hop, drugs, violence, and martial law are the themes that prevail in this distinctly Filipino stitching of City of God, Finding Forrester, and Hamilton. Despite being three heterogeneous storylines, fragments of those stories jive into a musical that is both timely and entertaining.
Respeto begins with blossoming ambition, continues with breakneck rap verses embellished with witty banter, only to end in despondency. It is a successive mingling of hope and despair, it is quality ale with a bitterly strong aftertaste, making the palate yearn for its flavor, only to be surprised with its tangy revenge. Yet I still continued watching, I am tired of the hero’s journey, I hanker for precise metaphors and commentaries of our damned society.
As for the visual aesthetics of the film, the cinematography is a vision that encapsulates the sweltering heat of Pandacan with a surreal mix of warm colors. The subtle imagery ranges from the bicycles that resemble an impoverish version of Harley Davidson big bikes, to the secondhand bookstore, and hangouts at the cemetery. These are allegorical to the culture of pauperism typical to Metro Manila slums, possible soundtrack would be Sia belting her hit song, I don’t need dollar bills to have fun tonight, I love cheap thrills!
The sound editing provides an idiosyncratic appeal to the ears. It captures what hip-hop is about, just as Lin-Manuel Miranda said “Rap is at the bottom, the music of ambition, the soundtrack of defiance, whether the force that must be defied is poverty, cops, racism, rival rappers, or all of above.” This is what Respeto willfully declares. There is a poetry in rap that is shrouded by profanity, thumping rhythms, and scantily clad women in music videos.
The film unravels the superficial cloak of mainstream hip-hop by the juxtaposition of Filipino poetry with hip-hop verses. This disentanglement illuminates that importance of poetry as commentary to our lives. It coincides with Mary Oliver as she declares “Poetry is a river; many voices travel in it; poem after poem along in the exciting crests and falls of the river waves.” The film jumps into that metaphorical river and swims upstream, fighting against the current of prejudice against Filipino hip-hop culture, and leaving the audience with a developed admiration for the genre.
Mother’s Day Poem
Hello! I want to share this childhood memory, a little sad for mother’s day but this is the first memory I have of how much my mother loves me.
1997
My mother lost balance as I
Tugged her hand, running
Towards the ice cream truck.
The dual dismay of the dessert bar
Fleeing and mother’s left eye
Bleeding from the fall. She had to
See New York through tinted lens
And I through the trauma of never
Holding anyone’s hand too tight.
No one should fall flat on the floor
During a vacation. It still lives through
photo albums, even the fullness of her
Smile could not hide the hematoma peeking
Though sunglasses. My Mother would always
Say it is fine. Even when it is not. She is rational
But never fully harsh. Whatever shallow remorse
A seven year old could or could not
Show, or duties a thirty year old child
Conveniently neglects, a mother will always love.
Hello! I want to share this childhood memory, a little sad for mother’s day but this is the first memory I have of how much my mother loves me. 😭😭😭
1997
My mother lost balance as I
Tugged her hand, running
Towards the ice cream truck.
The dual dismay of the dessert bar
Fleeing and mother’s left eye
Bleeding from the fall. She had to
See New York through tinted lens
And I through the trauma of never
Holding anyone’s hand too tight.
No one should fall flat on the floor
During a vacation. It still lives through
photo albums, even the fullness of her
Smile could not hide the hematoma peeking
Though sunglasses. My Mother would always
Say it is fine. Even when it is not. She is rational
But never fully harsh. Whatever shallow remorse a seven year old could or could not show, or duties a thirty year old child conveniently
Neglects, a mother will always love.
I love you, Mom! I will do better!! I have the strength to do better because of you.
For Dr. Linda
I wanted to be like her yet that changed as I got to know her. She had grit – not the tunnel vision kind but the intricate dance of when to push or to fold. How can I aspire to be as adept as that? She was exceptional but we never felt inadequate. Her work ethic was straightforward and firm to a certain degree. She leveled with the people she dealt with, listening to the subtleties of each sentence and knowing the response whether she needed to please or dispute. The meetings were essentially the same however each time, I spotted a new technique on dealing with people.
I can’t say that it was all cheery, you know you’re not doing your job well enough if everyone, I mean, everyone would adore you. But she made things happen. If she was moved by a person during an off-campus event she’d make her way through the crowd and a few weeks later, that person is 30+ km from Metro Manila, interacting with our smart, capable students.
I can’t completely map her complexities, she was the main character in a novel whose every dimension was so well thought of by the author. Every interaction felt like a case study on tact. Her humor was subtle, she said things that made me wonder if I was just praised or insulted. It was an odd delight to be on the receiving end. It meant that she knew what would make me laugh and what would make me think.
I heard the news today. I didn’t want to mourn as we do when life ends. I want to celebrate her. She was rare and it was serendipitous to meet her during her last few years. She had the wisdom of her generation and gave us the ability to unlock our own.
Thank you, Dr. Linda!
February 12, 3 a.m.
Hello again! This is Dyne trying to write.
TY for reading: 🙈
Lose someone long enough, They
Become an idea – a pretty picture
Filtered from the chaos. Who would’ve
Thought that abuse would look so pretty
Through rose colored time. Curses can echo
As ghostly sonnets that bounce through
Decaying walls, which, if given the courage
I could even retrieve. All that I declared
As affection, you once took to fault,
Now seems like an oath I needed to keep.
When struck hard enough with the burden
of loss, the years could fool anyone.
Another Poem!
Here’s my worst. Sift through
The remnants of any redeemable trait.
In frustration or for entertainment. Yet
You are here dismantling by the second
Through careful movements yet secretly hoping
For an explosion, a chance for the satisfying
sigh of “I told you so.” Only you would
Unbox complex equipment without flipping
through the instructions and curse when the parts
unravel at the slightest fluctuations.
My turn to say, “I told you so.”
The Last Branch
Hi! This is Alexis.
I wrote this for a short story contest but unfortunately, this piece did not win. But here it is! Hope you like it.
—-
The Last Branch
The ancestors cut down the trees that shaded Mother from the sun. She was blinded by sunlight and could not open her eyes. One by one, the trees became part of their houses. They sat, slept, and ate on it. When it broke, they used it as firewood. It brought so much convenience at the cost of the Mother’s vision.
When she was left with just one tree, she used its last leaves to make a beautiful green robe that covered her eyes. It had the majesty of the forest and all the shades of the earth.
For years, Mother remained in the middle of a bare patch of land. Until a young girl came to visit.
This girl always felt ugly. All the children said it. Her father never mentioned she was beautiful and since she never had a mother, no one comforted her.
She thought that the Mother of the forest was her mother. In her loneliness, she imagined that somewhere out there, there’s a mother for everyone.
‘Did you know that you can talk to Mother?’ The other children said. She ran down to ask permission from her father.
‘Can I go see Mother?’ She muttered so he could not hear her properly.
Her father nodded without even looking at her. She knew that he didn’t understand what she meant. She had no time to repeat the question and ran straight from her house to the barren land.
‘Mother?’ The girl’s voice echoed.
‘Yes?’ Mother’s voice was calm.
‘I’m,’ the girl hesitated, ‘your daughter.’
Mother did not respond.
‘They said you have the wisdom of the ages, of all ages. I have a -’
‘Child, did you know that this used to be the middle of the forest? The only thing they did not cut off is this. ‘ She pointed to the last branch attached to her.
‘Can I do something about that? If you could tell me something maybe I could help you. Just take one look, Mother. Just one look.’
‘I cannot. The sun blinds me. The trees are no more. ‘
‘Should I bring back the trees?’ The girl volunteered.
‘Can you?’
‘I will try.’
So the girl went there every day. She took that last portion of the tree from Mother’s side and planted it around her. Her sadness and diligence helped the trees grow faster. She cut down another portion from the growing one and planted it in the next spot. Soon enough, she had enough trees. She worked in silence while Mother dreamt of the forest.
It was one exhausting day after the next. After months of working hard, her father woke her up in excitement. They went to the village square where people gathered. In the middle were the trees she worked so hard to grow.
‘That’s for my chair. That’s for my bed! The leaves are for paper!’ The villagers said in excitement.
She ran immediately to the barren land.
‘Who goes there?’
‘I can try again Mother. I can work on it again!’
‘It was the last one, my child,’ she said. But what is it that you seek? Let me try to open my eyes one last time.’
She hesitated. But asked anyway. ‘Am I ugly as they say I am?’
Mother still could not see because of the bright light. ‘No child, from the little I could see, you are beautiful.’
Oh, Another Excerpt!
Hello! This is Alexis. I am here after a long absence to post an excerpt of a story I’m working on. Actually, no, I am not working on this story. For the past few months, I haven’t written anything with a definite structure. I just thought about this and decided it write and post. I wrote this around May 2021. So here it is. Enjoy reading or butchering it in whatever way it brings you entertainment.
~
They were born in the same year. When she saw expiration dates, she would calculate how old they’d be then. Whether they would still be together, she was apprehensive about the possibility of solitude yet toyed with the thought.
They lived where foot traffic was rare enough to make them feel they were alone yet accessible enough for when they needed supplies. The unit’s size was comfortable. He would make music inside the small studio he requested – his only condition. The speakers replayed the same fragment for hours, never leaving a note unturned until it reached perfection. It never did, for his ears at least. He had moments of an overflow of gratitude for Lourdes. He expressed it with a kiss, more innocent than passionate. She would reciprocate, of course. They were silent most of the time, each working on their craft. She wrote about worlds they could never live in while he captured this one through music.
Stasis in a confined space, even with someone she found comfort in, was not for her. She read to feel the world and wrote to navigate around it. They watched movies in the evening, mindless ones. He would analyze the soundtrack and take notes on what he found useful. She’d lean on his shoulder, and he would let her despite the slight joint pain that was getting worse.
It was the same way that she endured her knees and went up to the attic to bring his morning coffee and afternoon tea. The comfort made her feel guilty, and their craft was their only contribution. He told her that they worked their way through their own set of difficulties in their youth. She felt that the young were throwing their lives so the elderly and weak could live in peace. Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Does time add value to life? It was her empathy that he adored the most about her. He made melodies from that, music that gave warmth to movies. It filled the viewers’ ears with the things he thought he felt. They spent their youth running away from this. Every time either opened their mouth to speak would end up in an argument – an attack against the other’s principles. He can’t fix her. No one can. He is not her project to work her life around. It took decades of separation to figure out that it was silence that would keep them together.
He composed melodies from her voice. How she spoke in certain situations, the subtle changes in tone would trigger a symphony. He translated and amplified these cues and created twenty years’ worth of music solely from her voice. She never wrote about him, possibly the nearest being how he made her feel, the uncertainty of his actions, and how she spiraled them to the worse possible interpretation. They understood each other but didn’t have the patience to figure out the language that didn’t exist in the other’s world. There were lucky moments, thoughts, ideas that slipped through and went directly to the part that didn’t need conversion to words. It went where it needed to be.
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