Writing under a new moon

I’m finally up and about. After a long break, I figured I’d focus on my art sites here and here, then convert this blog into a public service platform, instead. I’d still drop poems and quotes every now and then, of course.

But since my laptop broke down two days ago, I’m up for the challenge of blogging from my phone. I know it’s like writing under the moonlight, blah and blah. But, hey, what choice do I have?

Have you blogged from your phone? Tell me how it went.

Advertisements

As the shamisen gently weeps

Kubo and the Two Strings. I have a few words. It is a story that makes you cry from the inside. What it never tells is what moves you. I didn’t watch it in 3D or 2D or IMAX or with any cinematic paraphernalia. The experience was raw, down-to-earth, as the film itself manifests, it brought me closer to home.

But beyond the symbolism, the mythology, the haiku, the origami, the shamisen, the kabuki, the Edo period, cultural sensibilities, and all, Kubo and the Two Strings spins strings of flashbacks that may bind us to long forgotten roots. As the shamisen pulls on the heartstrings, embedding a kind of unspeakable yearning for the departed, the plot went on reeling the thread of immortality as it did the mundane. Indeed, death benumbs itself.

I’ll leave this piece with my hat off to Laika because, since Coraline, it’s guaranteed that stop motion animation will never again lose its way inside our memories. So before you head to the theater, here’s a beautiful cover of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” for your listening pleasure.

 

Mini musing:  Life is a matchstick. The end.

The tale of two birthdays

The room lifted up to the sounds of footsteps and a can opener. The day has come. It was only for a moment when she recollects her scavenging days five years ago in an abandoned parking lot. I wish someone would take me home, she whispered. Her wish was granted.

Welcome home, Koultessa!

She had reclaimed her birthright, Koultessa S. Grugwiv, and in the next few years she’d be sharing a room with three more abandoned individuals who would eventually become her adopted siblings.

Fast forward to the not so distant future, she’d be welcoming her nephew, Klyntzo F. Zacona, whose mother, Lunifah, expecting a baby, found a pair of tiny, almost paw-like, cuddle generators amidst the bustling night life of Kuwait City three years ago.

It was on that same dreadful day that she saw herself wandering off famished under the scorching daylight; a youngster living on fastfood scraps and cardboard, pleading for snuggles. But she’s anxious to blot out all memories of those hostile days…

Happy birthday, Koultessa and Klyntzo! Her thoughts popped out like bubbles. It’s the cuddle generator dangling a freshly caught artificial prey. I love you!

It is, indeed, one fine, ordinary day.

Happy Birthday Klyntzo-2016-Blog

Left: Young Klyntzo inspects his alter ego. Right: Adult Klyntzo realizes he’s no Richard Parker.

 

Happy Birthday Koolit-2016-Blog

Left: Young Koultessa poses for a photo. Right: Adult Koultessa poses for a photo.

 

~ O ~

 

Mini Musing: Not all scientists are linguists, just as not all doctors are nutritionists. – AM

Ma’ Rosa grabs a Cannes

I’ve spent a couple of days redesigning my blog and didn’t follow through in order to file this entry.  I’ve been quailing at Ma’  Rosa for weeks now but missed the chance of watching Jaclyn Jose take home her Best Actress trophy from the 2016 Cannes Film Festival on Youtube. There’s no doubt that Ma’ Rosa’s hard-edged impromptu style social realist narrative could flush out the Philippine k-pop-culture-obsessed mainstream media in a jiffy. Independent filmmakers and thespians alike have been craving for keen attention from local moviegoers for a long time now but to no avail. It’s high time. Directed by Brillante Mendoza and initially released in May, the film premiers in the Philippines on July 6.

 

Waiting for a good home. Bed bugs.

Waiting for a good home. Bed bugs.


Speak wide. Mouth of a tunnel.
Brush shoulders like we’re comrades.
Beat the beats of cult fiction.
Believe friendship is a staple.

It’s a dirt we share.

Ever barefooted the huddles of the city?
Our eyes both swallowed the disease.
“Life is a currency, yes?” Experts say.
“Agony is business.” Ibid.

Let’s talk culture and drink beer.

VIPs don’t buy words. Not from copper pages.
A brown woman is a brown woman.
A black woman is a black woman.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

It’s a rhetoric they teach.

And yet, we brush shoulders. Anisometric.
Like when we’re tots. You are winter. I am summer.
Eyes fixed on one TV screen – Big Bird groupies.
Fastforward to adulthood – export materials.

A stock market ice cream cart.

Give me a tree to trust. A forest.
Who knows who’s on top of the food chain.
Words are taxed with blood. Or enjambment.
Our silence is their weapon, anyway.

Or maybe just encode another poem.

On bed bugs.


Armineonila M. 2015

Muse in pixels

Muse in pixels

Lost in real-time.

Scour.

A fortress of clouds.

And there sat xyr.

Troll-feeding, uploading.

A gigabyte collective.

Cranking up the keyboard, xe.

Bid me sniff this diffusion.

Upgrading.


Armineonila M., July 2015