"We work in the dark — we do what we can — we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art."
-- from "Connect the Prose and the Passion" by Dana Goia. Read whole essay here.
- Albert Camus
put on a slow, dumb show for you
and crack you up
so you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
god I’m very, very frightening
I’ll overdo it.
-- "Slow Show" The National
restless but steady. raw but solemn. chillax pero stirring. i've got no words, really. haaaaay. that's it. i'm saving up for any concert within cebupac/PAL flight radius.
- From "Letter to a Young Artist (Plus a Joke)" by Adam Cadre
The Invitation I Oriah Mountain Dreamer
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.
I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
I want to know if you can
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.
- coat - call me an old fuddy duddy but i love love love coats, i love this cut and i love this color.
- jeans - i never got why my dad is such a levi's fan. i was always a divi kind of shopper. but recently after i availed my GC's for shooting a levi's store for a magazine, i finally understood. my two new 501's changed my life. now i'm hooked! i can't wait to get myself a new pair. gaaah-stos.
- shoes - this is my 2010 take on an annie hall look. plus i love the company's advocacy.
- shades - yes, it's a carl zeiss lens.
- bag - at first, i was drawn to this. i like tans and browns and i tend to stay within the color palette. but the ensemble looked kinda drab so i decided to throw in some color and texture just for fun!
- hair - i miss my long hair and bangs.
The Poles rode out from Warsaw against the German
Tanks on horses. Rode knowing, in sunlight with sabers,
A magnitude of beauty that allows me no peace.
And yet this poem would lessen that day. Question
The bravery. Say it’s not courage. Call it a passion.
Would say courage isn’t that. Not at it’s best.
It was impossible, and with form. They rode in sunlight,
Were mangled. But I say courage is not the abnormal
Not the marvelous act. Not Macbeth with fine speeches.
The worthless can manage in public, or for the moment.
It is too near the whore’s heart: the bounty of impulse,
And the failure to sustain even small kindness.
Not the marvelous act but the evident conclusion of being.
Not strangeness, but a leap forward of the same quality.
Accomplishment. The even loyalty. But fresh.
Not the Prodigal Son, nor Faustus. But Penelope.
The thing steady and clear. Then the crescendo.
The real form. The culmination. And the exceeding.
Not the surprise. The amazed understanding. The marriage.
Not the month’s rapture. Not the exception. The beauty
That is of many days. Steady and clear.
It is the normal excellence, of long accomplishment.
Pabagu-bago ang ihip ng hangin. Ngunit madalas mayroon itong nakagawiang ruta. Kaya kapagka biglang nag-iiba ang ihip ng hangin at hindi ito sumusunod sa nakagawiang ruta, nagkakaroon ng ipu-ipo.
Naalala ko noong minsang makipagtitigan ako nang mata sa mata sa isang malakas na ipu-ipo. Iyon ay nangyari sa gitna ng isang bagong ararong bukid na katatapos lamang pinag-anihan ng mais. Nangyari ito mga labingwalong taon na ang nakalilipas.
Parang may hindi nakikitang higanteng kamay na nagpapaikot noon sa hangin. Ramdam na ramdam ko ang kakaibang paglakas ng hangin. Kitang-kita ko ang paghugis ng ipu-ipo sa gitna ng araruhan. Mabilis ito lumaki at tila tumatakbo nang mabilis sa hindi depenidong direksyon. Hanggang sa ito'y malapit na sa kinaroroonan ko.
Parang huminto ang pag-ikot nang mundo noon. Tila kandila akong napagkit sa kinatatayuan. Ramdam ko ang pagtindig ng maliliit na balahibo sa aking batok. At ang ipu-ipo ay tila huminto at nakikipag-usap sa akin. Ngunit paano ko kakausapin ang isang nagngangalit na elementong kumakanaw sa alikabok at patay na mga tangkay ng mais?
Labingwalong taon na ang nakalilipas. At ngayon, nakita kong muli ang ipu-ipo. Ngunit sa panaginip na lamang. Nakapagtataka, sapagkat sa aking panaginip ako ang ipu-ipo. Sapagkat nakita kong gumalaw ang aking mga kamay. Mabilis ang paggalaw ng aking mga kamay at kinanaw ang lupa't nagsaalikabok ito. Nagliparan ang mga tuyong tangkay ng mais. Nagliparan ang mga dahon. Nagliparan ang maliliit na mga sanga. Pabilis nang pabilis ang pag-ikot ng ipu-ipo. Sa gitna noon ay naroon ako. At sa labas ng ipu-ipo, nakita ko ang isang batang babae na nakikipagtitigan sa akin.
- John Archibald Wheeler
Ars Poetica? I Czeslaw Milosz
When I tell you that you have an effect
Upon me you may not intend, and you
Ask me to render, not tell,
I think of cities I have been to
And have yet to see, where at some ungodly
Hour, a train slips through unseen tracks,
All grooved wheels and steam pipes
Announcing neither arrival nor departure
But passage, sure and swift as rain after
A dry spell. In the town square, vendors sell
Candied nuts by the glare of gas lights
And the derelict hit-or-miss of prayers
Everyone forgets to follow through.
When a train passes, the makeshift stalls
Allow the ground its procedural
Shiver, then it’s business as usual.
What’s earth-stopping is the howl
Of a train expressly on its way
To not here. It moans a phantom hunger
All the more terrible because unseen
—Hear it?—This is the sound of all
That rifles through us and does not stay.
Everything is in the details; wail of the train
Through tracks unseen, destination
When I show you how you and I
Have more hunger than we know
What to do with, I am telling you
Goodbye before you know it.
*photos from rottentomatoes.com*