words: time to use less of the inessential
*photo from here*

Passion is the overpowering, inescapable fate of all artists, who must learn at great costs and pain not to control it — for control is impossible — but to ride it so that it will not destroy them. This mysterious, dangerous struggle is at the center of all art that hopes to penetrate the surface of its medium, and it was this process that Henry James, the sanest of writers, described with ardent candor in The Middle Years:

"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.

yes, i know. i'm old-fashioned.





i loved she and him's first album, now second one's out. it's a sweet-sour-salty happy little cd.

vol. 1 playlist here
vol. 2 playlist here

"The artist fashions himself in that ceaseless oscillation from himself and others, midway between the beauty he cannot do without and the community from which he cannot tear himself. That is why true artists scorn nothing. They force themselves to understand instead of judging."

- Albert Camus

thought dyptich

*photo 1, photo 2*

I wanna hurry home to you
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.

floor-to-ceiling bookshelves
time to hustle!
*photo from here*

Margaret Moth, R.I.P.

part two
part three

When you think about it, isn’t that really the main reason people make art — to make these kinds of connections? I mean, yeah, you’ll hear many an artist in various fields say “I write for myself” or “I paint for myself” or “I make music for myself,” but they’re usually not just tossing their work into the garage once they’re finished with it. What they mean is, they’re not entertainers, figuring out what the audience wants and then supplying it. “Writing for yourself” means you’re capturing something you want to share — and releasing it means you’re hoping it strikes a chord with someone. Reporters used to ask the “Mystery Science Theater 3000” crew about all the obscure references — why include so many jokes that almost no one’s going to get? Their answer: the right people will get it.

- From "Letter to a Young Artist (Plus a Joke)" by Adam Cadre

the gloves are there for good reason.
*image from here*

a note for you, a reminder to myself

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 love
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
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
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
every day.
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,
“Yes.”

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
with me
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
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

okay, i know it's sweltering hot these days. and i still haven't won my sun dresses from two years ago. but i love cold weather clothes simply because i feel the most comfortable in them. so i gathered my favorite things and pasted them all in one file. it's like playing dress-the-paper-dolls, only your choices are almost limitless. i'm very much looking forward to the ber months. this here will be my fashion inspiration. yay!

• 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.
  

so there. time to scour the ukays to find items for this look. wish me luck!

The Abnormal is Not Courage I Jack Gilbert

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.

one of the reasons why i fucking love the philippines. and because it's summer, this shit sells for only P40 a kilo. wahoooeeeey!!! (i'm jumping like a JJSP!) now, now... what to cook with it?

*photo from here*

Ihip ng Hangin

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.

*mula kay Telesforo*

Someday we'll understand the whole thing as one single marvelous vision that will seem so overwhelmingly simple and beautiful that we may say to each other; 'Oh, how could be have been so stupid for so long? How could it have been otherwise!
- John Archibald Wheeler

thought dyptich

gift or curse?

Ars Poetica? I Czeslaw Milosz

I have always aspired to a more spacious form

that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose

and would let us understand each other without exposing

the author or reader to sublime agonies.

In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:

a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,

so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out

and stood in the light, lashing his tail.

That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,

though it’s an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.

It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,

when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.

What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,

who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,

and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,

work at changing his destiny for their convenience?

It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today,

and so you may think that I am only joking

or that I’ve devised just one more means

of praising Art with the help of irony.

There was a time when only wise books were read,

helping us to bear our pain and misery.

This, after all, is not quite the same

as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.

And yet the world is different from what it seems to be

and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.

People therefore preserve silent integrity,

thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.

The purpose of poetry is to remind us

how difficult it is to remain just one person,

for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,

and invisible guests come in and out at will.

What I'm saying here is not, I agree, poetry,

as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,

under unbearable duress and only with the hope

that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.

Berkeley, 1968

RCRD LBL Track

Dead Stars (1925)
it's amazing how time can alter one's treatment of a text. i read this short story 10 years ago for my freshman lit class. i had already completely forgotten about it. today, out of nowhere, two words popped into my head: dead stars. i googled them and found the future in the past.

The Telling | Mookie Katigbak

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
unknown.
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.

a successful chef and restaurateur with an uber-pretty why-can't-i-have-something-like-that country house and garden, devoted mother, caring friend...smokes pot and a bit of a slut. but really, she's just trying to be true to herself. jane adler FTW!
*photos from rottentomatoes.com*

wise words
*photo not mine, forgot where i got this from*

brick walls, wooden floor, natural light, textured fabrics, comfy couch and lots of color
time to hustle!
*photo by wai lin tse*