Stillborn Selves

 

Within this puny flesh, there live sentient pieces of aborted selves that are at constant conflagration with one another aspiring to steal the limelight of consciousness: a poet, a mechanic, a philosopher, a sociologist, a psychologist, a cultural critic, an artist, a chef, a writer, a filmmaker, a film critic, a cinematographer, a philologist, a linguist, a historian, and an orator, densely condensed into an unwitting flesh and of frail spirit that I call 'I'.

These morsels of half-born selves that failed to realize in the 'actual' all revile against the oppressing backdrop of the body and mind they chose to inhabit --- a frustrated universe experiencing itself through the eyes of a frail boy, hallucinating in the finite, and dreaming of a thousand lost possibilities cast into the irretrievable ocean of time. Woe to the lot of men, of missed possibilities of being!

And now I hear only the scintillating voices of the damned souls forever lost in the torrential waves of potentiality, forever a phantom amid my exultation.

Oh, how I long for these stillborn selves lost in the void of time! 

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Notes of Soliloquy

 

     I cannot remember the last time I wrote to you, it must've been ages since our last correspondence. Forgive me for having done so, believe me when I say that it has always been a great priority of mine to write at the earliest convenience, but still, I chose to refrain from writing anything that has nothing of substance and form for I know better than be a nuisance on your part.

     Once, I tried to write something that might be of significance to you, but scarcely had I lift my stylus above this creamy sheet of paper, that my mind, over some unfathomable panic and anxiety, had censored every noteworthy thought to occur --- thoughts that are dignified enough to write unto you.

      If you would dare ask why must this be so, I can only tell you that I've not the faintest clue what has become of me. I can only hope to say that perhaps this is one of the many aftereffects that my nauseating fits of melancholy could produce apart from a debilitating sense of dejection. Frankly, I've not felt so intense an exultation in a long while now save for a few occasions that I ought to feign in front of a scrutinizing crowd. This had since atrophied at a staggering pace that at a moment's notice, every other form of sweet delicacies that were supposed to uplift my spirit are now nothing but a stale mold of cacao mixed with butter, wrapped around an outlandishly designed plastic container. Not even my moments of pondering are exempted from this sickness assaulting my senses, for, at every turn, my sophisticated cynicism has quite sharpened its claws that I can no longer discriminate any act of kindness as genuine other than no more than an act of will to power over one's fellow. It is a great burden of mine, indeed.

      But thus as it is, I implore you still to withhold from making value judgments and or take pity on this complicated predicament of mine, for it is in no way beneficial to my finding a resolve befitting to this ordeal. Be very cautious of harboring a modicum of pity, it is never likely commensurate to genuine altruism. You would do well than bid me well wishes upon this harrowing time of my journey.

     On a lighter note, today marks my 21st birthday, and to be frank, I've not any inkling of what to do with myself ---- Indeed, I am none the wiser than I already am. 

  In this period of great silence and lethargy, I've not forgotten about you. For now, that is all that I have worth saying.

All the best I wish to you.

                                                                                                        Truly, K.

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Masterstroke

 

Casually languishing about this limbo of which I am the sole master and maker; treading lightly and carefully so as to not singe my soul from the fires of my undoing. For what it's worth, a masterstroke is not born from the comforts of heaven but from the gates of hell.

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VII

 

Might I say that I do find you too lovely a woman to have walked upon this land of trolls and thieves?

Dare I cross paths with you when I have only defiled the cavities of this land?

Should these scheming lips brim of candor?

Should these eyes be all over you?

Or should I simply resign quietly into the night?

Alas! Not even the redeeming touch of your hand could ever wash the soot in my arms! Woe is me, I lay in agony!

But lend me an ear, and I shall lull you with words such that deep in your slumber you will have dreamt of how the contours of my prose defined the lovely shape of your bones.

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"Where are the apologists?"

 

      At the very onset of the election period, everyone fancied themselves to be a political analyst par excellence: somewhat along the lines of a seasoned thinker whose range spans the spectrum of nuanced political philosophy. They were more than willing to die and barter their soul to the devil such that all their moral integrity would blur and fluctuate periodically for the sake of their chosen political candidate, who, they believed, would follow the dictums of the brand of politics Duterte had initiated, they would go as far as willingly commodify and subject themselves to abject humiliation by invading every political forum and social media outlets with unrelenting and daft polemics against their respective common enemy; black propagandas abound, incessant subversion of traditionally held and empirical-based truths, uncouth political dissents, and call for the abolishment of intellectualism in lieu of the more sublime quality of philistinism to comfort the qualms of ignorant voters. Ironically though, three months later, everyone somehow forgot everything that had since occurred, for even the most neurotic imbeciles that littered the web wasn't that much concerned about how things will go from here on out since majority of them had no inkling of the political, economic, and societal schematics of how their candidate would govern this country, save for a few braindead political sophistry (e.g., "fix this or that," "do this or that," "Unity this and that," and the like), I do not think the newly elected President has any idea what he is doing most of the time other than attending lavish birthday bashes that which he knows he does best. He is a great comic relief in our political landscape, and the ultimate definition of a jest consolidating power in the guise of a populist leader --- by precisely manipulating the audience with prejudices and the proclivity of the Filipinos for nostalgia (and the general idiocy saturating the air), he will always come across as an effective political leader; for how can one know what he is doing when the general public is too oblivious to notice? 

     Makes me wonder that from a broadly phenomenological lens, Philippine politics was not so much a means to materialize a paragon of a well-governed state (that which is controlled by well-informed and politically versed Filipinos with the capacity to deconstruct the political landscape and the power relations that underlies its genesis), but rather merely an abasement into a mere barangay/ purok contest of who can present the most absurdly comical figure -- or in this case, a demagogue --- for the voyeuristic pleasure of the viewers, and then pit them one after the other to arbitrate who elicited the most resounding applause or heckling amongst the largely daft audience. As such, one must only reconsider if we are in dire need of ratifying a proto-militaristic law that attempts to pass off as a self-evident solution to a problem that is intrinsically a pedagogical one. Perhaps, it is well-nigh for an intellectual revolution of the mass --- to strengthen and reform the failure of the current educational system that promotes an environment of docility and complacency of so-called established "truths" rather than question and challenge its assumptions to keep the spirit of dialect alive. After all, discipline is an amalgam of knowledge and wisdom. Nonetheless, we sober citizens mustn't let our guards down amidst the tide of hysterical fanatics lambasting our legitimate misgivings to keep our leaders in line with that of the need of the people. 

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Glare

Dark were the shades of your eyes that would leave my spirit in a perpetual quandary as I strive to find an exit from its damning allure.

Pale was the color of your skin, as radiant, and as white as the harrowing snow of an intense blizzard ravaging these long winter nights.

Silk was the composite of your hair, inextricably fine under the tint of the sun, refined and complemented by your all too lucent visage, juxtaposed by your fancy for manly garb for a woman of such pristine glamour.

Had you lend this poor old heart adequate time, I would've shown you that I am not one to conquer your land, nay a brute of some sort that had since terrorized your faith, for in matters concerning your heart--- callous though it may be--- I would've diligently plow through it, ad infinitum, until I earn my way to you. Charz

Thus as it is, I cannot will myself to look at you, for you are more than closer to the ethereal imagoes in my dreams than I am to the figures of your nightmare.

 

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Apotheosis Of Despair

    We who lie awake until the early hours of dawn, dead, and at once wary of the morrow, lethargic from the gushing forth of incessant and despotic thoughts abuzz our sensitive ears, yearning to resign freely as one would to a lost cause; where do we run when these infernal nightmares run abound within our heads --- ticking, turning, writhing in agony as we turn our backs to sleep?

     Oh, what foolish incantations and antiquated prayers shall set us free from this baptism of fire: when in dungeons, in prisons, in wastelands, and decrepit dwellings are we sanctified? Who shall then bear us through with the harlots and witches of the night, when we are all but detached and apart? Oh I know, I know, that no man has ever escaped here unscathed, unfazed and free, for tonight, and many nights still to come, we are lonely.

    Abandon all hope ye who enter, for every man shall endure himself the gruel torture of imagined hell.

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Disquietude of Love: The Beauty of Punch-Drunk Love

     Punch-Drunk Love (2002) is thus far the underrated gem of Paul Thomas Anderson's entire filmography. It is an ode to the anxiety-inducing feeling of being under the grips of romantic love, as well as a phenomenological deconstruction of emotional vulnerability as a core strength in an altogether foreign territory known simply as love.

        The masterful crafting of cinematography, soundscape, visual design, and the compelling acting of Adam Sandler (prior to his leading role in Uncut Gems) gives off a freakishly dreamy world of insanity that is at the heart of falling in love and wanting to be loved: a kind of admixture of euphoria and sublime . Unlike most contemporary romantic series and films, Punch-Drunk Love aimed to overcome the clichés surrounding the popular literature of romance--- that it is no more than simply a "magical" phenomenon characterizing kisses and hugs of varying intensity. Anderson, instead, chose to abolish this mysticism through the manifestation of Barry Egan (Adam Sandler), a reclusive salesman; whose timidity and shyness become antagonistic to his desire to form an emotional bond with this mysterious woman that came crashing through his remote and formidable fortress.

    For Egan, as much as it is for P.T. Anderson, romantic love can be a terrifying venture into the uncanny valley: the eventful dissolution of emotional boundaries, the making of oneself emotionally vulnerable, the dreadful feeling of having to say things that we would otherwise be ashamed to even think out loud, the fear of having fervent sentiments of attachment knowing its detrimental consequence, the unknowable depth of our beloved, and least of all, the hassle of having let ourselves be known to the beloved can make the best of us cower into isolation as we conquer our fear of being love for all our idiosyncrasy and social awkwardness.

    Indeed, it is a frightening journey marked with anxiety and ill-health as modern romantic dramas tend to omit, yet, for Anderson, he saw it as a sorrowful and painstaking process of dialect between two people but can be especially rewarding to anyone willing to take a major risk, because, in spite of the barriers that need be endured and bested, it is also an intensely giddy feeling that is intoxicating to the senses as one becomes familiar to the scenery of the unwitting colliding of individuals from thousands of light-years away making room for a union of a lifetime, tolerating the disparity of disposition and ambiguity of one another to promote the flourishing of love, as well as witnessing the liberal untangling of one's loneliness as we find security in the bosom of our lovers as they merge with our idyllic existence.

    Anderson made us believe that in romantic affairs, we can't always be rational. We will always be a little tipsy, fragile, wreckless, petrified, anxious, and irrational no matter how seasoned and well-groomed we have become.. in brief, we are always punch-drunk when it comes to love. After all, as Friedrich Nietzsche would remind us, 'that which is done out of love is beyond good and evil.'

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