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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Blog # 27: Futility

         Days keep on flowing like an endless stream. Every day seems like yesterday. I cannot delineate what I feel anymore: my sensibilities are dull and numb as days go by without my having falling ill. You are perhaps the only recourse that keeps me sane from these lonely nights and the only music that resonates against the backdrop of the night sky.

       Where are am I going from here? I cannot find any person with which I  share daydreams and esoteric ruminations with. Indeed, there is a part of mine that chronically aches having been aloof from the rest of humanity that would not dare spare a minute of valuable time for a meaningful confabulation. 

     I am weary of the superficiality that saturates the air and the toxicity of masculinity that inhibits men of my sensitivity to be heard as humanly possible.

   The disparity between talking to a wall and a human being seems to me all the more strenuous as it collapses in of itself--- it's all the same to me now. 

    To whither are we moving? What divine miracle should save us from tearing this land down to its last atom? What use are words if it be taken so lightly by the common man? 

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Blog # 26: A place in your world

 

    You know, I would love to be a part of your coveted world of which you are the sole proprietor and magistrate; a kingdom that yields to no one but at peace with everyone. For a long while, many have sought to conquer this land of yours, but none had succeeded. But as opposed to them, I've no intention of laying siege to your kingdom; I came here in peace to earn a place in your heart with nothing but with these bare hands.

I couldn't care more if you've not any urge to spare me of your precious time or attention, for I will have long since begun the toil you've not asked of me --- that is, adore you.

        Dearest, it is no small feat to gain leverage within that barbaric heart of yours that could tear any empty and fancy rhetoric of typical men, but I would have you known that such impediments are of little significance to a man of my obtuseness! I long for you! How is this any lesser than your will? I've mine too. Let me dazzle in the fire of your love if need be:

Let me coddle and cosset you in the harshest of your winter that not the slightest whiff of air will escape from my clutch:

I'll sew the seams of your chafing heart from all that you've sustained from this world;

I'll iron the wrinkles of your past without judgments nor condescension; and not a day will pass without your having known that you are no less than stardust and, I, a humble mortal allured only by your splendor.

I have only in my capacity to dedicate it wholly to you without pride and regret.

One of these days, I will take you strolling in these streets in the cold summer's eve and boldly stare at you blankly while you tell me the best of your days.

My dear, I know not anything other than this,

other than knowing you,

other than longing for you,

other than being with you,

other than to cherish you.

        In a word, I love you.

I love you for your anxieties, worries, doubts, pride, arrogance, compassion, humility, stupidity, ingenuity, boorishness, congeniality, irony, decisiveness, and perplexity.

Wherever your shadow and light may lie, rest assured that all of my unwavering love accompanies you. 

For my beloved, in your life, I've seen all there is to see and everything that has lived and will eternally live. 

And as Neruda as my witness, 

'I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul'

You are the most spectacular woman I've ever had the honor of capably loving, and as I remain veneered by the edifice across the street while you hold his hands... I knew that I have loved you with all that might entail: even if it were to break my heart. 

                                                                  

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Blog # 25: Sanctuary

 

        May every flower I bestow upon thee be no less than ethereal as the celestial ashes that aimlessly wanders the heavens above, and with every cosmic beat, I listen intently and earnestly to hear the rhythm of your soul intertwined with mine.

        May this be our sanctum, my beloved, our sacred covenant: a place to assuage your every crippling fear with my incompetent prose that fondles and lull your delicate cheeks, nose, eyes, hair, and lips till they fall fast asleep in my loving arms.

       May I linger far deeper into the recesses of your heart that even in the loneliest of night and day, you'd recollect how a lowly man of a humble origin loved you as though there was nothing before and after you.

        Darling, with a sickly pounding of my heart, I adorn you with a crown that is made from the ruins of what is left of my heart and soul.

                         Yours Eternally, K.C

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Blog # 24: The Heights of Despair

 

    Bleak. A concise summation of my concurrent sentiments. Life appears to be a bitter pint of spirit that no amount of satiety would ever console a dreary soul. Days on end, I find no reasonable clause for which to hinge our existence within this Spatio-temporal realm of senseless strife coupled with unflagging hopes for tomorrow to be more promising than yesterday. And for what? To what end shall this nightmare be on repeat? Every road leads to nowhere and all crossroads to despair. I feel as though there is no teleological nor theological explanation for us to be here, other than being a botched algorithm. It does not help either that the emergence of consciousness that aided us in conceiving ourselves as floating on a rock in a vast and unforgiving space with the capacity to experience contingency that brought about despair. 

        And this is a cause for nausea, for the reason being that we are perhaps a byproduct of a cosmic mishap; a race of sentient beings fearful of living under the auspices of a capricious world, that over time we’ve concocted ourselves a way to ascertain a possibility of certainty through the postulates of reason and logic. Consequently, confused and downtrodden, the modern man, in his quest for wholeness and unity, contracts neuroses of kinds that even those of an indomitable resolve flounders into the abyss. And yet, unfortunately, we are no more than sooner in finding a solution to our insatiable thirst for answers in the demeaning nature of “why?”

       Lately, I have found myself asking more questions than they warrant in my limited reasoning to no avail of much-needed resolution. The need to rid me off of the tirade of senseless probing within remote truths becomes a pastime that I take more often to rid myself of myself. Nonetheless, dread would soon find a creative way to insert itself as a dynamic force to reckon with --- a restless unconscious mumbling of the mind amidst the infinite quietude of space. From the heights of despair, everything is a monochromatic shade -- there is no refuge of any kind; what was once exciting to the senses loses itself from the tempest of agony and degrades over the fires of perdition. Every victory is virtually overshadowed by intense feelings of shame and guilt exacerbated by a lack of abled companions to console my anguish. 

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Blog # 23: Our Land

      Was I too wrong when I plucked those flowers prematurely from their unfettered roots? Perhaps quite so. But it wasn't out of sheer malice, rather it was out of heartfelt admiration that I found befitting as a gift to a woman of your caliber --- a reputable and gracious damsel quite versed in despair.
    Regardless, maybe these days I won't have to irresponsibly yank one out here and there to profess my fondness for you; because by then, I'd plant one myself for your eyes to see how I'd groom it each day to make them bloom for you, my dear. I'd make it my life's worth that it be given the finest of care: I'd water it, trim it, fertilize it, and make it thrive long enough to witness the love I've kept so dearly in my veins flourish, like a sprouting seed of a mighty oak. And I wish for you to bear witness my darling, that my ultimate desire is to secure every right and privilege to hold your hand, and more so earn your faith in matters concerning your heart.

  I'd like for you to know that I have every intention of cultivating and fostering whatever piece of land you allocate for me in your heart, rest assured you will never unearth it barren of fruits, flowers, and crops from the labor of my love. 

                                                       Yours, K.C

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Blog # 22: Of Sense and Sensibility

 

    Between the two of us, you're the one most likely to endure a series of slights than raise your eyebrow over indignation, lest you risk losing your peers' favor. You do know that you can't win them all, right? And surely you don't expect them to comprehend your anger when you have tacitly agreed to do their bidding without having first expressed your sentiments on the matter, right? You claim your freedom as readily as when you first found it, yet rarely does it ever come to light when you're on the verge of judgment that has anything to do with losing your reputation, as being that "kind and humble woman". If you're angry then blurt it out of your chest, don't play coy as though it doesn't affect your sensibilities!

     Aggressors, exploiters, and sycophants will only capitalize on your fear of social rejection to make you kneel on their whim. You see, it doesn't make you any less of a human to voice out your opinion when they infringe your right as a being, any more than they have the right to invoke theirs. The trouble, as it seems to me, is that you are more inclined to feign indifference when in truth you no longer could bear it...

    If there is one thing I've learned from that of the seasoned existentialists in our understanding of human freedom is that, we have always within our grasp to choose for ourselves the creation of our masterstrokes: a life lived out in authenticity and harmony with our internal principles without regard for disdain, and to borrow from Kierkegaard, "an idea for which we could live and die for."

    Have you not wondered why I chose you? What I'm doing is not a matter of reciprocation of your love in that I do not give a damn whether you repel my advances, for it is solely my decision that I bathe you with my exuberant affection-- " I am fond of you" not because you are fond of me and anything beyond or beneath it, instead, it should be taken as it is -- a choice, that is, a voluntary action with which my initiatives and ambition threads on.

    Know that I love you, but sometimes I have the impression that you're too good for your own sake. If I could slap you right now so that you could man up and do what's best for you, then I would. Now, if you truly felt oppressed and abused by these individuals as you claim them to be, then say it as you would to yourself as calmly and reasonably as you can. Tell them how you feel, and that you are not gonna want to comply any time sooner simply because you don't want to. This is a subject of seeming and being, what would you choose? How would you like your life to be?

Forgive my unsolicited advice, do take care, my beloved.

                               

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Blog # 21: Preachers

 

   Have you any idea of the dogma that spews out of your mind? When one presents oneself as an apostate of absolute moral truths, I find it unfortunate that he has had not an inkling of doubt as to whether or not his zealousness is founded upon a sturdy proposition. You see, when we speak of "truth" (i.e., objective truth) we must first probe the narrow confines of our concurrent knowledge of things and the social construct at large to arrive at an "objective truth," yet I find it very unlikely that you have any notion of the truths that which you so wish to instill by your incessant moralizing and nagging; you cannot claim for yourself that you are an adherent of an ultimate truth if not at once you have not doubted their veracity. Moreover, I have the impression that what you profess to be universal truths are merely nitpicked maxims, phrases, and verses relayed handily upon you by religious leaders, who capitalized on your psychological longing for wholeness and serenity without your being aware of its implication.

      If you cannot relinquish your desire of knowing the truth, then might I suggest that you study the scriptures in-depth? And when I say depth, I meant to say that you utilize an array of deductive methods at hand (e.g., semantics, hermeneutics, anthropology, philosophy, metaphysics, ontology, epistemology, logic, theology, psychology, linguistics, etc.) and not solely on the anecdotes and accounts of the pastors or priest, whose words you take as a litany of Christ himself. Besides, the bible is a contentious volume of symbolical and metaphorical expressions that its interpretation requires a collection of various know-hows of academic and esoteric disciplines that would compel you to expend multiple hours of reading and writing before truly your opinions are of worth to the religious discourse itself -- a task that only those of the seasoned theologians can accomplish.

    My dear friend, the truth cannot simply set you free without first comprehending the nature of truth itself within the limits of human reasoning. The history of ideas tells us time and time again, that those who assert that they have seen and known everything has already proven themselves to have known nothing.

     And as for your pity to our souls, might I ask the state of yours? Perhaps I should also add that you inquire within yourself, in solitude, how much do you precisely know about that which you speak and proselytize? What truth are you preaching? Is it truth for truth's sake or an unconscious need to compensate for a deeply seated inferiority complex?

For I know that faith without reason is blind, and reason without faith is deaf.

   I am sorry if I have made an offense against your sensibilities; and so I express my humble apologies without reserve.

                                          Yours truly, K.C.

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Blog # 20: Puzzles and Pieces

 

    I liken you to a difficult puzzle to piece, though the instructions lay bare on your cheeks --- I remain dumbfounded as to why the way you chose to be what you are. Baffled though I was, I remain subjugated by an unforeseeable impetus that leads me right back to you. Perhaps, it is my vocation to devote entirely my life for you: it is, I think, quite intrapsychic in nature that has yet to find its resolution in you, that only in your arms alone will I ever find the answer. This, I think, is a dilemma that you will never understand nor comprehend.
You see, I've kept you so close into my heart that a seemingly innocuous shove could mean my demise, and despite this, you still are asleep, aren't you? Every single step I take is two steps backward and sidewards for you; you thither here and there to create the illusion of being everywhere yet nowhere, for what? Have I not said what your heart desires that I utter?
Should I wake you up with all the words that I still haven't said? Or should I caress you with tender touches, just to show you how it feels? Maybe I should act so cool like it is no big deal? But what can I say? I am truly, madly, deeply, and foolishly completely smitten with you. My beloved, I take refuge in your bosom, will you allow me? What a fool's game, indeed, for in puzzles and pieces, the only victor is you.

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BLOG #19: Questions of Being

 

     At times, I feel as though I have not existed prior to this immediate moment. Often enough, when my despair reaches its paroxysm, I dissimulate myself from the  person I was yesterday or yesteryear that everyone thought I was --- or at least I thought I am. My past is seamlessly skidding down into a dreamlike state of reverent musings, where there is no particular order binding it to my ego, that is, the I. It's as if the instances of passionate memories I've accrued over a lifetime, were only a product of simulation feigned by an omnipotent being that has no regard for the lot of men. Consequentially, this has often severely impeded my belief in my own  existence as I incrementally become forgetful of my own being -- I am left asking If I am not me, then who am I? Am I any more unique than that inanimate rock over there? Or that mighty tree over there? Is my existence then only a possibility for contingency, that any attempts at personal reform is no more than a farce as much as it is a means to live authentically? 

     For a while, when my mind loiters about in the sea of nauseous existential drama, I cease to be. And in those odd moments, I forget about you --- and what it felt like to stare blankly at your soul whilst losing myself within those dark eyes, pale complexion, chapped lips, swell hair, and petite bearing. 

    Honey, you're all that makes these street lights a spectacle at night, you're all that makes it worthwhile to walk in ungodly hours. And with a stubborn hope in my heart, I look for your silhouettes in these empty coffee shops barren of your grandeur. I yearn only that you let me traverse the infinite depth of your heart and mind, and without reservations, I shall eternally adore you 'between the shadow and the soul' within this convoluted world of mine.  

Let the questions of existence chafe into oblivion, but to live without having known you is a step closer to perdition.  

                                                                                                 

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BLOG # 18: Longing for you

 

    Why is it that my heart longs only for your soul? Tis' as if my hands were made to caress the lines on your cheeks and hold you tightly as we stride gleefully into the sunkissed beach. I'll remind you of the bliss I felt staring at those codeine eyes: a warm embrace that felt like home --- never lonely and alone. 

      I find it unbearable that your presence takes manifest in the night, while I lie awake weeping for your absence in these ungodly lights; no days bleaker when you left, no sorrow greater than when we last met.

     Darling, I'll keep your name hidden wherever fate might lead me to, I'll whisper your name in the deepest of my slumber, and I'll envelop you with the songs that spelled your complexion --- and love you when all else fails you. 

  And when the soles of your feet are tired from the rigors of your toil, I'll carry you close into the zeal of my arms that hopelessly fell for you. I'll hold you when your blue and cheer you through.

  I shall let it be known with my words that you and you alone will the contours of my prose ever take place. But when my words fail you at the moment of your dire need, in silence then we shall speak. 

  If this love is too great a vice, then my beloved, let me wallow in the virtue of your love.

                                                     

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BLOG # 15: COLORS OF HUE

 As I wander into the unknown,

I fear that I might never come home;

Sky is dark and gloomy;

Woods are filled with uncertainty;

Howls, screech, shriek, shrill, reverberates into the air,

Evinced no hope but despair,

Manifest no strength but fear;

Jerks the eye a tear.

As I continue into the night,

I waved my dying light.

The arduous journey is about to end,

I now welcome the notion of death,

"Depart", I say. And Depart in life, I will--

Alas! I saw a light,

A colorful flash that slits through the dark,

I sought to ascertain if this be,

a figment of fantasy.

'Twas a bright damsel by the river;

A walking kaleidoscope

of conflicting polychromatic shades;

quilted to form an ethereal being.

She sings and hymn familiar notes;

Glowing brightly with every melody.

Allured and mystified,

I saw the damsel lit up the dark riverside.

I held my hands into the air,

tinges of color starts to appear.

I was a fading hue;

Rejuvenated and renewed by the colors of you.

                                                                                        - C. Calle


 

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BLOG # 14: FORMS AND TYPES OF CREATIVE NONFICTION 2

5. REFLECTIVE ESSAY

DEFINITION

      Reflective writing is an analytical practice in which the writer describes a real or imaginary scene, event, interaction, passing thought, memory, form, adding a personal reflection on the meaning of the item or incident, thought, feeling, emotion, or situation in his or her life. Many reflective writers keep in mind questions, such as "What did I notice?", "How has this changed me?" or "What might I have done differently?".

      Thus, the focus is on writing that is not merely descriptive. The writer revisits the scene to note details and emotions, reflect on meaning, examine what went well or revealed a need for additional learning, and relate what transpired to the rest of life.

      Reflective writing is also analyzing the event or idea (thinking in depth and from different perspectives, and trying to explain, often with reference to a model or theory from the subject.)

EXAMPLES:

Sample #1

Author: Prefers to remain anonymous

        As an English major I have learned to appreciate the peaceful, yet exhilarating moment when my mind engages with an author's thoughts on a page. As Toni Morrison says in The Dancing Mind , "[reading is] to experience one's own mind dancing with another's." In my early days as a college student, I wanted to know the "true" meaning of a work or what the author intended, however, I have now realized this would void literature of its most noteworthy complexities. Individual interpretations bring varied insights to a work and it is also interesting to point out messages the author may not have realized s/he included in the piece.

      I have always been a thinker, but throughout my coursework, I have greatly sharpened my critical analysis skills. Instead of focusing on proposed meanings or biographical background, I have learned to continuously ask "why" on many different levels. I challenge myself to dig into a text as deeply as possible and unpack every detail to develop a satisfying close read. Also, by reading multiple novels by the same author I have learned to identify different writing styles and make connections that weave texts together; this helped me develop a deeper understanding of the novels. When I look at one of my freshman level novels and see clean pages, I realize that I did not actively read the book. I guess you could say that I have learned to read with a pen, which has drastically taken my writing to a new level because I am able to connect back with my initial insights marked on the page.

      Writing had always been one of my strengths, but it was challenging to take that initial step past the high school, five-paragraph essay form that constricted my ideas for so long. Moving past this form, however, has greatly opened my mind. My thoughts are now able to be more complex because I have learned how to sustain a logical argument in an organized manner. My writing has become increasingly more concise and I no longer have room for added "fluff" or "padding." Another improvement is my ability to point out multiple complexities within a text, instead of sticking to one-sided arguments in my papers. Furthermore, learning how to find peer reviewed journal articles and order books through interlibrary loan has significantly widened the scope of my research, which has lead to more scholarly papers with credible references. My writing is so much more interesting than it used to be.

       It is difficult to identify gaps in my knowledge as an English major, only because I feel like I have learned so much. I feel that I have largely expanded my literary analysis and writing skills, but I need to be prepared to teach high school students their required literature. I think it would be useful to identify commonly taught novels in our local high schools and study them myself. By studying the required literature and thinking about how to teach it, I will have a sturdy foundation to work from once I am in the classroom.

Sample  #2

Author: Nekisa Mahzad

      I have been a student at California State University Channel Islands (CI) for 5 semesters, and over the course of my stay I have grown and learned more that I thought possible. I came to this school from Moorpark Community College already knowing that I wanted to be an English teacher; I had taken numerous English courses and though I knew exactly what I was headed for-was I ever wrong. Going through the English program has taught me so much more than stuff about literature and language, it has taught me how to be me. I have learned here how to write and express myself, how to think for myself, and how to find the answers to the things that I don't know. Most importantly I have learned how important literature and language are.

      When I started at CI, I thought I was going to spend the next 3 years reading classics, discussing them and then writing about them. That was what I did in community college English courses, so I didn't think it would be much different here. On the surface, to an outsider, I am sure that this is what it appears that C.I. English majors do. In most all my classes I did read, discuss, and write papers; however, I quickly found out that that there was so much more to it. One specific experience I had while at C.I. really shows how integrated this learning is. Instead of writing a paper for my final project in Perspectives of Multicultural Literature (ENGL 449), I decided with a friend to venture to an Indian reservation and compare it to a book we read by Sherman Alexie. We had a great time and we learned so much more that we ever could have done from writing a paper. The opportunity to do that showed me that there are so many ways that one can learn that are both fun and educational.

    The English courses also taught me how powerful the written word and language can be. Words tell so much more than a story. Stories tell about life and the human condition, they bring up the past and people and cultures that are long gone. Literature teaches about the self and the world surrounding the self. From these classes I learned about the world, its people and its history; through literature I learned how we as humans are all related. By writing about what we learn and/or what we believe, we are learning how to express ourselves.

      I know that my ability to write and express my ideas, thoughts and knowledge has grown stronger each semester. I have always struggled to put my thoughts on paper in a manner that is coherent and correct according to assignments. I can remember being told numerous times in community college to "organize your thoughts" or "provide more support and examples". These are the things that I have worked on and improved over the past couple of years and I feel that my work shows this. The papers I wrote when I first started here at C.I. were bland and short. In these early papers, I would just restate what we learned in class and what I had found in my research. I did not formulate my own ideas and support them with the works of others. The classes I have taken the past couple semesters have really help me shed that bad habit and write better papers with better ideas. I have learned how to write various styles of papers in different forms and different fields. I feel confident that I could write a paper about most anything and know how to cite and format it properly.

      There are a couple of things that I do feel I lack the confidence and skill to perform, and that is what I hope to gain from participating in Capstone. I am scared to teach because I don't know how to share my knowledge with others-students who may have no idea what I am talking about. I hope to learn more about how teachers share their knowledge as part of my Capstone project.

6. TRUE NARRATIVES

DEFINITION

A true narrative essay, remember is a story, based on actual events. You are required to compose a true narrative essay about an incident that you experienced or observed. The form of the true narrative is undefined; the purpose in telling the story is to express a point or observation.

EXAMPLES:

a. He Left So I Could Learn

       It was my second day on the job. I was sitting in my seemingly gilded cubicle, overlooking Manhattan, and pinching my right arm to make sure it was real. I landed an internship at Condé Nast Traveler. Every aspiring writer I've ever known secretly dreamt of an Anthony Bourdain lifestyle. Travel the world and write about its most colorful pockets.

     When my phone rang, and it was Mom telling me Dad had a heart attack. He didn't make it. I felt as though the perfectly carpeted floors had dropped out from under me. Now that I've come out the other side, I realize Dad left me with a hefty stack of teachings. Here are three ideals I know he would've liked for me to embrace.

     First, you have to stand on your own two feet. As much as our parents love and support us, they can't go to our school and confess to the principal that we stole a candy bar from Sara. We have to do that. Neither can they walk into the Condé Nast office and nail a job interview for us. At some point, we have to put on our "big girl pants" and be brave, even if we're not.

    Also, there's a difference between love and co-dependence. Being grateful to have someone to turn to for love and support is not the same as needing someone to turn to for love and support. With the loss of my father, I've also lost my sounding board. All I can glean from that is it's time to look within myself and make proper assessments. If I can't make sound decisions with the tools already in my kit, then I risk falling for anything.

    Finally, memories are, perhaps, the only item that cannot be taken away from us. Will I miss my father? Every single day. What can I do in those times? I can open up our suitcase of memories, pick out my favorite one, and dream about it, talk about it, or write about it. Maybe I can't pick up the phone and call him anymore, but that doesn't mean he's gone.

     Next week, I'm off to Istanbul to explore their art scene. As soon as I read the email from my editor, I picked up my phone to call Dad. Then, I realized he'll never answer my calls again. I fought back the tears, got up to make a cup of peppermint tea, and added a new note to my iPhone titled, "Istanbul Packing List."

     In the end, life goes on. I'm not sure why he had to leave during the single most poignant chapter in my life. So, I won't dwell on that. Instead, I'll hold tightly to these three ideals and write about Karaköy in Istanbul's Beyoğlu district. Dad will be with me every step of the way.

b. A Teeny, Tiny Treasure Box

     She took me by the hand and walked me into the lobby like a five-year old child. Didn't she know I was pushing 15? This was the third home Nancy was placing me in - in a span of eight months. I guess she felt a little sorry for me. The bright fluorescent lights threatened to burn my skin as I walked towards a bouncy-looking lady with curly hair and a sweetly-smiling man. They called themselves Allie and Alex. Cute, I thought.

     After they exchanged the usual reams of paperwork, it was off in their Chevy Suburban to get situated into another new home. This time, there were no other foster children and no other biological children. Anything could happen.

     Over the next few weeks, Allie, Alex, and I fell into quite a nice routine. She'd make pancakes for breakfast, or he'd fry up some sausage and eggs. They sang a lot, even danced as they cooked. They must have just bought the house because, most weekends, we were painting a living room butter yellow or staining a coffee table mocha brown.

     I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. When would they start threatening a loss of pancakes if I didn't mow the lawn? When would the sausage and eggs be replaced with unidentifiable slosh because he didn't feel like cooking in the morning? But, it never happened. They kept cooking, singing, and dancing like a couple of happy fools.

     It was a Saturday afternoon when Allie decided it was time to paint the brick fireplace white. As we crawled closer to the dirty old firepit, we pulled out the petrified wood and noticed a teeny, tiny treasure box. We looked at each other in wonder and excitement. She actually said, "I wonder if the leprechauns left it!" While judging her for being such a silly woman, I couldn't help but laugh and lean into her a little.

    Together, we reached for the box and pulled it out. Inside was a shimmering solitaire ring. Folded underneath was a short piece of paper that read:

   "My darling, my heart. Only 80 days have passed since I first held your hand. I simply cannot imagine my next 80 years without you in them. Will you take this ring, take my heart, and build a life with me? This tiny little solitaire is my offering to you. Will you be my bride?"

   As I stared up at Allie, she asked me a question. "Do you know what today is?" I shook my head. "It's May 20th. That's 80 days since Nancy passed your hand into mine and we took you home."

   It turns out, love comes in all shapes and sizes, even a teeny, tiny treasure box from a wonderfully silly lady who believes in leprechauns.


7. BLOG

DEFINITION

    A blog is a discussion or informational website published on the World Wide Web consisting of discrete, often informal diary-style text entries. Posts are typically displayed in reverse chronological order, so that the most recent post appears first, at the top of the web page.

     A blog (shortening of “weblog”) is an online journal or informational website displaying information in the reverse chronological order, with latest posts appearing first. It is a platform where a writer or even a group of writers share their views on an individual subject.

EXAMPLES:

a. Miss Thrifty

     One of the more popular frugal blogs in the UK, Miss Thrifty is targeting young mums with her money saving, frugal tips and articles. And rightly so! The market is massive and she’s meeting a need for this type of information. Young mums aren’t exactly rolling in cash. They may have had to give up work and are now relying on just one wage coming in, so the need to be more frugal with everyday living is a must.

     The great thing about this blog is the conversational tone and the real person behind the brand. I think it’s inspiring to other mums to see someone like them making such a difference in other people’s lives by creating amazingly useful content that is 100% actionable. Also it may inspire mums to set up their own blog and to write about their experiences as a mother and a wife in the 21st century.

b. Skint Dad

     So when I talk about coming at a niche from a different angle, this example is exactly what I mean. Skint Dad is a site that helps young / new dads save money and be more frugal in their day to day living. There’s also a section on their that shows guys how to make a little more cash on top of their monthly day job wage, which is vital in some cases just to keep your head above water.  
      A lot of new dads have the added stress of not having their wives’ or girlfriends’ wage coming in each month, due to the temporary career change in being a full time mum of a baby. So having some content around how they can make a few extra “Ps” in their wallet each month, can ease the burden somewhat.

8. TESTIMONIO

DEFINITION

      Testimonio, is directly translated to the English word “testimony,” but there are important differences between the two words. “Testimonio” is a literary genre and is not bound by the same legal obligations to “truth” which are equated with “testimony”. Testimonio is generally considered a fact-based first person narrative of injustice, seeking to represent the experiences of a larger social group, with the aim of rallying support to create more just future. While there may be similarities, testimonio is not the same as other non-fiction genres such as biography, autobiography, and historical texts. 

      In “Voices for the Voiceless,” Gugelberger and Kearney explain the major proponents of testimonio that separate it from similar genres: testimonio is concerned with the future, not the past; it is concerned with the collective society, not the individual; and there is a learning process involved that inspires readers to act for justice and aims to destabilize Western authority (9). These main proponents of the testimonio genre make it compatible with the magical realist style and their shared goals of consciousness and justice.

     While magical realist testimonio may seem even more paradoxical than magical realism alone, the genres share many similarities in their subjects and their goals. The genre “magical realist testimonio” does not exist per se- there are no texts marketed this way. The closest thing there is to a magical realist testimonio is the testimonial novel, which is a work of fiction, but still realistically delivers a testimony. Magical realism is rarely ever considered testimonio because magic is not “real” and testimonios are “real” accounts of injustice. 

     While there are testimonial novels written in a magical realist style, either the testimonial aspect, or the magical realist aspect is ignored to make a stronger case for the influence of the other genre. This separation, and obsession with “real” and “truth” is keeping critics and readers from seeing the power that a magical realist testimonio has on influencing social change. My thesis will explore the historicity and biographical nature of magical realist texts as a means of testimonio, and show how by rethinking “real,” a magical realist testimonio has the potential to influence positive social change.

     Testimonio is generally defined as a first-person narration of socially significant experiences in which the narrative voice is that of a typical or extraordinary witness or protagonist who metonymically represents others who have lived through similar situations and who have rarely given written expression to them.


EXAMPLES:

a. A Bird in the Cage

This testimonio is from my mother’s story of her life

     I was born in the province of Bohol. I was the fifth child of twelve. My parents are both farmers. We were living in a simple house at a top of the mountain. And as the eldest among my sisters, I was responsible for all the household chores and serve as the mother of my younger siblings by taking care of them while my parents are on the farm. It was so hard for me to study because our school is about 4 kilometers away from our house and it was located at the bottom of the mountain. So, I have to walk every day before and after class. Every time I got home, I was so exhausted wanting to sleep but my mother always force me to do the household chores or else I will be punished.  

     So, I have no choice but to do what she asked me. My everyday life is so tiring and difficult. My mother always treated me so badly. I never feel the love of a mother. And my father, he always came home drunk but even though he’s drunk he never laid his hands to us not like any other drunks who always messing around violently. There are times that we don’t have food to eat because he spends the money in drinking and in the cock fighting. Every time he went home my mother scolded him. Almost every day there is a war in the house. But despite all of those happenings in my life, I was so proud of myself.

     Since elementary to high school I was a consistent honor student. My medals and achievements are my precious possessions. Every day and every time I received awards I always thank God for always staying with me in times of trial and happiness. My faith in God will never ever disappear. And I also have faith that I will enter to college despite of our poverty. It is the only way that I can see to escape from this way of living.

     But my mother told me no, “you can’t go to college. We don’t have money for your expenses and you should help me feeding your siblings. You should go to work!” .My heart broke and shattered. I cried and cried when I got home. I can’t accept that I can’t go college. I really want to go to college. Any course is fine for me I just want to go to college. But no matter how many times I beg she never listened but instead she shouted at me forcing me to do the work.

     I was hired as a helper at a Chinese convenient store for two months and I eventually went to Mindanao because my Uncle promised me to help me finished my education. But when I get there he made me as his child’s babysitter. I thought I could continue my study. I was so disappointed and upset.

     How long should I endure this terrible cage of mine? How long do I have to wait before I get my freedom? It’s been FOUR YEARS of working in different stores and houses! Does my right in education have already been forgotten?  I can’t accept this. I don’t want to stay in this kind of life forever! I have to do something.

    Then, my older cousin heard my complains.  She offers me her help; she is willing to pay for my enrollment and expenses for just a year. But the problem is, will my mother allows me to return to school? Knowing that it can affect my work?

     I was so desperate. I have to tell my mother that I really want to enter college. I was so nervous and scared. What if she rejects the offer? What will happen to my future? I was completely shocked. My mother has given the permission to accept the offer. My heart is overflowed with joy. I was so happy after FOUR YEARS finally I can truly go to college.

    I take the vocational course, nursing aid. And as promised I finished it in a year. After that my cousin brought me to the brother of her master who is a doctor to assist him on his clinic because his wife is on abroad.  But I never expect that he is the person who can help me finished the college.

And now I am a licensed registered midwife who is currently working at the Hospital of Carmona, Cavite.

b. My Testimonio of Coming Full Circle

       Coming full circle is when your activism leads to your scholarly work, and that leads to your community work and career. And you continue cycling through this rotation in different ways during your journey. For me, at the center for each of these intersecting worlds and coming full circle is healing through community–recognizing myself and my own struggles in the testimonios of my sisters, brothers, and all my relations who connect and build together to produce critical work and uplift our struggles to heal our mundo. 

    The connections among us are numerous. Recently, I’ve considered a few examples of this “full circle” in my experience. One is when my friend from UC Santa Cruz Edith Gurrola invited me to speak about my documentary Justice for My Sister and its violence prevention campaign at Comisión Femenil in the San Fernando Valley.  After the talk, I spoke with Rosemary Muñiz, College Admissions Adviser at CSUN, and realized that we had met at the Comisión back in 2007 when they hosted my student group Speak Out For Them (SOFT) at their event to denounce the unsolved cases of las muertas de Juárez. Another was hearing

    Lourdes Portillo, the filmmaker who created Señorita Extraviada, in an academic context and getting inspired to co-found the club Speak Out For Them (SOFT) with my friend Joanna Kibler. Yet another example of “full circle” in my life was running into my mentor Maria Soldatenko at a march in Guatemala. Many years before that Soldatenko had introduced me to Lucia Muñoz from MIA, Mujeres Iniciando en Las Americas, who holds trainings for Men Against Feminicide in Guatemala. One final example is when MIA advocate Marina Woods introduced me to JFMS Collective members in Guatemala in 2011 and later joined our retreat in Los Angeles to train us on Gender 101 in 2012. Full circle. Every time.

    These “full circle” moments are about the importance of creating community. With my film, I commit to continuing that work by screening the film annually with our SiStars from Mujeres de Maiz at the Boyle Heights Farmers Market and hosting a series of Healthy Relationships Panels with the Justice for My Sister Collective and our partners in Los Angeles. These events gave us advocates and activists a chance to have meaningful conversations about our own relationship histories. 

    These talks led to other conversations about community accountability. Community accountability, through transformative justice can lead to healing, and more creative and love-centered approaches to breaking cycles of violence. It provides an alternative to the prison industrial complex, which has historically criminalized men, women, and gender non-conforming individuals of color and torn our communities apart.

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