SYLVIA PLATH / Notebooks, February 1956

What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination. When the sky outside is merely pink, and the rooftops merely black: that photographic mind which paradoxically tells the truth, but the worthless truth, about the world. It is that synthesizing spirit, that "shaping" force, which prolifically sprouts and makes up its own worlds with more inventiveness than God which I desire. If I sit still and don't do anything, the world goes on beating like a slack drum, without meaning. We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward, the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine: it is that kind of madness which is worst: the kind with fancies and hallucinations would be a Bosch-ish relief. I listen always for footsteps coming up the stairs and hate them if they are not for me. Why, why, can I not be an ascetic for a while, instead of always teetering on the edge of wanting complete solitude for work and reading, and, so much, so much, the gestures of hands and words of other human beings. Well, after this Racine paper, this Ronsard purgatory, this Sophocles, I shall write: letters and prose and poetry, toward the end of the week; I must be stoic till then.

(published in "Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams")

01

(this is me, this time, the things in italics from this
anonymous commenter i have somewhere else.
written some time in april.
for references to "Oskar", please see and hopefully read
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close
by Jonathan Safran Foer)

What books do you read? Are you into literature?

I am not very sure how to answer that first question. Do you mean, genres? I was never good with genres. (I have filled the "Genre" column of my iTunes list with the year the song or album was released.) How do people stick to genres, confine themselves to such a tiny space when there is still such a vast area of whatever to be acquainted with?

I could give you a list of the books I have read. I would be more than happy, you sound interested and that is not very common anymore. A funny story: on the second day of summer class, I was re-reading one of the conversations in my folder while waiting for class to start. "Reading is considered an act of self-improvement. Work. Homework. Probably something you are not smart enough to do and enjoy. If just the act of reading were more present," I read, a line from Jonathan; and right after that I looked up to find my teacher standing nearby and he said, "What is that? Why are you reading, are you studying?"

That has happened before, and when I say "I'm just reading because I want to," I get a weird look.

But, that list would be nowhere near in showing all that has influenced my writing and has inspired me to do so. (Assuming that the question was posed for that reason.) All I can say about the books I read is that it always finishes by taking something from me in exchange for what it gave. It's that slightly breathless feeling when you finish a book, when you turn the rest of the blank pages (or advertisments of the author / publisher, depending on the book. My personal preference would be the blank pages.) to the back cover, close it, turn it over to the front, and think about the whole book you've just digested while staring blankly at the cover.

My The Book is Jonathan Safran Foer's "Everything Is Illuminated." I will leave you with the excerpt I posted a while back, because any attempt to describe or worship this masterpiece will not even come close to what it is worth. Jonathan Safran Foer breaks hearts beyond our own repair (and then promptly does just that) for a living.

Novels, short stories, poetry, journals, philosophy, news and magazine articles. I read everything. If you're interested, there are some very awesome places online...

In English class, my very fab English teacher taught us, according to the syllabus, that prose appealed to the mind, and poetry to the heart. I didn't exactly agree because it was such a defined line separating the two. The writings I read easily fall in both categories.

An explanation for inspiration would be incredibly futile. The word "inspiration" comes from "inspirare", Latin, meaning "to be breathed into". How would one explain what keeps her breathing, feeling, seeing, being? Forget scientific analysis (something amazing just happened: as I wrote the phrase before this parentheses, Natasha Bedingfield sang "questions of science, science in progress, do not speak as loud as my heart" through my speakers. I live for moments such as these, really.) of any sort, Science can not explain how one lives on through others after death, how would one explain what drives her to creation, everything we do is creation, reading a book is creation, Picasso said "Everything you can image is real", destruction is creation, how would one explain how an apple rolling onto the road inspired the ending to a story, and how would one explain how even something that does not exist is inspiration? "Everything you can imagine is real."

You should be a writer.

Thank you for that. I have been thinking a lot about that lately, because these years are definitely not passing by any slower. I need to decide, because it may or may not make a dent in my parents' decision on where to go for my mother's next assignment (which is late next year). I thought I had already narrowed down my choices to the different writing courses, but the thought of going into serious art just keeps knocking on my skull at regular intervals to make sure its presence is not forgotten. And Hugh Jackman on Inside the Actor's Studio just backed that up lately, describing the arts school where he took his course in theatre. This is really not fair.

Help, anyone? Writing is only thrilling when I can come up with something. I am constantly distracted by the thought of having a dead-end desk writing job, slumped in an old chair, staring at the computer screen, thinking of how to start an obituary; half-hoping to be able to surprise myself and the public with a haiku so amazing it will land me in a publisher-sponsored white empty apartment with agents waiting for me to write my next masterpiece.

Me and Art (this would include photography) would have the same situation, except imagine my grubby basement-turned-living-quarters, newspaper spread on the floor half-coated with every single shade of every color of paint, art paraphernalia everywhere, paper paint glue pencils crayons markers scissors pens gift-wrapping paper more and more and more paper canvas several easels several tables lyrics hastily written on paper dried flower petals cameras empty film canisters patterns on walls photographs on walls drawings on walls ... ... With me in one corner, face lit up by the dim glow of a computer screen, complaining about my shitty pseudo manqué-artist life into this very journal.

Oskar, how about something that will manifest our thoughts when we fail to do so ourselves? Here is a blank white wall, here is a clean sheet of white paper. Take what's in my mind and paste it there, my hands don't do enough of a good job.

Maybe that's too much, though. What if we had a machine that could transport us anywhere in the universe, at any time, Oskar? Something a la The Glass Elevator, except with really good ventilation. Inspiration is everywhere, and the very grand problem is, we aren't.

July 21, 2007 : God's Kitchen

A girls / boys cook-off (the latter won, thanks to their spaghetti), all fruits of labor gone to the stomachs of the cute little kids of SOS Children's Village.

since i wasn't always the one holding the camera:

0243 - 0249 - credit Jarro
0282 - 0283 - credit whoever took it (haha sorry I can't remember!)
0363 - 0375 - credit shepretty Pat
0384 - 0403 - credit Kevy

where english falls short, somewhat

(not an excerpt this time)

The Ilocano dialect of the Philippines has three words for the word "this" :

1) For things in view
2) For things not in view
3) For things that do not exist

Fernweh : (German) The deep desire to be somewhere else, far away.

Toska : (Russian) "No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom." - writer Vladimir Nabokov

Onsay : (Boro, an Indian dialect) To pretend to love
Ongubsy : (Boro, an Indian dialect) To love from the heart
Onsia : (Boro, an Indian dialect) To love for the last time

Litost : (Czech) A fusion of self-pity, regret and fear

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Got any more? I have a list, I only selected a few to post here.

I posted this somewhere else a long time ago, and until now, I have not found those three Ilocano words. If you know, sharing would be very much appreciated.

July 14 - 15, 2007 : because children make the best subjects

Relatives coming down from Europe for a holiday meant a big family get-together. These are only a few, and are mostly of children, because, duh, they're the best.

I can't even remember the name of the village we were in, but all the rest houses were huge. This one had a pool, a bahay kubo, a cleared first floor for dining in big groups, a pool table, and three bedrooms with at least two beds in each. 10k per night though, damn.

p.s. can ANYONE tell me why multiply keeps screwing up every last photo uploaded?!

BLOC PARTY / Two More Years

(this is called bloc party love)

In two more years, my sweetheart, we will see another view. Such longing for the past for such completion. What was once golden has now turned a shade of grey; I've become crueler in your presence.

They say, "Be brave, there's a right way and a wrong way" This pain won't last for ever.

Two more years, there's only two more years; two more years, so hold on.

You've cried enough this lifetime, my beloved polar bear - tears to fill a sea to drown a beacon. To start anew all over, remove those scars from your arms, to start anew all over more enlightened.

I know, my love, this is not the only story you can tell. This pain won't last for ever.

You don't need to find answers for questions never asked of you.

Dead weights and balloons drag me to you. Dead weights and balloons to sleep in your arms
I've become crueler since i met you, I've become rougher, this world is killing me.

We cover our lies with handshakes and smiles, we try to remember our alibis, we tell lies to our parents, we hide in their rooms, we bury our secrets in the garden.

Of course we could never make this love last, the only love we know is love for ourselves, we bury our secrets in the garden.

DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE / I Will Follow You Into the Dark

(because lyrics are literature too)

Love of mine, some day you will die. But I'll be close behind - I'll follow you into the dark. No blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white; just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark.

If Heaven and Hell decide that they both are satisfied, illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs. If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I'll follow you into the dark.

In Catholic school (as vicious as Roman rule), I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black. And I held my tongue as she told me, "Son, fear is the heart of love."
So I never went back.

You and me have seen everything to see - from Bangkok, to Calgary; and the soles of your shoes are all worn down. The time for sleep is now, it's nothing to cry about 'cause we'll hold each other soon... (in) The blackest of rooms.


If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks, then I'll follow you into the dark.

JONATHAN SAFRAN FOER / Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

      I went to my room.
     My hands were dirty, but I didn't wash them. I wanted them to stay dirty, at least until the next morning. I hoped some of the dirt would stay under my fingernails for a long time, and maybe some of the microscopic material would be there forever.
     I turned off the lights.
     I put my backpack on the floor, took off my clothes, and got into bed.
     I stared at the fake stars.
     What about windmills on the roof of every skyscraper?
     What about a kite-sting bracelet?
     What if skyscrapers had roots?
     What if you had to water skyscrapers, and play classical music to them, and know if they like sun or shade?
     What about a teakettle?
     I got out of bed and ran to the door in my undies.
     Mom was still on the sofa. She wasn't reading, or listening to music, or doing anything.
     She said, "You're awake."
     I started crying.
     She opened her arms and said, "What is it?"
     I ran to her and said, "I don't want to be hospitalized."
   She pulled me into her so my head was against the soft part of her shoulder, and she squeezed me. "You're not going to be hospitalized."
     I told her, I promise I'm going to be better soon."
     She said, "There's nothing wrong with you."
     "I'll be happy and normal."
     She put her fingeres around the back of my neck.
     I told her, "I tried incredibly hard. I don't know how I could have tried harder."
     She said, "Dad would have been very proud of you."
     "Do you think so?"
     "I know so."
     I cried some more. I wanted to tell her all of the lies that I'd told her. And then I wanted her to tell me that it was OK, because sometimes you have to do something bad to do something good. And then I wanted her to tell me that Dad still would have been proud of me.
     She said, "Dad called me from the building that day."
     I pulled away from her.
     "What?"
     "He called from the building."
     "On your cell phone?"
     She nodded yes, and it was the first time since Dad died that I'd seen her not try to stop her tears. Was she relieved? Was she depressed? Grateful? Exhausted?
     "What did he say?"
    "He told me he was on the street, that he'd gotten out of the building. He said he was walking home."
     "But he wasn't."
     "No."
     Was I angry? Was I glad?
     "He made it up so you wouldn't worry."
     "That's right."
     Frustrated? Panicky? Optimistic?
     "But he knew you knew."
     "He did."
     I put my fingers around her neck, where her hair started.
     I don't know how late it got.
   I probably fell asleep, but I don't remember. I cried so much that everything blurred into everything else. At some point she was carrying me to my room. Then I was in bed. She was looking over me. I don't believe in God, but I believe that things are extremely complicated, and her looking over me was as complicated as anything ever could be. But it was also incredibly simple. In my only life, she was my mom, and I was her son.
     I told her, "It's OK if you fall in love again."
     She said, "I won't fall in love again."
     I told her, "I want you to."
     She kissed me and said, "I'll never fall in love again."
     I told her, "You don't have to make it up so I won't worry."
     She said, "I love you."
     I rolled onto my side and listened to her walk back to the sofa.
     I heard her crying. I imagined her wet sleeves. Her tired eyes.
     One minute fifty-one seconds . . .
     Four minutes thirty-eight seconds . . .
     Seven minutes . . .
    I felt in the space between the bed and the wall, and found Stuff That Happened to Me. It was completely full. I was going to have to start a new volume soon. I read that it was the paper that kept the towers burning. All of those notepads, and Xeroxes, and printed e-mails, and photographs of kids, and books, and dollar bills in wallets, and documents in files . . . all of them were fuel. Maybe if we lived in a paperless society, which lots of scientists say we'll probably live in one day soon, Dad would still be alive. Maybe I shouldn't start a new volume.
   I grabbed the flashlight from my backpack and aimed it at the book. I saw maps and drawings, pictures from magazines and newspapers and the Internet, pictures I'd taken with Grandpa's camera. The whole world was in there. Finally, I found the pictures of the falling body.
     Was it Dad?
     Maybe.
     Whoever it was, it was somebody.
     I ripped the pages out of the book.
     I reversed the order, so the last one was first, and the first was last.
     When I flipped through them, it looked like the man was floating up through the sky.
    And if I'd had more pictures, he would've flown through a window, back into the building, and the smoke would've poured into the hole that the plane was about to come out of.
    Dad would have left his messages backward, until the machine was empty, and the plane would've flown backward away from him, all the way to Boston.
     He would've taken the elevator to the street and pressed the button for the top floor.
   He would've walked backward to the subway, and the subway would've gone backward through the tunnel, back to our stop.
    Dad would've gone backward through the turnstile, then swiped his Metrocard backward, then walked home backward as he read the New York Times from right to left.
     He would've spit coffee into his mug, unbrushed his teeth, and put hair on his face with a razor.
     He would've gotten back into bed, the alarm would've rung backward, he would've dreamt backward.
     Then he would've gotten up again at the end of the night before the worst day.
     He would've walked backward to my room, whistling "I Am the Walrus" backward.
     He would've gotten into bed with me.
    We would've looked at the stars on my ceiling, which would've pulled back their light from our eyes.
     I'd have said "Nothing" backward.
     He'd have said "Yeah, buddy?" backward.
     I'd have said "Dad?" backward, which would have sounded the same as "Dad" forward.
     He would've told me the story of the Sixth Borough, from the voice in the can at the end to the beginning, from "I love you" to "Once upon a time . . ."
     We would have been safe.