Ikaw.Ako

Nag-alab.
Bumusilak.
Lasong dugo ng apoy.
Hindi maikublil.
Itaboy sa hangin.
Ilapat sa tubig.
Itapon sa karimlan.
Hindi mapigilan.
Apoy.
Pag-iisa
sa dilim.
Ikaw.
Ako.
Pagtatagpo
sa likod ng anino
niya
upang mapadpad
sa walang hangganang
liwanag ng
Pag-
ibig.

IKAW
K
O

cris

drifting

PAPERBOATS
by cris

There was an ocean between him and me. I knew it.
I could see it stretch beyond what my eyes could follow, I could hear its roar and whispers even in my sleep. I felt its depth and I was saddened at how far he seemed, how so out of reach.
This ocean, it had no waves.
I walked its shores with soundless nonchalance. Any noise I make, he would not heed anyways. The sand was a bit coarse, there were stones mingled with it, even broken pieces of glass now pretending to be shards of corals or gems blinking enticingly by my feet. Aged shells calmly retorted in their silence. The sun still hid. An invisible blanket, this horizon, it covers the ever-flaming ball that rose and rested like the beating inside my chest.
Only a few hours now.
I keep noticing these things. My mind has to. I think of people in comas, their minds protecting themselves - it is to the corporeal what to the abstract is known as hope. The physical realm's manifestation of such a force - one that cannot let go, one that hangs on because one day, it will reawaken and maybe breathe life into an empty shell.
Am I in a coma?
Is this why I keep seeing these intricate details of a scene before me, a scene that is not even real? But nor is it imagined.
The waveless ocean is there.
I knew it.
Between him and me.
I knew it.

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

I'm leaving.
This he said with such fire in his voice, and the same fire in his squinty eyes.
I remember I smiled.
Just about the only involuntary response my body was able to conjure. A million nerve cells sparking off electricity in unimaginable speed and power, reacting one by one to the stimulus sent and yet all that came out from within me was - a smile.
There was a wedding and he was invited. He'll be making several trips by bus and ship, traveling miles and miles to. But all that registered was that he was traveling from. Away from me.
The bags. The clothes. The money. The tickets. Where should he start?
I smiled again.
He was my friend. He is my friend. And yet a strange but not completely unfamiliar feeling crept up on me that very moment, one I was desperately trying to lose.
The green monster that had ravaged so many others now had his eyes upon an unsuspecting prey. Me.
It was after me.
No weapons in hand, a still-broken body and a confused mind, I could only do one thing.
I ran.
I ran so fast, so far. For so long.
I did not even notice that I was running from nothing anymore. The monster had given up.
Still my legs did not buckle. They did not stop.
Night had fallen. The wind lashed at my face, sweat warmed and pasted to my skin.
And when I looked back, you had gone.
The snapping of nocturnal birds, their mocking songs and wingless flight - they followed me home, as I ran to the only place I knew I could not be gotten to.



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


The paper boat was cast away by my hand. I was young, then. Barely seven.
There was a calm to the storms that I knew. They would start as a drizzle, little tickling fingers that tasted briny and smelled wrong. In a matter of seconds, it would come down, hard and raging.
So I made boats.
Different kinds. Colors. Sizes.
I folded them gently, creasing them like they were precious and not so very vulnerable. I made every fold ceremoniously. I knew the storm would wait.
Until finally, I was ready. One by one, I let them go. The puddles by then were already more than five inches thick, craters in the cement making my little oceans, little oceans where my vessels can drift about and sail away.
I would watch them with a smile.
They looked so beautiful and majestic, small as they were.
For several minutes, they taunted the heavy drops. They flitted in between and escaped the harsh fleeing of water from the clouds.
One drop makes all the difference.
Just one drop and the boat gets trapped between two forces that only sought its demise. From above. So too from below.
The boats sank to the sound of my heart breaking.
I was drenched and I smelled. There was no smile on my face.
But there were no tears.
No.
No tears either.

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


That night, I got home before the rain fell. The days and the nights before that were dreams made of paper boats that sank no matter how strong you made them, no matter how long it took you to make each vital fold.
I wish I had the time to try to save it. Scoop the water out with my little fingers and put rubber into the holes that threatened to capsize my silence.
It was cold. And I started to cough. I coughed deep and endless.
I pulled the sheets up and I tried to think clearly. It seemed my hands were not the only ones on their own. Even my mind was.
Did I sleep soundly?
Did I sleep at all?
I could never remember.
What I do remember, is the feeling of being adrift. Whether asleep or awake, I felt waves underneath me. I felt t he gentle rocking of the water, and sometimes, its maddened tossing. I was pulled and pushed and there was nowhere to go. Somehow, I felt like I was with him. There in the sea, right by his side, with a dream right in front of me and nothing behind that called out our names.
A waveless ocean.
A boatless voyage.
I'm hoping I did sleep then.
There are some friends that never go away and that night, I needed one's embrace.


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




I was not the same when I woke up.
I was not the aimless wanderer who saw glass in the sand. I was not the one who ran nor the little boy with the sinking paper boats.
There was an ocean, yes.
I could still feel it.
I touched its presence, there, between him and me. He had gone.
And I knew why.
I understood.
And loved him more for it.
With him, I would always feel the water.
He is flowing. He is never anyone's possession. He is drifting.
If I am to know him, I must know the shore will be seen one day and whether he takes the step toward it or not is something I must be ready for. Whether he walks the length of the coast , glass and stones in the sand, holding my hand. Or he could float away in his own paper boat, beautiful and majestic, never to sink, never to fade from sight. Far and yet always near. Away and yet always here.
I think I found home.
It was a waveless ocean.
It was him.


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




finite.

please

you found me
on my knees
a salty runlet, red
seeping to the hardwood floors.
I asked you
please, just please,
stay away
let me do this
by myself,
so you stand still
and watch
one by one,
I pick them up
tissue and bone, crystal skin
broken into shivers,
how small these pieces are!
I collect them
with my right hand
put them in my left
palm against glass
flesh against quartz, this
flame you blew out
with syrupy words
and your honey-dipped smile
a promise of friendship
that slit the throat of a
hopeful heart.

I asked you,
please, just please,
let me do this by myself,
myself is all I have.

PLEASE
ccg

I remember

I remember
late that night,
we gathered in circles
inside circles,
as the bedside lamp
illumines the room
in somber orange.

we could only whisper our names
like canticles of ancient Mythos,
softer than the softest breath
but underneath a maelstrom rises
bridled in fear
that we may wake
spirits long gone and
resting.

in those votive hours,
we performed the ritual,
-slow deliberate motions
of pouring
in measured propinquity
and we breathed in painful anticipation.

I met your eyes,
only for an instant
as we raised out treasured plastic cups
to our parched lips,
needing
lusting
wanting
this fire-water to burn itself dry
of plastic to flesh
of air to water
of taste to light, sound, touch
eggyolks and gold to
crimson. when I met your eyes
only for an instant
as you were engulfed in steady
drops
of ocean red.

I felt your blood
turned mine
turned yours
drowning me in cheap beer,
made cheaper by my drowning.

I remember
late that intoxicating night,
like voyeurs and maniacs
we called non-existent gods and
damned ourselves in unending anathema,
for shattered dreams
for broken lives
and hopes of no consequence
now dead.

before bloodshot eyes,
we nurtured
perfervid rebellion –
or,
surrendered in fear?
so we hid behind the only weapons
we knew-
the cups we held in our hands.

we died, too.

it still echoes in my mind, you know.
the wordings of a lost soul
never to be sought,
just wanted,
recovered,
and transfixed into a newfound promise,
betrayed by a blinding truth
that it was not lost
in the first place.

there are nights when I wake up
hoping to recapture the images
with which I remember,
like the fading essences of silver-framed photographs
like treasures so easily found yet easily lost
like a gypsy dance,
a somnambulant reckoning,
bodies rejoicing in circles
inside circles
and
outward.

but the dance ended.
And we are left with only a resonance
to keep the memory alive,
as I gaze at you
from a distance too far,
even beyond what my eyes could see
even before old friends
turned brothers
turned strangers.
I seek refuge
in your wordspinnings:
the worlds you created with a ballpoint pen,
the doors you opened with keys
of language
of truth and sanctimony
only you can understand.

and I wonder
when I can start drowning again
in the beginning
in the middle
in the end
of the lines you so deftly crafted
winged by the purest of souls.

I wonder
when I can start drowning again,
in the familiar trickling of
your blood,
turned mine,
turned yours
before this paper cup
I hold in my hand
overflows –

ISANG TAGAY LANG
1999

per te

some call it dependency. some call it not being strong enough. some call it real love. i simply call it life. we are alone. and we do need each other. and so, if you do find someone who's worth holding on to, as a friend or a lover, hold on to him or her as long as you can.

DO YOU SEE ME?

should i tiptoe into his heart
find me a corner to hide in
to wait while the pain parts,
with the fear, i know, is brewing.

should i kneel on the floor and be quiet,
sing a melody of love's own humming,
a voice akin to a dreaded whisper,
the winds shall carry the warning.

should i lie with my eyes half-open,
half-closed, should i even dare,
if tomorrow to find him beside me
in this brokenness we share.

will his heart allow me passage,
or its doors close on my face,
his eyes, like the crescent moon shining,
in the start and end of days.

should i tiptoe back into my own,
with a sliver of his soul,
when a day it will come,
when this masquerade is done
then i need tiptoe no more.


TIPPING TOES, TIP TIP TOEING
ccg.



...sometimes, being able to find the one person that you can be yourself with, and be free, and be happy, is about realizing the person that is already there...

pierpaolo's birthday

sometime ago, i wrote a poem about the love of a mother. In all the best cases, no matter what words i use, i don't think i can ever really describe what it is about a mother's love that knows no bounds.

i met orietta the very first day roland became my roommate and instantly i loved her. i knew she was a real person - i felt it. it emanated from her very smile, her soft touch, even from her bright, blonde hair.

a couple of months later, i met her son, pierpaolo who, i believe, is a boy of 8, but also a man, in all aspects. his charisma is one that pervades into the air, as does his intelligence.

so when orietta came to me asking for help so that she and husband andrea can throw him a surprise 8th birthday party, of course, i had to say yes. after all, all i had to do was be there.

i thought of doing the poster for him, though which came out really fabulously. But, all the rest, was Orietta's and Andrea's. They are just the loveliest parents. I wish them all the best.

Quello primo, quello mio

He said, Youre late.

I know.

The park was empty that Sunday afternoon. There were benches that lined the perimeter of the imprisoned sandbox.
He sat on one. I, on another. I wasn’t sure whether he wanted me to sit beside him.

The seesaw was still, one of its end jutting out straight up like a sinking ship.

The swings, its chains noticeably rusty even from where we were, slightly shivered.

He said, Its always empty.

This park? I asked.

Yeah. Me and my friends come here a lot, though.

Do you have good friends? I asked.

Yeah, he answered.

He asked, Do you like YOUR friends?

I said, I guess. I don’t really have much time to hang out with them.

Oh.
He said, That must really suck.

I smiled.

I said, Yeah. It really sucks.

╔

He asked, Do you like comics?

I do.

Really? He smiled. Which one’s your favorite?

Xmen, I said. Hands down.


No way! He exclaimed. I like the Zany Zapster better.

What? I exclaimed in disbelief. You can’t possibly like him over the XMen!

I don’t like their costumes! He said, They look dorky.

Okay then, I agreed. Don’t worry, I’ll bring some next time. You’ll see. You just gotta read some of their cooler stories. There’s one when they all fight Apocalypse and then Angel becomes his servant, and oh! The Phoenix Saga and the – What?

Nothing, he said.

You were looking at me funny, I said.

No, he replied.


You’re not like other grown-ups are you? he said, more than asked.

You can tell? I snickered.

Right off the bat, he said.

Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I wanted to know.

Good, he smiled. Definitely good.

I smiled back.


╗

You know, he said, I have this dream about you.

Have? I asked.

Well, yeah. I keep having it, you see. I dream the same dream.

That’s a recurring dream, I told him .

Oh, he said. He repeated the word. Re-cu-r-ring.

So what’s the dream about? What do I do in it? I asked.

Nothing, he said. You were just standing there, and it was dark and I really couldn’t see your face. Then it starts to get light, but before I could see you, I would always wake up.

I didn’t know what to say.

What do you think it means? He asked.

It could mean a lot of things, I said. A lot of different things.

I do know, however, I said, looking at him, You won’t have that dream tonight.

How do you know? He asked.

I grinned. I’m here with you right now, aren’t I?

╚
I think I have to go, he mumbled.

So soon? I asked. I checked my watch.
Oh. It is getting late. Sun’s almost down.

It’s because you were late. He said. That should teach you a lesson next time.

I laughed. Yes, it did.

It was nice meeting you, he said.

I knelt down, hoping to hug him.

He held out his hand.

I nodded, settling instead for the handshake. You seem like a great kid.

He looked down at his shoes.

They were blue.

He started to walk away.

A few steps.

Then he looked back.

Dad? He called out.

I wanted to jump. Scream. Laugh. Shout.

Yes? I calmly asked.

He smiled at me. You won’t be late next week, right? I mean, if you want to come again.

I’d love to! Of course! And hey, I’ll bring some of my Xmen stuff over, okay?

Cool! He yelled, running. I’ll bring Zapster.

Pause.

He called me Dad.

Pause.

Cool.

╝



CHILDREN OF THE ATOM

IN MEMORY OF
15iv03.

....it was the hardest thing i had to accept...that i couldn't have HIM... i so wanted YOU. know that. even if you weren't born, you're still mine...

someday

love the song!

NIGHTflights

sunday, 2 a.m. taken while sketching Unplaceable Kris.

I LOVE MY ROOMMATE RO. HE KNOWS THIS. WE'RE SORT OF LIKE SISTERS. BUT SHE'S ALWAYS ON ME TO GO OUT AND HAVE FUN WITH THE REST OF THE KIDS, AND WELL, IM JUST NOT LIKE THEM.

WHERE THEY WOULD BE HAPPY GOING TO THE DISCO OR THE SAUNA, I WOULD BE EQUALLY HAPPY COOKING FOR MYSELF A NICE DINNER OR TAKING A WALK IN THE PARK, OR JUST HAVING A NICE CHAT WITH A GOOD FRIEND OVER TEA, OR WINE AND CANDLES.

WHERE THEY WOULD BE PRESSED OUT TO MEET NEW PEOPLE, TO GET DRINKS AND PARTY, I WOULD BE TINGLING WITH EXCITEMENT TO WATCH A MOVIE OR LISTEN TO SOME GOOD SLOW MUSIC.

WHERE THEY WOULD BE PROWLING FOR THE NEXT CONQUEST, I WOULD BE GAZING OUT MY WINDOW HOPING THAT EVEN THOUGH I AM WAITING FOR NOW, THAT ONE DAY WHEN I WOULD FIND SOMEONE OF MY OWN TO LOVE AND WHO WOULD LOVE ME BACK WOULD COME TO PASS.

MAKES ME THINK BACK TO A STORY I WROTE A YEAR AGO. OF WHICH, THE DESIGN IS NOT YET FINISHED. (HENCE, THE PICS ABOVE)

IT GOES:

THE UNPLACEABLES.

by Cris Garing

There was once a family of fairies whom everyone in the fairy kingdom called the Unplaceables.

They were Father Unplaceable, Mother Unplaceable, the Unplaceable twins Ori and Ro and the youngest - Unplaceable Kris.

Everybody called them the Unplaceables. No matter where they went, everyone knew who they were.

They have traveled from North to South, East to West.

They've looked from forest to glades, river to sea.

They've turned every rock, every pebble, searched every tree and bush.

And they still haven't found one.

You see, it is because of this that the Unplaceables are called what they are called.

Nobody cared much about the Unplaceables.

And the UNplaceables didn't care much for anybody else.

That is,

Except Unplaceable Kris.

Well, i'm gonna have to cut this real short until i finish with the designs.

I keep thinking...

Maybe right now, it's okay being UNPLACEABLE.

So i spend my nights writing and working, drawing and dreaming and gazing out my window when i should, in fact, be dancing and living the life.

I have a friend who still has to go through these things. To find out who he really is. I myself have partied and lived that particular lifestyle already, and it doesn't mean i already know who i am or what or who i want.

My grandmother Georg always said, "in life, you will always wonder. And that's good. EVen with all your questions, and doubts, just continue to share yourself to others. You have a weak heart, the doctors say. BUt i know, i feel it. You have the strongest heart of us all."

(Georg, i miss you like mad. MY heart still beats. It still stops. It's still weak. And it's still strong. )

So i tried. And still here i am.

It'll be okay. Things have a way of working themselves out one way or another.

FOR THE KICKS

lost innocence.

hmmmmm... my friend Jayce (miss you, dearie! Hate that you're going to Bakersfield for XMAS!!! Say hi to Mika and Blake for me) egged me on to join this metro global photo contest. So here i post all 5 entries to the contest.

la solitudine. 07

perfezione.07

And so I have. And since Jayce's favorite color has always been red, i decided to enter the thing with photos that has red as the dominant colour.

diversità.07

Here's to you, dear friend. You've always looked out for me and never once have you let me down. I miss us four - you , me, Mika, Blake. We're all in different parts of the world now, but home will always be where you guys are.

come quando eravamo piccoli. 07

aftermath of letting go

I was walking last night and all around me, i kept seeing signs of it.

People together, couples holding hands, embraces, arms around shoulders, knowing smiles, heart at home.

Love. I don't really like writing about it, but here it is. It presented itself to me last night so clearly that there is just no way around it, no way to follow my own rules of not writing about it, thinking about it, dwelling on it, because after all, what is it but air, wind, god. things we cannot see, we can only fathom.

The way it was evident last night makes you wonder. It's here, it's true people feel it have it know it taste it keep it. Then why do so many feel so lost and so...wanting. If it were so easy to have, to realize, to know, why is it so difficult to believe?

Some people fall in love, at first sight, they say. Some after, some see it right off - that possibility, others not so quick, they can't see what's right in front of them or under their noses until it's gone, drifted away and owned by someone else.

MIllions of people. If you keep searching for the right one, that would mean you would search your entire life and beyond, without ever finding it. If you settle, is that bad? or is it actually realizing that your needs of love, CAN be met, if you yourself allow love to enter whole and untouched.
NOt edited like they do in movies. NOt cropped like they do with photos.
Whole.

Some wait for it, others think they're not ready and yet they entrap themselves in confusing complicated fucked up messes. But when they finally say they are, it becomes a bigger mess.

And for some, they just never find it. I feel the unravelling truth about where i fit. Does it scare me?

I was walking without actually knowing where to go.
I am writing this without actually knowing where I am headed.

Maybe that's it.
That's the point of it all.
There is none.
Damn.

I CAN SEE WITH ONE EYE CLOSED, MY RIGHT ARM OVER MY SHOULDERS, MY LEFT LEG LIFTED HIGH AND MY HEAD IN THE CLOUDS

A SPURT OF AN IDEA.
Ideas, opinions, views, beliefs.
Sometimes all of these is merely out of perspective. How we see one thing.
Perspective, in the English language, can be described in the context of vision and visual perception. It is simply the way in which our eye recognizes objects based on several factors.
IN the graphic arts, it is the representation on a surface of an image that is ‘seen’ by the eye.
And in the theory of cognition, perspective is a choice. Many scholars argue if it is the actual choice or the result of this choice that can be called perspective. In any case, it allows for a value and a belief system to influence how we view, analyze, and think about a certain topic, person or thing.
Here are some thoughts to ponder:

Bias and impartiality is in the eye of the beholder. (Lord Barnett)
Distance has the same effect on the mind as on the eye. (Samuel Johnson)
The difference between a mountain and a molehill is your perspective. (Al Neuharth)
If the only tool you have is a hammer, you tend to see every problem as a nail. (Abraham H. Maslow)
You are only as wise as others perceive you to be. (M. Shawn Cole)
A heretic is a man who sees with his own eyes. (Gotthold Ephraim Lessing)


Another way of looking at it is by “looking at it” (physically).



This most original idea by photographer Boris Kahl was realized by simply….looking at the sky, rather, where parts of it can be seen set against the many skyscrapers of the city.
He calls the project TYPE THE SKY, now published as a book, featuring all 26 letters from the alphabet, with the addition of the punctuations “?” and “!”.

So the next time you are affronted by a certain situation, it would help if you take a moment to ask yourself, “Is this the only of looking at it?”

Who knows, you just might realize the world wasn’t-square isn’t round after all.

FOR HE WHO COLLECTS NUMBERS

GEEK.NERD.DORK.GENIUS.LOONS.WEIRD.
If you happen to love numbers, or be a wiz at them, you are usually any one of these. (at least in the primary, middle and high-school mentalities)

I say otherwise.
Dorks can be the cutest people on earth.

(if you find any more cute cartoons like this, let me know.)

NOT love at first sight

There someone I'm in love with...Although I can't be with her now...I'm still in love with her...

I've always taken the gift of sight for granted. I would hurt my eye, not take care of it. I love reading until late night, and i love to do it in the most hurtful of conditions - while in motion, or with little light. NOw that my passion for photography has taken ahold of me, i can't imagine being without it, being lost and unable to appreciate the beauty - to view what is real and envision possibilities.






The words above were words narrated by the man in the the video. He is a photographer himself, and he chose to up this most precious gift for the girl that he loved and hurt. And love still. AT the end, the girl realizes that it was him who gave her back the ability to see, and it's heartbreaking to watch when she realizes the sacrifice he made for him.






Everyone of us makes that wish. To find someone that would love us. Few of us realize that this wish is most easily remedied not by a wish getting granted .... but by a choice being made.
My wish? To be strong enough to make that choice one day. To give my heart to someone and love that person so damn much that i would risk everything, be less, lose everything and yet, be better , be whole for it.




The song is by KISS ( Jini, MIni and Umji) , one of Korean's instant hits, but which disbanded after their one and only album. Would you believe that this clip is so popular that many versions of the song were made, and in many languages - english, french, mandarin, cantonese, even tagalog! The two actors in the video are Shin Hyun Joon and Goo Hye JIn. Both gorgeous!

a sad love song /choeun

UTADA HIKARU'S FIRST LOVE

I remember first seeing and hearing Utada in a club in Hongkong, where she played years ago... From that moment until now, this song's still one of my favorites.

FORSE OGGI NON SEGUO IL SOLE...

Watching Vittorio De Sica's I Girasoli was one of the first peeks I've ever taken of how Italy was in the olden days - even seeing Milan's Central station's old face gave me somewhat a different sensation.
Sophia Loren's Giovanna is an Italian woman who falls desperately in love with Marcello Mastroianni's Antonio. So much so that
when it was time for him to enlist in the army factions bound for Russia, Giovana agreed to a ruse (admittedly, I first thought it was real, until i caught up with what the two crazy lovers were doing)
to have Antonio locked up in the loony bin. When they failed in this, the two had to accept their destiny and part.

Years after, and the war finally ends. But no word comes from Antonio and Giovana decides to conduct a desperate search for her lost husband, whom she believes to be alive.
The plot thickens on, and watching the film, I am reminded of other films whose main themes were relatively simple but which would leave you amazed at how intricate these emotions can be, making even the simplest seem most complicated.

Many may call this almost soap-operish and zaccharine-sweet, but i actually found it endearing and had the circumstances been right, i would have actually cried. (crybaby that i am)

Two things the film's definitely got going for it are the cinematography and the music. There were some pretty amazing shots all throughout the movie. And of course, being a Henry Mancini fan ( I must have watched Breakfast at Tiffany's a million times, partly because of the music), I knew i would be glued right off.

P.S. Thank you Jean for sharing this film with me!

THE WORD

There is one word in the English vocabulary that is as mysterious as faith, as tangible and yet fleeting as a shiver, as essential as oxygen to a person’s existence, and as indeterminate as the future.

It is when a young man, who did not express his desires succinctly and always let chance and fate dictate his own life, gets drifted off to a faraway land, gets stripped off his dreams and realities. In exchange he gets a reality that is so strange to him, it is almost violent. It grates at his skin. It bites his flesh. It tears at him everyday. This. His new life. His condition. In less than a month, he buys a ticket to go back home. He is called a quitter by everyone else, a lost cause.



It is when another, who did not allow his desires to take the better of him and always let his ideals dictate his own life, is given a heart to look after and his own heart to surrender. His reality became everyone’s dreams. It fills him with joy. It fills him with pleasure. It fills him with love. This. His very being, he gives up. In a matter of weeks, he breaks all binds and sets himself free and vulnerable. Where there was safety and love, he now risks pain and loneliness. He is called a fool by everyone else, a lost soul.



It is when one, who did not desire so completely and always let other people’s realities dictate his own life, gets drifted to a place he so longed to discover, gets stripped of old fears and doubts and in their place, new fears and new doubts. Every step he takes now may bring him closer to a dream long-nurtured and kept hidden or may cause him to shut himself off and retreat back into quiet non-being. It is one kiss, one hug, one resounding yes. He is called a newbie by everyone else, one with a lot to lose. Or a lot to gain.


The word is Choice.


Who gets to decide if one is a quitter or a fool? We look life in its face and we look away, each taking something for ourselves, each leaving something behind.

What matters most is who we make of ourselves in the end. The good we have in us, the good we do, and the good we can still achieve.

ASPETTANDO L’AUTUNNO

Browns
the leaves
that bear my
Tears
dried and torn,
littered, soaked in
rainwater, frozen
shivers,
these trembling gems
fall,
they call
to earth and air
to sleep
and wait
their unknown fate.


.cris.

L'ULTIMA CENA TRANS. THE LAST TRANS SUPPER.

Thanks to the person responsible for this image. It made my day.

So ...question is, what becomes of the Holy Grail?!?

From OF CURTAINS AND MEN

The young man held his breath.

He wiped the sweat running down his cheeks from the aching temples where a mass of golden-brown hair stuck, strands to scalp. He shivered, the cold air like a bath of ice on his strained muscles. The smells of rain-drowned grass, booze, cigar and cum enjoined, making him cough. Or maybe he coughed because he had forgotten to button up his shirt, as well as his pants. He had even left his wallet, left everything else he knew to be his.

Walks. Cries. Flies.

The young man headed the wrong way.

There was no way, he thought. Right or wrong. No all I have, I carry with me. All I need.

My words, just my words all screaming, fluttering, laughing, talking, forming, f%&=ing inside my head.

Write. Think. Murmur. Think!

Just my words. Always my words –
And breath.



From OF CURTAINS AND MEN: a short story. cris

pensieri. poesie. passioni.

One day they will show themselves,
lines of age and wisdom
come too late,
hasty white strands.
the lines
around eyes and lips
softly drawn curtains
where your smile used to reside,
and the walk of tired years
emerging from disquieted seas
memories,
flickering flames,
now lit with regret
odd smells and an aftertaste
from a favorite cigarette stick,
faces and shadows,
this stranger the mirror does not recognize

yesterday’s goblets emptied, arias played
dances danced and battles waged
the nighttide ebbs into waxen hours,
this long wait, the hours.

THE LONG WAIT

left the windows open,

and from inside,

I hear the little girl pounding,

pounding on the dirty sheets

ten times her size.

she beat the filth away

with a wooden club

made solely for this purpose.

this ritual of little girls,

handed down by dead mothers,

they must learn how to crush innocence

to get to the grime, the malice

that hides deep clings hard to thread and skin.

the mothers said

what do you need of this innocence,

just a brand-new sheet,

better break it in yourself

before the others get to it,

their soot feels fine on top of yours.

the pounding,

slowly becomes a muted song

tender to her ears

notes she carry with her
to old age.

THE LITTLE GIRL POUNDING

I can see it in your eyes, the reflection of the person

I was and I am left to wonder

when my face would come to view,

this face that I bear now

the face that holds my smiles and defeats

and stores my tears and triumphs.

this is me.
when will you see

that I am no different

no better

no lesser

no easier removed from your side.

SEE

we await so longingly a miracle to prove our faith,

when there are miracles in the whispering winds

the greenness of leaves, and the godliness of a little ant.

UNTITLED

it will have its way with me

this place...

the hours that eat away at my core

and slowly grinds me in its mouth.

fodder is what i am,

fallen prey to a silent hunter

caged and tethered,

a mindless animal

growling at my fate,

as it spits back at my face.

cut me and i bleed.

break me and i will fall to my knees.

but hurt me, and i will not cry

nor scream and beg for the end.

this place will have its way with me

but it cannot win.

IT MUST NOT.

RAGAZZO.

cris

AKO.

ako. io. I. yo.

When i was a kid, i told everybody that my dream was to become a social worker. I always dreamt of going to places in the Philippines, in India, in Africa, wherever - every place that saw a tear in a hungry child's face, every corner of the world where a hug meant more than a dollar, a helping hand more than new shoes.

I remember even writing this poem (which luckily I have in my archives) entitled "LUHA", which means tears or lacrime.

...he smiled,
the little boy whose feet were hard as rocks,
whose stomach growled a vicious monster,
whose face wore ages of pain and regret

i wondered how regret could be pasted onto a face
which should house innocence and joy,

he smiled,
the little boy who looked at me like i was his long-lost brother

he smiled,
because i smiled too.

part of "LUHA"
cris. jan.15, 1991.


I wonder what happened to that dream. I can still feel that desire. To seek a way to help, to find a chance - to feel more ---I dont know, human. All the homeless people. All the orphans. All the young and dying, the old and aging. Their pains should be OUR pains, too. Shouldn't it?

Aren't they US? Aren't we THEM?


Let me share this most beautiful song called PARAISO. Which is strange, in a way. Because like the title of the song, which i think , can be understood in all languages, so should the very words BEING HUMAN.






The video features some photos from the Philippines. For more on the country, check out these two other videos:









And i end this blog with a part taken from Carlos P. Romulo's "I am a Filipino" essay:

I sprung from a hardy race — child of many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men, putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope — hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children’s forever.

This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed spot to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof — the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals — the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them, and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world no more.


agosto. 07

SUNDAY CONFESSIONS

Father, I have sinned.

yes, dear child. you may speak freely here.

father, from my dad's pocket, I took a dime

The Lord appreciates your honesty, child. Go on.

to buy me a Tootsie Roll. ever had one, father? melts in your mouth, they do. a dime for some Tootsie Roll. a dime for my soul.

The Lord appreciates your honesty, child. Go on.

I peeked at my cousin Trudie. She's thirteen, but father, God knows he ain't right in making her look all of twenty.

never presume what the Lord thinks, child.

then for that, I'm to be forgiven too, Father. Trudie, she took a bath, see. I took a peek, a regular Peeping Tom I am. What i saw made me think dirty thoughts, yes, father, and these thoughts i acted upon them with the devil's hands.

God knows your heart is aggrieved, son. your body confuses and tempts you. you must be strong.

father, i acted on them thoughts twice.

then the Lord forgives you twice as well.

then i faked sick. me and momma had to go sell some rice cakes in the market,like we do every goddamn day, 'scuse me father for cursing. i hate them damn- silly cakes. Packed with rice and sweat and momma's tears and our daily grief.

Do not swear. And do not look ill on what the good Lord provides.

Yes, father. But they all i have in me, father. rice cakes in the morning, at noon and nighttime. and then, some more rice cakes in between. I swear ---

Don't.

Yes, father, i won't. I ---can tell you this much. My sweat and blood and innards must be all rice cakes. They are. So i faked sick.

What did you do with your time?

Well's, momma thought i was resting, and so i snuck out. Sun ain't barely up, Poppa's wasted on the floor again so i took the dime from his pocket and went to see if cousin Trudie wanted to swim in the river, which she didn't, on account she took a bath, and i did her wrong twice. So i went to Tommy's instead. Bugger-faced Tommy. Play catch, is what i thought.

and did you? Play catch?

NO's father. 'is the truth, i tell ya. me's and tommy crossed over to Old Maria's backyard, you know who she is, that deaf-blind-mad-woman witch.

The Lord forgives you for name-calling.

Thank you, Lord. So when we got to the woman-witch's place, we started throwing stones at the kitchen windows.

one that was big!

two ,missed but close!

three, yes! one in the center!

now Tommy's got a good hand. He started teasing me bout my bad 'un. Out of ten, I got two cracks. Whip! Crack! the glasses they broke. the pieces they shattered. the rocks they clunked inside.

we didn't notice it, father. But Old Maria went close to the windows and started shooing us like we were buncha crows. I took a big rock and aimed straight at her face. hit smack center in the forehead. down, she went, father. like a big log. Timber! I called, laughing. Timber! I shouted. I didn't know why, but i laughed. father, I laughed real hard.

didn't just hurt her see. went inside to check, there she was, sprawled on the floor. ees about to popo like the cap of a bottle of soda. her breasts, Tommy touched them, hard as rocks themselves. Tommy said no beat was in them breasts. No beat at all. Wouldn't have sinned with the devils' hands if you paid me, or God paid me, father. Them breasts long gone.

Father, I killed Old Maria. she's dead as a dead cow.

a rock for her body. a rock for her mad soul.

oh ---g---God. son, did you tell somebody? the police?

I AM telling, Father. I'm telling you. seeing as you're supposed to keep things silent and private here, aren't ya?

words between God and me? you'se and God? you'se and me?

Yes , son - but this ---we have to tell---

now, Tommy, crybaby he is, started bawling like a girl. I told him to shut up. no faggot friend of mine is gonna cry. and he is, faggot. Tommy. Once I saw him kissing that other boy that lives with his momma in the big blue house. Told him I wouldn't tell anybody if he did all i said. He wouldn't stop crying, tho'. So i took a wooden board, that board that Old Maria uses to beat clothes with, get the dirt out? So's I took it and i was only trying to scare him, father, but he wouldn't stop screaming and shouting and crying and so i didn't stop beating and pounding him like beef at the butcher's. He kept on crying, You'se killed her, shit! You'se killed ---

Boy, tell me. Aaaang then---? Where is Tommy?

I kept hitting him, father and it worked. it made him shut up two ways sunday. silence was a dusk's wait for light, not even a hummingbird hummed, i reckon. nor a twig breaking outside. Silence, there was.

See, i knew father. i knew. The Lord will understand. I listen to your sermons like i listen to nothing else.

You'se once said :

Strike down the screaming liars with them instruments of peace. Bring about silence and calm with your might and let those blinded to the Lord's mercy be brought to light.

your words rang in my head, father. I've always wondered what i'm here in this world for. not to sell those fucking tasteless rice cakes. now i know.

the lord made me more.

I am his instrument. HIs hand in this land that forsook him, among those who turned blind eyes and deaf ears to his saving grace.

The words of the Lord are mysterious, son . We cannot know that they truly mean, I 'm sorry ---but i have to---

But i felt those words, father!

as if hot air blown right into my lungs. now i must share it, bring judgment to those who need it. I ain't ever felt this way, father, like a hundred angels lifting me up.... better than holding my prick and whacking it dry.

I have a question, though, father.

y-y-y-yes?

why's God got to make it always damn messy? i have red all over my hands, father. see, i don't like red. I think i'm gonna have to learn how to carry out his will without so much of it.

and it smells, father.
oh yes, the blood.
damn bad, the smell.



SUNDAY CONFESSIONS.

L'OTTAVO DI UNO SBADIGLIO

back, bring me back



as a painter's brush frozen, dripping colours afraid of blank space

and the inevitable end.


as the glance of a hurrying man, almost at his destination

yet wishing to turn around.


as the gentle blowing of smoke, circles of sex

inside your mouth, tickling your throat,


as those words fighting to free themselves,

and be let loose into air, carrying with them regrets

and the shards of a secret promise.


and he laughed,

saying he had never heard

of anything so silly.



agosto.07

apen.

first birthdays and nostalgic tram rides

It was Teren's first birthday party and I went to the feast with my friends Jeiar (Filipino snowboarder, aiming to represent the Philippines in the Winter Olympics in 2010), and Sara Maestrello (an Italian photographer who's doing a kick-ass project on 'secondo generazioni' Italians , meaning children of immigrants).

I decided to stray away from the usual modes and combination of tricks that i do when taking pictures and this time, using the AV mode which i rarely use. The first few shots were so interesting that i decided to keep experimenting with it, how the light works for and against it, how the focus can become blurred and yet retain a certain 'photographic feel' about it. And so, I didn't realize it, but i went through the entire feast using the cool technique that i discovered.

I don't know. I kinda like it.

Oh, also the party.

For the complete gallery, you can click on this link, or at the same link in the galleries section in the sidebar.

festafilippine

the nostalgic tram rides come after.
out.
cris.

ELO'CIN. A GIFT FOR A FRIEND.

ELO’CIN
for.

Biting, you are another gale of the frosty eve come down to smite me,
You are a burning upon my naked skin,
A few hours of reprieve from the endless drown.


Jikan, you are another undressing of shame,
You are a burning upon my tired, so tired eyes
And the dying that is my existence from day to day.

Breathe, you are another hammer pounding on my chest,
You are a burning, burning the blood that traces my despair,
This daily torture, street vendors and children laughing in Kiyosumi

And I am this laughable ghost, another of Kiyosumi’s many secrets,
Burnt by my own blood that despaired at who I am,
Another breathe that escapes is another second to live.


And I am dragged underneath by the cruel hands of everyday,
Burnt by their eyes, seared by the lies turned truths turned lies
Another undressing and yet another and yet another and yet

For I am the hours that surged forth from my endless drowning,
Still burning, I stand firm and scream no more,
And I am, living.

HALF-LIFE capitolo 1 (for joshua,old friend)

There was fire.
It lived and breathed and ate everything in its path.
There was a loud thumping noise and a shadow. Lond-eared.
He was falling -
-
and-
falling,

He jolted, woken by an impossible fall and an even more impossible flight. A giant bunny in red tights had come to save him from the fires of hell.

No worries there, he thought, scratching his head. I was meant to burn, anyway.

Looking at the clock on his bedside table, he saw it still had twenty minutes before the alarm was supposed to wake him up.

I could have used twenty more minutes of sleep.
Or a month.
Yeah, give me a month.

He turned on his back, putting his left arm behind his head.

The afternoon sun gave off an alien-like orange, vibrant through the blue gauze curtains that hid him from the world. His bare skin glowed under its light, his white boxers almost yellow.

Outside seeped into the quiet room in a continuous grumble; overlapping orchestras of angry drivers trapped in the after-five traffic, young 'uns speaking incorrigible street lingo into insanely priced mobile phones, street vendors shouting their remaining, unsold goods, and the latest Pinoypop music blasting from jeepneys - the lyrics, melody and dance moves all capable of making him cringe as the vivid photos of the exposed internals of last night's slasher murder victim in the news.

Inside, however, was a settled kind of noise, a chaos that clung silently onto every ordered space, every meticulously thought-of arranging and re-arranging.

A mini-kitchen, blue plates, green tumblers, flea market silverware. Copper-framed snapshots scattered and hung. These jut out from the entire room like marbles in sand, each smiling couplet stranger than the next. A lemony-detergent-cigarette-hangover-leftover lunch-smelling bathroom. Vinyl-covered main table with three wooden chairs and a steel one.
Everywhere he looked, he saw layers upon layers.

There was passion, heaps of it now buried so deep it's a wonder one can sense it at all. A layer of blame. A layer of lies. A layer of regrets. A later of hate. A layer of forgiveness. And a thick, almost suffocating layer of silence.

They stayed there like dirt, they attached themselves so strong and stubborn even if one were to scrub at them from morn til night, a skin will remain. They are our unpaying tenants, coinhabitants of a world built by two people who have lived together too long that it seems neither one knows anymorewhat keeps them together still, aside from a blanket of comfort and an idealized and falsified sense of commitment.

This place has a life. We bred in it a breath of deep and steadily growing indifference.

Nowhere more so than in this very bed.

He looked at the sheets, crumpled and undone. They are white, blinding witnesses to the facade that we live, and spiteful reminders of where we are.

What am i doing? he asked himself, for what seemed to be the millionth time. The millionth, for today, at least. Everyday, every simple, freakin' day, I wake up to an empty, stifling hot room, wait until i have to go to work, work nocturnal hours for measly pay, and hours later, go home to a lover rushing off to workall our couple-y actions automatic and pressured, wait again until sleep comes, cycle after cycle, day after day.

Does any part of my life make sense? Is it even a life?

Have to call home, he reminded himself. It's Tuesday and i have to call home.

He sighed. I WILL call home. After all, it's Tuesday.

The alarm went off. Every inch, every corner of the apartment stopped and listened as it screeched and waited for the inevitable. They know the routine. They know what will happen. They await his bustle, his hurrying into his semi-conscious existence.

Instead he closed his eyes.

He did not sleep.

He did not stir.

He just laid there, heart beating and blood pumping.

Half-alive. Half-dead.
--

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

OUtside, a little boy hears an alarm beeping, the sound getting louder and louder, more insistent.
The boy wonders why no one turns it off.

written.

cris garing

(image by Anthony Gayton)

HALF-LIFE capitolo 2

Only connect.

Only.

Lines and traces and shadows and trails. Where do we end up amidst all these twists, these intertwining chains? Where do the beginnings take form and the endings end it all? Where does He find himself, in his daily torture of khaki and cotton, ties and leather belts, fake smiles and real smiles, and alien thoughts and more alien sentiments?

I hate it, he thinks. I hate this. And i hate even more that I can't get out of it.

Look at me, all dressed up and ready with my earphones and my spiels.

Good morning. Can I offer? ---- Let me get the supervisor who can better assist you ---- Thank you ! Have a great day! ---

I used to be anti-social, but with the skills to appear socially cultured when need dictated it. This is slowly beaten out of my system with this grating monotony of hello's and may I's.

The devil is feeding. He feeds, and feeds and he is hungry. more. everyday.

Two o' clock. Bitch. Struts into the common room like she's the ice princess or Madonna. Not the, but the 'papa, don't preach me' one. And she does act preach-needy, her and her slutty lips and slutty hips and slutty walk and slutty ankles.

Love the strap sandals, honey, but come near me and i'll trip you, watch you fall and sing a happy song.

She comes and every sperm cell in the room automatically swims in her direction, fighting for release. Let us out, Let us out.

Five o'clock. Supervisor watching. Careful, all i need is another probation. Better do good, make sales, close deals. Better, be better.

Ten o'clock. Beefcake. Does he have to sit there, looking like he does? Smelling as he does (in my mind, I can smell him, I love his smell)? I watch his muscles, I imagine how they'd wrap around me, push me back, play rough. And that tongue, thick and wet. I see it when he wets his lips after a call, I see it and I see him, lios on mine, smell on mine, taste on mine, him on me.

Buddy. Call time.

Shit. I hope the supervisor didn't catch me drooling. Wipe your mouth, asshole.

And the hours pass.

I go out, i smoke. The nightwind is blowing, dark velvet is the sky and there is laughter and there are voices. They are female, they are male, and everything in between, under and over and across and all around it. The human stain. God, bleach us all bare and naked, peel our skins and maybe, just maybe, we see better who we are, what we are.

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

That afternoon.

He on the bed, eyes closed. He let the alarm go on and on. It rang and it shrilled and it bore the marks of my life's disappointments. It rang, ten, twenty times.

Twentyfifth, he heard another noise. Keys. Door slamming. Bag thrown on sofa. Water drunk.

He kept his eyes closed.

You're awake, I know you are. Why not turn the damn thing off?

I don't want to.

You set the alarm, you turn it off.

You turned it off-

because i came.

It would have turned itself off anyway. It's not the end of the world.

silence.

Clothes are taken off. His smell brings back the smell of the outside world, just when he thought the dark and the space would keep all memory of it out.

Come here.

No.

He kisses my ears. He kisses them , knowing full well that i get worked up this way. Then his tongue It brushes. He bites, he knows. He knows. He kisses and kisses. The neck. Never strayin too close to lips, never too much.

It is kindling fire.

I said, No!. I said no, even as i felt my cock growing inside my white boxers.

His naked body came closer. He wrapped his right legs over my body, feeling my skin, feeling me hardening, tightening, giving in.

The boxers get taken off. He entered this time, he entered and he violated, he cursed and I cursed and nasty words, dirty words get thrown into the air, they cling to the walls like dust, thickening the layers and layers upon them. He straightened up and I took my cock and beat it, beat it hard and fast. I screamed for him to to do it harder , to fuck me you fucker give it to me do it fuck! And he screamed and we screamed and we both laid silent for an eternity. He fell on top of me, still inside of me. PArt of me wanted more. Part of me wanted him hard again and to keep on thrusting, his heavy hips hurting my skin, slapping my flesh burning and ripping. Instead he kissed and caressed. And cum, all over us, our bellies, our chests, our hands.

I asked. Please get off.

He did.

I stood up and took a bath. Half an hour later, I went out, leaving him atop the spoilt sheets, already asleep.

The hours pass.

It is all i know.

The passing of hours.

Something i read once.

It was either the wind or the spirit of the house itself, briefly unsettled by our nocturnal absence but too old to be surprised by the errands borne from the hap between what we can imagine and what we, in our hidden realities, in fact, create.

I still feel his smell. I still hear the ringing of the clock. I still taste the soup my sister-in-law made for me last time I went for a visit.

This is me. I accept it. I neither imagined nor created it.

I do my best. I live. I breathe.

There is a letter to be written. There is a story to be read. There is life to be hoped for.

There are no halflives. There is only the life that we live now, and we know it, it is ours. The life I will live, the life i hope to live. It will come. We just have to be ready for it when it does.

There are deals made, things accomplished. Work is done.

The bitch says hi when we pass each other going to the rest rooms. I say hi back. Once she's out of hearing range, I gagged. She's nice.

Bitch.

I sweat at the thought of seeing Beefcake tomorrow. He should wear his fit white shirt with the superman mark. His nipples show right through when caught by light.

A jeep ride. A walk. A fumbling of keys.

A sigh.

I unbutton my shirt strip it off work the zippers down my pants push it down take it off throw my socks on the floor the boxers stay water is cold I splash it on my face rub soap with hands lather massage it on face rinse rinse well turn on the stereo put on john mayer lower the volume put it on repeat mode the music will play on and on lie down reach for the alarm clock set it to five a.m. set the volume on high put it back on the bedside table fluff my pillow put left arm behind head close my eyes and be

still

written. there is peace to be had, in any form. cris garing.

( images are by Anthony Gayton : www.anthonygayton.com )

NOT TANGLED ENOUGH

so my chest
it was a field you rested upon
where you slumbered light and drifting,
you listened to the earth underneath
the rousing plates and the tremors,
dark, bitter chocolate and milk.


so my hands
they never left yours
and you brought them to your lips
like fragile glass,
held them like precious jewels,
dark, bitter chocolate and milk.


so my neck
you slowly explored,
a shadowed forest, hidden trails
leading to places we cannot yet go to
will you remember the way?
when it is time, the whispers will lead you back.
dark, bitter chocolate and milk.


so my back
you traced with your fingertips,
you made them glide like they skated on ice,
this cold curvature, this arched valley
heated with your soft touch.
dark, bitter chocolate and milk.


so my lips
they were your slaves
servants to your own, they followed your bidding
biting, nipping, softly drawing
me into you and you into me,
dark, bitter chocolate and milk.


so my thighs
you held them closer, pressed me harder
and i could feel everything that you are

but there's always this space

we cannot conquer
no matter how tight we coil ourselves
dark, bitter chocolate and milk.


so my heart
and your heart
our souls naked and our love revealed,
our words, thoughts and actions,
our bodies entwined,
yet not tangled enough.
no, not nearly enough.

dark, bitter chocolate and milk.


cris garing.