Title: Kamikaze Leaves
Work Number: 3
Author: erik eleazar
Background: something whimsical and light. a stab at freeverse. :)( EnjoyCollapse )
For all those curious as to why I haven't touched this... well, my new stuff's up athttp://kyreii.blogspot.com
It's been a fun run here. :)
Wheeling and turning
Preening and cawing
Did the Raven as it wnet
On flights of fancy
Along it took me
To ride the currents fair
Alas this winged
Thing did sicken
And spiralled down in to stagnancy
Did this thing forget to fly?
Or did it just soar too high?
Sorrow, the dream must die.
Current Music: Lost in Hollywood by Systemofadown
Ang atenista ay parang babolgam.
Kung saan saan mo sila nakikita, hindi maiwasan na parang isang makapit na babolgam. Nakikita mo sila sa mga pinakadukhang lugar sa Pilipinas tulad ng pagtuturo sa mga pampublikong paaralan at pagtulong sa CSP. Nakikita mo rin sila sa mga party ng mga konyo na umiinom ng alak at sumasayaw sa musika o kaya'y nakaupo lang sa isang sulok habang may mga kausap na kaibigan. Nahahanap sila sa mga sosyal na mga malls tulad ng Rockwell at Greenbelt na nanonood ng mga pelikula at kumakain sa Yellow Cab na tila wala nang kinabukasang makikita pa para kumain ng masasarap na potahe. Makikita mo rin sila sa mga department stores tulad ng SM at Sta. Lucia na kasama ang kanilang mga pamilya sa pamimili ng mga kailangan sa bahay at hila hila ang mga kapatid nilang nakababata.
Para kaming babolgam, dumidikit sa kung saan saan, lalo na sa ilalim ng mga sapatos. Nahahanap mo kami sa mga bulsa ng iba't ibang mga tao, mahirap man o mayaman. Ewan ko lang talaga, pinalaki ako ng ganoon e...
Ewan ko ba talaga kung bakit 'the' Ateneo ang tawag sa eskwelahan namin. Para sa akin, medyo wierdo lang talagapag nawala yung 'the' e... Para sa iba, nandun daw iyon dahil kinundisyon na ang aming mga utak na tawagin ito na ganoon. Para bagang hype kung ikukumpara sa isang pelikula. Pinararating ata na masyadong mataas ang tingin namin sa sarili.
Marahil ay ganun nga. Mataas nga ang pagtingin namin sa aming mga sarili. Naging ganito kami dahil sa maraming bagay. Isa marahil sa pinakamalaking nakaapekto sa amin sa pag-iisip ng ganito ay dahil maraming biyayang ibinigay sa amin. Masyadong maraming itinuro sa amin sa loob ng paaralan. Masyadong maraming propaganda ukol sa kakayanan ng tao upang gumawa ng dakilang bagay ang isinalaksak sa aming mga kukote. Masasabing malaki ang aming tiwala sa kakayanan ng bawat indibidwal, lalo na sa aming mga sarili. Madalas ay naiisip ng ibang mga tao na yabang lang lahat ito. Kadalasa'y tama sila. Ngunit hindi maitatanggi ang katotohanan: malaki talaga ang kakayanan ng bawat tao.
Taasan natin ang pagtingin sa sarili. Isabay din natin ang pagtaas ng ating maaaring asahan mula sa sarili.
Maraming nagsasabing masyado daw akong malupit sa aking sarili. Ibinabasura ko raw ang aking mga tagumpay. Minamaliit ko raw ang aking mga abilidad. Ganito ang aking pag-iisip dahil, sa aking pananaw, kayang-kaya ko pa higitan ang aking mga kasalukuyang nagagawa kung ako'y magsumikap pa. Hindi naman sa pagyayabang, pero alam kong marami akong kayang gawin. natutuliro ang aking isipan dahil hindi ko pa maabot ang rurok ng aking kakayanan.
Hindi maaaring maging kampante.
Current Music: Coheed and Cambria's the Crowing
How soon is now?
How, the endless question of innards. The endless amalgam of everything has to be propelled by something in some worldly, measurable or qualitative way which gives us the desired results.By what means? In what way? To what extent or amount? In what condition? The manner of which things are done. how about? what do you feel about a certain thing? How do you do, endless seeker of answers now lost sunk, uncovered and forgotten as well as displayed in hidden sight? A full explanation of all things incorporated with living dying, ticking and all the hodgepodge minisculities of eternity which is our moment of existence convulse in an earth-rending epilepsy and throw us off its back like so many beady-eyed bloated gargantuan flies.
Soon, the answer will come o the seeker of all things unbidden and unhidden. In a short time of the not long after all the somatic somnambulists shall lie and wake, shattering the pillars of the society that has solidified from their incorporeal dreams of agony. We are everything they had hoped and feared we would be, a utopia in all its myopic glory. Willingly we give up our sophisms for the exruciating agony of the present, of the shuddering orgasm of the moment in which the climax is forever within a second's touch yet eternally remains unfulfilled. Soon is the edge, the brink before the sleep that follows dreams.
Is. To be. An island that remains unfulfilled for its fulmination remains to be, forever to be. It foregoes the moment to live for the future, the promise of what may come. Everything is postponed for the glory of tomorrow albiet today is in stagnancy. Is. To be the perfection found in tomorrow.
Now, the shuddering cataclysm that throws of everything in its path with the reckless abandon of a tiny fluttering butterfly hurricane. Forever it remains yet constantly changing, never has any human being known any time besides the immediateness of now. At the time which one is reading, living, speaking, dreaming, the span of everything you knew and will ever know. The same moment for Alexander the Great and someobscure poet living in the urban seascape of now. Immediately it senses a rift, this sentinent being of the moment grows uneasy with its role and flutters, spasms as the Requiem plays in its multi-faceted quarters, rebounding by it's own walls, it shudders in its throes and shatters its cage from the bindings of If. Now the beast is rampant, erratic and fluid-like.
HOWSOONISNOW? The echoing ruin of all the fast-paced netboys linking their servers up to the speedy interconned network of supercomputers forming a slipshod highway of dreams gilded by the promises of tomorrow. HOWSOONISNOW? As the heart beats sporadically by and by whenever lovers share their carresses with the living soul of the mass of mortality plaguing this earth. HOWSOONISNOW? Comes from the raspy throat of one in anguish, forever barred from society because of the deformed blobs of flaking dried lesions on his flesh. HOWSOONISNOW? The eternal wait of the worshippers of Chance, waiting eagerly for the chance to be one of the ostentatious people promised by the gilded superhighway built in a slipshod manner overloading mysensesthishasgottostop...
How soon is now? The moment has passed me by yet another steps up to take its place. This is my question, the question of one tired of waiting for life's promises to come true...
Current Music: epileptic derby
|» Portrait [story]|
The scent of fresh wood filled his nostrils as he sat down and began his work. Sharpening pencils has always been a ritual for him. Rituals are something we simply have to believe in because they connect us with something outside of ourselves. The scratching sound as the pencil is turned round and round, as well as the scent, helps get him in the mood.|
For most people, making portraits is just a matter of copying the subject matter in front of you, whether it be a small photograph or a live model. For most, it's just a matter of the juxtaposition of lines and shades meticulously copied inside a grid. For others, it is a representation of the subject. He does not view it so objectively.
What is a representation but a poor imitation foisted of on the weak-minded to serve as a substitute for the real thing? Every aspect of today's society is filled with cheap representations. Lawyers represent the oppressors and the oppressed. Statesmen represent their districts. Logos represent their respective products. Representations run rampant in today's society because people no longer have the courage to stand up and show themselves. We keep ourselves huddled, necks bent and faces cast downward, so as to avoid scrutiny.
He finds it sad that people can no longer be proud of their own identity. The fear of scrutiny drives many to their own defeat. The heightening of the standard of perfection has driven many to hate themselves. Opening their eyes they see flesh stretched taut over defined muscles, oiled demi-gods basking in the rays of the sun and fair complexion unattainable for the ordinary. In failing to live up to this new standard, they curse their ordinary beauty. The old byline: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder rarely applies anymore for the eye of the beholder has been monogamized by globalization.
Portraits bring out inner beauty. It captures the inner essence of a person and makes it manifest. The character of a person must jump out at the viewer, holding him captive and saying: This is who I am. It cannot be a representation for a representation lacks soul.
He applies the graphite to the textured paper, making a solid foundation of all the shadows and shapes of the face. A solid foundation helps in assigning the tones to be used later in the drawing. It can be adjusted by the use of an eraser or more graphite, depending on the situation. A good, loose foundation helps a person determine where he wants to go with his work. It must be loose lest you make a mistake and find it irreversible. Adaptation after all, is the law of life.
He then looks for that certain spark in the person, something that would give him an idea of who she is and how she carries herself. This is one of the most important steps in crafting the work. If he fails in this, all he will come up with is a cold chiaroscuro of her, nothing more. A photograph would've been better since it makes no mistakes. It takes time to properly understand a person's heart. An old man trying to read directions in the middle of a raging snowstorm would have more luck than a person hurrying his expedition into another person's identity.
After placing all the correct characteristics, he breathes life into the portrait, putting in all the little details that make the distinction between merely good and magnificent. He muses for a while, feeling philosophical. Aren't the little things all we really want to live for? Aren't they the same things we hold dear to ourselves?
He stares intently at his work, focused on getting the eyes right. If the eyes are the windows to a person's soul, then shouldn't her portrait capture the same vividness or dullness of her eyes? Sparkling it is, with a dash of flightiness and a generous amount of optimism. He was captivated, objective observer he might be, by her eyes which exuded an intoxicating beauty and a glint promising adventure. Headiness engulfed him, and a gushing aroma of honeysuckle invaded his being.
He took a brief respite, to get away. He needed to get himself under control.
He resumed by giving body to her lips. A slight film of saliva caught his eye and he struggled to continue. His mind wandering, he imagined the smell of honeysuckle came from her open lips. Honeysuckle with a touch of milk. Unconsciously, he drew a deep breath, hoping to gather in the smell through his own lips. Try as he might, he couldn't deny the effect she was having on him.
In all his days of capturing the embodiments of clients, he had never found one which had so affected him like she did. There were the occasional infatuations he developed with his clients, but none had the overpowering character of this woman before him.
Reluctantly, he finished his work. With its completion ended the free reign his eyes had on her face. He kept his eyes locked, and oh how locked they had become, to her eyes alone. He dusted off the paper and handed it to her, unconsciously gripping it with his hand.
For one last time, he breathed her heady aroma and closed the door as she left his office.
He closed the blinds and the yellow light in his office and locked himself in. He held his head in his hands, placing his elbows on his thighs. He stayed like this, savouring the lingering traces of her until all were gone and he was ready to open again.
|» Oak Chest of Lost Toys|
Oak Chest of Lost Toys|
* * *
Sometimes it so refreshing to be able to reconnect with something you have experienced in the past. I found some of my old writings and I've decided to post them up. I haven't edited any of them because I have undergone changes and these have affected the way I think.
* * *
Turning over the cards of fate,
The Queen of Hearts appears to me.
Out of reach.
In too deep.
Woe for me.
Again I reach and shuffle quick
Hoping my Queen comes closer to me.
* * *
Key in Tree
Farewell to the sky
and to all that glimmered in front mine eyes.
For everything has lost its lustre
Of your company I sought,
For another holds the key to your garden.
* * *
This pulsing piston within my chest
Beats sporadically by and by
Whenever I am behest,
Locked, by your incandescent eyes.
As you pass I catch a whiff
of a scent so fresh and so free.
Exhaling seems such a sin,
A waste of your heavenly breeze.
I closs my eyes, one-two-three.
Next I saw you, there you go,
Away from me.
* * *
Cold metal pincers clamp your head,
Cracking your skull, wrenching you free.
A silent scream echoes throughout the sac.
As the babe convulses and shudders,
As undeveloped sinews are wrenched apart,
As limbs are torn from their sockets,
As the heart throbs furiously before bursting,
The babe is yanked from the protectorate womb.
And in a naseating concoction of pain and gore
The product of love will never know love.
* * *
Lunar Sattelite remix
Slowly I pull the sheets
twisting and turning,
struggling for sanity.
Covered by winter's hue,
clutching and crying,
break my Entropy.
Be my guiding light,
my lunar satelite.
* * *
Mouth for an eye
the windows to my soul,
express hurt, weakness, sorrow.
Yet my smile,
worthless, meaningless, shallow,
* * *
Would a picture,
no matter how perfect,
or a poem,
ever so fluent,
capture the brilliance
of a memory
by the heart?
* * *
If your heart would be broken by another,
come to me and I'll
pick it up,
tape it so,
and give it back to you.
But if ever your heart would be broken by me,
and with nary a tear
I'll pluck mine out
hand it to thee
and whisper in your ear.
* * *
Looking back, I always wrote about love or something really 'emo'-ish that's related to love. I'm a lovesick fool. :p I just hope there are more of us.
Misery loves company.
In hopes unsung do I recall,|
In silver streets, in the fall,
The grace of forever is never there
For humans die and then...
Tension high strung and endless.
(for this world's never easy)
Vertebrae snap, cartilage break.
(and it will follow you down)
Lights dim and flicker.
(down to the void)
Dialogues of tomorrow spoken
In an unending flux of speech
Come from the mouth of the baby
Born and bred to bleed this world dry.
Open mouth, auburn sky,
fire-drunken trees line our pathways
mouth seams, heavens turn
white as skin
and the cold
(which comes like a lover in the night)
presses against me
'til Haruko comes.
Twenty-foot high monstrosities|
mar the heavens of our cities.
Consumerism is our religion
an opiate for our delirious
wherein we justify what is
or what is not
with words, letters,
defined by more letters
which had no meaning
Until we made it so.
Beholding the monstrosity
for your face
(of which I have drawn
my tedious existence)
is the medium.
|» The Night of Broken Glass|
The man came home from work that day weary. He had slept on the bus on the way home and was forced to walk seven blocks from the bus station to his apartment in the city. As fortune would have it, rain poured heavily on the city, cleansing it of dirt and grime it had accumulated over the years. He used his body bag to shield himself from the rain but it had little effect since the winds blew the large droplets in all directions, drenching the man’s clothes, chilling his bones.|
The man reached the building of his apartment, a tiny structure dwarfed by the other grander apartment buildings beside it. It looked to be almost fifty years old, a relic of the past which still remained of some service to the people of today. It was once an impressive place. Imitation chandeliers once hung on its ceilings; a doorman held the door open for occupants and the carpet was actually cleaned once in a while. It was majestic in its youth, as all things are.
He wiped his shoes on the doormat and went to the elevator. Tiny drops of water fell from his body and splashed on the tiled floor creating puddles which reflected the peeling paint of the building. The paint, which had been white at some point, was now tinged with yellow, like the pages of a book that had been read and was now forgotten.
He pressed the up button with his knuckles and waited for the elevator car. While waiting, he noticed that the lobby was deserted. During Fridays, it would have been full of life, full of people going to parties, dates, movies, or coming back from said activities and going up to their respective apartments. Not today though, it would still be one more day before this lobby would be filled with such life again. He leaned against the metallic surface of the elevator and closed his eyes and sighed.
He opened one eye and saw his reflection on the surface of the metallic surface. Why were all elevator doors made of metal? Couldn’t they be at least paneled with wood to appear more homely instead of looking intimidating with their shiny chrome surface? Ah well, such questions were for industrial designers to ponder upon, not for lowly salesmen like him.
He was a salesman. He peddled cheap junk like souvenirs, memorabilia and other objects that made the buyer feel as if they led very interesting lives and had wonderful experiences. He was a peddler of false memories that could be encapsulated in little Eiffel towers made of wood, Alamo forts that could be deconstructed, Statue of Liberties, Tokyo towers that lighted up at the touch of a button along with other things.
After what seemed like hours, the elevator chimed. It was barely audible over the hammering of the rain. He went in and pressed his floor with his knuckle. After the elevator arrived at the floor, he got off. He glimpsed himself in the murky surface of a vase that adorned the spartan corridors of the building. He wondered what he looked like, drenched with rain and weary with walking. Well, he’d have a proper look at himself in his own mirror wouldn’t he?
He took out the key ring in his pockets, picked the twelfth, and used it to open the door. When the lights came on, he saw that his apartment was littered with broken glass, shards from his antique mirror. Drawers had been yanked out of their cabinet; cloth had been ripped and littered around the room like so much confetti. His desktop, over which he had scrimped and saved for was gone. Hurriedly, he checked under the cabinet, grasping for the bundle of cash he had hidden in case of emergencies. It was missing. His dreams would never be fulfilled now. In despair, he turned to his mirror.
Something in him broke; a resonating sound that rippled through his being. Like a man possessed, he picked up the pieces of his mirror. He began to grab them gingerly at first, and then in bundles, finally in fistfuls until his palms bled from handling all the pieces. When he picked up a particularly large piece, his thoughts went back to his childhood. He didn’t know why and he wouldn’t be able to tell you if you asked, suddenly, the shard WAS his childhood.
He remembered the times he cowered in the dark, waiting for all the screaming to stop. The nightmare of knowing that you were conceived in a flaring of lust, not in love inebriated his being into madness again. No matter how much he shouted that he would be good, that he would follow what they wanted, the screaming never stopped, it never did. It had ended with a burst of red. The rain screamed louder, hitting the windows again and again.
He choked back a sob as he continued his task. He remembered when he first learned to write. He had been amazed that he could, by ingenious application of words, create visions of his own, dreamlike and perfect. From that day onwards, he had dreamed that he would make a world, his own private wonderland, where he could create objects of beauty; where all life bloomed and danced their intricate patterns; where pain was kept at bay by the opiate of a false world. He had wanted to create a false utopia that would act as his sanctuary.
He had, at first, concocted a child-like palace where all of humanity’s wishes were fulfilled. A place where beauty pageant answers became reality, hunger, disease and murder were gone. In their stead were beauty, harmony and peace. However, the people in his world soon grew stagnant, contented in their world of perfection, that it began to consume them. They became bloated beings, their muscles atrophying due to lack of use, their minds becoming dysfunctional due to lack of exercise. It did not take long until they died of contentment.
His second and final attempt was to create a perfect hideaway for himself. It had everything he wanted. In it, he was God, commanding anyone he so desired, letting this euphoria of a world consume his senses, blinding and numbing him to the world, making him feel as if the world was perfection incarnate. It failed because it started.
His words were never enough to blunt the daily visions that assaulted his eyes. The world was ugly, polluted with lies greater than the ones he could build around himself; lies that soon became common truth, truth which soon began to cage him.
His tears flowed freely now. He once wanted to save the world, to be like a superhero, to fly like the wind and rescue people from their suffering; to be able to stop hunger; to stop injustice. He wanted people to love him and look up to him, and he wanted to love them and help them. He wanted to inspire others to greater heights, to allow them to transcend the pain, to give them dreams of hope that could be turned into reality. That dream lasted until he learned that nobody actually gave a shit about anybody else, and that one man could never stand against the world. The rain now fell in sheets, a never-ending waterfall of nature’s fury and ugly truth.
His whole body was now shaking while his hands bled plasma. The memories came too fast to catch now, manifesting themselves as mere bursts of emotion, indescribable by words and incommunicable any images or symbols known to man. He wept without reason, wept without hope, wept without reason, wept in desire, wept without reason and wept without end and the rain wept alongside him hammering at this dirty world stained with humanity’s works. He screamed until his throat burned and itched like a lesion. He gloried as a man drunk with fire yet ice ran through his arteries and veins.
Inexplicably, it was over. With a shaking hand, he glued all the pieces of the mirror to the frame. It was slow work and he cut himself again many times, reopening his wounds. Before the pieces could set, he ran his palms over it, smoothing the surface while leaving bloody, gory handprints. In the end, he had done it. The mirror had been made whole again, but it would never be remade as it once was.
He looked into it and saw himself. He saw a thousand and more images of himself, one present on each shard. He saw his hands caked with dried blood, crusting and cracking in places. He saw his fingers and wrists filled with cuts fresh and old. The rain in his clothes had long dried only to be replaced by sweat, blood and tears. His whole body was shaking from pneumonia or sorrow or both. His eyes were bloodshot and raw. His hair was matted with sweat. A broken, filthy man faced the filthy broken mirror.
Finally, he flung himself head-first into the reconstructed mirror. He could acutely feel the small points that pierced his scalp, ending the agony within. The mirror did not break into smaller pieces. Instead, the man’s blood filled the channels between the pieces, turning the mirror into a gory spider web.
It would be weeks before somebody discovered his rotting body. It wasn’t that the neighbors were particularly curious over the salesman’s disappearance. It was just that a nauseating insistent smell had begun to bother them.
Mirrors are broken everyday.