Teenage Dirtbag

Have you ever felt so close to movie characters, like they were your friends and you were there? Teenage Dirtbag's been on my mind since I watched it last Sunday. And though technically not perfect, what I love about it is the way it made me feel. It's real, touching, and at the same time very frustrating, that I need this outlet. It is one of those films that affected me hard and left me thinking...a lot.

To give you an idea, here's a synopsis from IMDB:

A popular high school girl (Amber) is harassed by a delinquent boy (Thayer Mangeress) until they are placed in creative writing class together. Through written words, they create a bond, but tragically a bond that cannot withstand her social pressures or his brutal home life.

There's that word--tragically--so don't be deceived because it's set in high school. Nevertheless, don't be discouraged to see it. This little indie film is the best story I will never get the chance to read, unless they release a copy of the screenplay. Seriously, I would really like to read what was on the girl's mind the whole time.

Then there was this scene when both students were going to the 'office'. Amber asked Thayer if the school authorities ever did anything to repeat offenders. The answer was no, they didn't do anything. Sad if that's what happens in real life. I was hoping the creative writing teacher would reach out, but we get nothing from him. It's a theme that runs throughout this work: reaching out.

The film was 'inspired' by true events and the director's experiences in high school. And from what I've read in the comments section in Youtube, Thayer's character was based on a Terry 'Bear' Mangeris.

One other thing that played with my imagination is the fact that Thayer, below

Scott Michael Foster (actor and singer) could totally play Gram Parsons.

looks like this man, Gram Parsons, one of my favorite musicians, another tragic figure. As a result, he's on repeat.

So all I'm actually saying here is that the movie is beautiful. You'd only have to go through what others have to say... 

A bit of poetry from the movie:

Mad, mad thoughts. 

Crazy, twisted, sinewy.

Mad obsession, you sicken me.

You're so beautiful, love.

I grind you into a fine, soft powder,

And inhale you,

And then lick you off of my fingers.

You love, answer me.

Your face brings me death every day,

And every day I can't wait to die.

Bury me now, love.

Bury me now.

Watch, love.

Live your life

This is a poem attributed to Chief Tecumseh of the Shawnee. It was read at the end of the Navy SEALs movie Act of Valor.

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart.
Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and
demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life,
beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.

Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a
friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all
people and grovel to none.

When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy
of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only
in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones
to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.

When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are
filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep
and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way.
Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.

As for the movie, I've always wondered while watching why the conversation scenes were bad, while the action scenes looked very, very authentic. It stars real Navy SEALs people!

Gary Cherone: Words & Music

I love it when rock stars go against the status quo.

Cherone

Eddie Vedder, lead singer of Pearl Jam and a personal favorite of mine because of his solo work, is a vocal pro-choice activist. He had this to say about abortion:

"I feel like I know every angle of this issue," said Eddie Vedder. "I know the adoption angle; I know what it's like to be fifteen and be in a situation and have to make a decision. Terminating pregnancy is not an easy thing." —Eddie Vedder, Rolling Stone 11/12/98 #799

I'm a fan of his music, but that's about it. And since I'm not very good with words, it is a great relief that another man of the rock world took a different stand. Gary Cherone, lead singer of the band Extreme of More Than Words fame, wrote two open letters to Vedder. This one below is a reply to Vedder's quote above:

What About the 98.6 Degree Angle?

Another Letter to Eddie Vedder

by Gary Cherone
 
The vast majority of people who support abortion
take that position with the firm conviction
that life does not begin at conception
That being said...

If one personally felt "terminating pregnancy is not an easy thing"
but was the right of the individual to make that "decision"

Is the life within the mother's womb a human person?

If the answer is no, it is not a human person
Why would one feel it "is not an easy thing" to do?

If the answer is yes, it is a human person
Why would one advocate "terminating" it?

If the answer is I don't know, if it is, or isn't a human person
How many more "decision(s)"
would one make in an uncertain "situation"?

If the unborn is not a human person
No justification for abortion is necessary
However...
If the unborn is a human person
No justification for abortion is adequate.

Nearly all arguments for abortion
are based on the faulty premise
that the unborn are not fully human.

Respectfully,
Gary Cherone
(1/22/2001)

 ***

The first open letter also in full below. I really like the way it's written, its rhythm and words, much like good music.

An Open Letter to Eddie Vedder

When is a woman not a woman?

Therein lies the only clear refutation of a woman’s rights.
A woman’s rights —
seems a mere tautology, a redundant catch phrase.
Are not rights self evident?
Intrinsic assumptions of the inalienable?
So, when is a woman not a woman,
a right not a right?

When she doesn’t exist.

When does a woman become a woman?

Is it when
her first ballot has been cast?
Or when
she graduates from her class?

Is it when
she makes a wish on her sweet sixteenth?
Would I be amiss if it were her first kiss?

Is it when
she’s diagnosed by the boy next door?
Or as ambiguous as the cutting of the cord?

Is it the time
it takes to travel the distance through the canal?
Or when
she’s kicking and becomes viable?

Is it when
her sex is discovered by a sonogram?
Or after eight weeks when
the changes in her body will be mainly in dimension?

Is it when
her brain waves are detected after 40 days?
Or is it around three weeks when
her primitive heart beats?

Can there be only one true line of demarcation?
One finite measurable point in time that differentiates
life from non-life?
Womanhood from non-womanhood?
Rights from no right?

Is it the moment of conception —
that point when all of the above is set in motion?
That precise moment when
"a separate human individual, with her own genetic code,
needing only food, water, and oxygen, comes into existence"?

Indeed,
It is at that point,
"like the infant, the child, the adolescent,
that the conceptus is a being who is becoming,
not a becoming striving toward being.

She is not a potential life,
she is a life with great potential".
She is not the mother,
she is an other —
a somebody other than the mother.

A woman,
however beautiful, however complex when fully grown,
begins life as a single cell, a zygote —
that stage in human development through which we all pass.
She fulfills "the four criteria necessary to all life —
metabolism, growth, reaction to stimuli, and reproduction.
Her genetic makeup is established at conception,
determining to a great extent
her own individual, physical characteristics":
her eyes, her hair, her skin color, bone structure, her gender.

So let us not be confused,
"she did not come from a zygote — she once was a zygote.
She did not come from an embryo, she once was an embryo.
She did not come from a fetus, she once was a fetus".
She did not come from a little girl — she once was a little girl.

When is a woman not a woman?
The answer is absolute, non-negotiable.
To argue against would be to ignore the innate,
the fact of the matter.
The answer can never be a matter of opinion or choice.
This is not a metaphysical contention.
This is biology 101.
The answer is scientifically self-evident —
as inherent as the inalienable.

Therefore,
the ability to pursue happiness
is contingent upon liberty —
her liberty,
and her freedom is solely dependent upon
the mother of all human rights...

the right of life.

Respectfully,
Gary Cherone
(June 1999)

***

All of this is a result of listening to Extreme's music for a whole week!

Credits to Libertarians for Life and Rock for Life.

Book Spine Poetry

A friend introduced me to book spine poetry (also here) last month. It sounded fun so I tried my hand at it. Here's two short poems from what small collection I had.

In my hands

Old books, rare friends

American gods, eternal enemies

The dark is rising

north and south

The light in the forest

scream nil by mouth

Now it's your turn.
A shout-out to Chi. Your Old books, rare friends featured hehe.

UPDATE:
Check out the posts of my Davao Reader's Circle friends, Aicha and Cham.

An Invitation

An Invitation

Every night I hear maudlin music played

from a distance, or maybe two steps back.

Its strings are like a wonderful array

of stars that the skies now lack.

It sings right in front of me, but far away

waiting at the end of a cul-de-sac.

It's you, if not me, 'cause I never was

the very voice I hear of a latent lass.

~ julienne m.

My poem An Invitation was published in 2007 by EditRed in their collection Scream. That time I used a pen name: Hayden C. Clear. Now that I look back, it's a bit corny. =D
The image above is a bad watercolor painting I made yesterday. Edited with GIMP. :)

W.B. Yeats - A Prayer For My Daughter

A Prayer For My Daughter

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack- and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet chose a bandy-leggèd smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those that are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty's very self, has charm made wise,
And many a poor man that has roved,
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnanimities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed.
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty's horn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellows full of angry wind?

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.

And may her bridegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.


~William Butler Yeats

Poetry and the horror of Twilight

One of my goals this year is to read more poetry. I still have a stack of books to read, most of them novels and being a slow reader, I don't think I can go through them any faster. Besides, I also want to write more and if I have any talent left for writing, all I can do is poetry. So earlier this month I purchased Adam Zagajewski's Eternal Enemies along with Octavio Paz's On Poets and Others in a second-hand book store. One of these was supposed to be a gift for a friend. Unfortunately, he has both books, also bought together from the same book store! He must really be hiding a big library...

So I ended up having both. Adam Zagajewski's poems are made especially for someone like me. What I really liked are their readability and imagery. I loved the ode to William Blake. Now I really want to read him, too.

Zagajewski usually writes about his trips; what he sees while on a train or when he's just observing. Even the smallest animal or movement gets recorded.

I was on my way home riding a jeepney when I remembered his poetry. I tried looking around for inspiration. An empty lot caught my attention, a pretty little sight. It was a gated spot with graffiti inside. But what made it more interesting was the grass-covered floor. It had yellow flowers allover. It was like peace within chaos. I started composing immediately, in my mind, but what began with some promise, turned out to be a joke of a poem.

The horror of Twilight

I wanted to write about a patch of land I saw
covered in tiny yellow blossoms an hour ago
and compare them to brilliant stars
on the ground in the daylight
but was scared it would remind too much
of Edward from Twilight.

~ Julienne

Who?

Thought I'd give a bit of poetry for today as I was inspired by the following verse from my friend, Nej. The second one I made last year.

Who determines who is rich and who is poor?
Who judges who is wise and who's a fool?
When a native man walks barefoot in a city;
and a foreigner dances in awe of a star-filled sky.

~ Nejhima Faye Gerasta

Home Boy

Who says rough hands bring in more of these heads?
What of a heart, one that stays long after I'm dead?
Look at me, mother. Pray! Don't doubt I am wise
Like the cunning of the white man's enterprise.

Not one push, not more, would bring me down
Though I only wear a single feather for a crown.

~ Julienne M. (nephithyrion)

I like that they both touch on the native-foreign/white man theme.

Poetry Night at Zabadani

We invite you to attend A Night of Poetry at Zabadani on January 30, 2010, 7:00 pm.
Let us not go gentle into that good night--listen, read, and sing songs of Peace and Justice.

Interested to perform, or questions regarding the activity? Contact Chi at 09087687121, or leave me a message, or comment on this post.

Go and rage, rage against the dying of the light. We'll see you there.


****
Zabadani Coffeeshop is located beside Toneworkz in Ponciano St., Davao City.
Check out Zab: http://zabadani.weebly.com

My Grandfather

He sits by the door
Broomstick in hand
To kill flies with.

He plays checkers
With ten-year-old me.
Both stare in awe
Of a surprising win.

My grandfather,

He quits the armed,
Keeps the tough
And the women.

He lays there wounded.
Seven bullet marks,
Spurned but dear,
Share his blood.

My grandfather,

He sits on the floor
Knees between hands
And tells the same story
With eyes wide
Looking beyond me.

Me,
Who copies his posture,
Who follows his flight.

---
To my grandfathers, may you all rest in peace.

LitOrgy Photos

The 3rd poetry night was a success! The show started with lights off... Poetry and the arts work well with Earth hour. Then there was an open mic, some music artists and a dance number.

Some of the performers that night:

Jad Montenegro

Arangkagana

the organizer, Chi

Pearl and Rose Dy

Kim Castillo

More photos here

3rd Poetry Night

(poster by Paminta & juju_goddess)

Come to the
come to the come
to

litOrgy

this March 28th
at the Durian Bar
8 pm – 10 pm

and shape
the metallurgy
of words and images

in the
Live Stage Performances
&
the
Open Mic

of Davao's
young poets,
fictionists,
animators,
painters,
filmmakers,
musicians, dancers and
performance artists.

Entrance fee: P50

Viewers each get a freebie.
Performers each get a token of appreciation.

This event is in association with the Young Davao Writers and the Davao Writers Guild.

Poetry Night 2

We're holding another Poetry Night at Matina Town Square this coming January 24 (Saturday). As before, it will be from 8PM to 9PM at Wings & Wedges. Whether you want to read or just listen, we'd like to see you there. Do come.

Original Post by Dom

Poetry Night at Matina Town Square

Poetry Night at Matina Town Square on November 22 (Saturday). The madness starts at 8PM. Presented by the Davao Writers Guild.

This is a repost. Source: Village Idiot Savant

I hope this turns out a success. It's high time we have something like this. Then maybe other creative groups will follow.

On Dying

Yesterday I watched P.S. I Love You.
I knew Gerry dies at the beginning of the movie.
When I turn on the TV, I see stories of people whose lives were taken by Frank.
My sister was admitted to the hospital two days ago.
Yesterday I visited her and I saw, well... it was everywhere...
I watched Untamed Heart again.
I knew the man with the baboon heart dies at the end of the movie.
His name was Adam.
My sister finally went back home.
She told me things about her neighbor at the hospital.
I remember her, she's beautiful.
My sister said she has tumor, two of them.
She's twenty-something, I think.
Her husband passed away. Her legs could not move.
Her two-year old child has asthma.
Several doctors visit her and all she could ask was, "Am I dying?"

Now what was I complaining about?

SCREAM is finally published!

My poem "An Invitation" was chosen to be part of this collection by Edit Red. Yay! I'm so happy it finally got published. However, you won't see my name in it because when I joined Edit Red, I used this corny little name so no one would know I wrote those things on that page. I'm not a good writer, you see. This is my Edit Red page.

I never intended to join the anthology. I didn't pass anything. But Jewels, the editor of Scream, included it nonetheless. As far as I could remember, she commented on that poem before she was appointed editor. So I guess she liked it and remembered it. Thank you Jewels! =)

Buy a copy of Scream here

"The general consensus in the world of publishing is that people don't want to read poetry any more. Publishers have canonized dead poets and then laid them to rest. Gravestones adorn the shelves of every mainstream bookshop. Meanwhile, the new poets, the new voices have been stifled, reduced to a muffled cry from beyond the catacombs. They are screaming to be unearthed. These poets scream in this anthology."

~ Jewels Johnson, editor

Red

I saw a robin redbreast
Lie hidden in his nest
Trying all his best
Not to be seen by the coming guest

I climbed up the tree
And saw a vast sea
Where the robin had to flee
To run away from me