02.28.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 3:54 am by Miracle ♪♫
“Readers are
much odder tribes than writers. They are much more fretful and
egotistic.
The vainest of writers will often pause and ponder whether
he knows anything about writing. No such humble moments afflict a
reader. The reader knows everything - that is, about writing. A reader
is a critic with a very fine and important job - to please himself. It
is, however, his job, not mine.” ~Ben Hecht~
Bullseye much?
The Collected Stories of Ben Hecht. This fifty-peso hardbound book has been slumbering on my shelf for
several years already and somehow I had forgotten about it. Noticing
Ben Hecht’s name on my birthday book today caused me to take another
look at the pale blue cover with the author’s signature in gold. Of
course, that action led to another and before I knew it, I was immersed
in his truthful fictions. I wonder why I neglected this before.
Ben Hecht (February 28, 1894 New York – April 18, 1964 New York), was a
Broadway playwright and prolific Hollywood screenwriter, even though he
professed disdain for the motion picture industry. He was nominated six
times for the Academy Award, winning twice, in 1929 and in 1936.
Hmm… would he have joined the strike? hehe =)
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02.26.08
Posted in 2008 Potpourri at 5:07 am by Miracle ♪♫
A few hours ago, a Filipina viewed a live coverage
of a Jewish-American conducting an American orchestra as they performed
works by German, American, and Czech composers for a Korean audience.
In
other words, I recently watched CNN’s live broadcasting of the New York
Philharmonic orchestra as they consummated Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9 –
The New World Symphony, pieces of Brahms, Wagner, Bernstein, and
Gershwin at Pyongyang despite tense relations between the United States and North Korea. Lorin Maazel conducted the historic and monumental concert and they were rewarded with a very warm standing ovation. I was sincerely amazed by what I had witnessed – by what music can accomplish!
As scenes of the orchestra streaked across the television screen, I was reminded of our own beloved PPP. What
I miss most about playing with the orchestra is that venerable “A” we
all tune in to and play together before anything else. That very same “A” that builds up my adrenaline, the “A” that binds us. Without that “A,” we all lose it, there cannot be a performance.
If
the nations of the world were different sections of the orchestra, I
can verily say that the world is out of tune! Isn’t it time we looked
up to our Conductor? He has been signaling for the “A” for quite a while now.
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02.20.08
Posted in 2008 Potpourri at 7:39 am by Miracle ♪♫
The latter rain weatherbound my already limited
outdoor activities, which in turn left me spare time for
answering those silly personality quizzes on the internet.
One
amusing thing about these self-imposed interrogations is the certainty
that no matter who you are, dumb or dumber, smart or smarter, they
always come up with flattering facts about yourself. Kinda
like the courteous acquaintance one foolish person is prone to call a
bestfriend because he only says the good about you, and you go on
craving to believe that you are that man’s reflection. Naturally,
those who dare to tell you the ugly truths about yourself become the
enemy, and naturally, there is no such internet quiz that exists.
One
of the results I encountered that did not flatter much, was a line
stating that with the kind of personality I have, I should be living in
Europe. Well, didn’t I always know that? Haha =P The other one remarked that I was the sort of woman who should be working for a world organization. Hmmm… U.N. here I come! =P
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Early this morning, I dragged a groggy Misha out of bed into the rain.
There
we laughed, there we held hands and danced, there we ran around, there
we jumped on puddles, there I became a little girl again, there I said
to myself, “Europe can wait, Greece, Russia, Austria, and Italy can
wait, the rest of the world can wait, I’m needed here,” and there I
turned my face to the heavens as everything else bled into a
watercolour painting and only Misha and I and the leaves and Love were
alive…
but for a moment,
I did wish you were there – alive with us…
holding my other hand.
=)
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02.17.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers at 9:44 pm by Miracle ♪♫
I have an Ohrwurm, and it is The Singer himself.
It was not the cover pictured on the right that attracted me
to this book, nor was it the musicality of the title, and it was more of a
God-given moira rather than luck that led me to redeem it from its dusty pile
at SM Cebu’s Book Sale.
Poet and painter Calvin Miller authors this nonpareil epic
poem in such a beautiful tenor that one can affirm that it is not a common
masterpiece although its narrative has been compared with those in the
tradition of C.S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien.
What I have on my shelf is only a third of a trilogy which consists of The Singer, The Song, and The Finale. The
Singer is based on the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, and The Song is rooted on the book of Acts,
and The Finale is an artistic
paraphrasing of the book of Revelations. Do
let me know if any of you should come across the remaining two-thirds of the
trilogy.
The Singer tells the story of Earthmaker,
his son, The Troubadour, and
the enemy of mankind, World-Hater. My effort to describe or review this
work would certainly be inadequate, the least I can do is impart these
lines.
For most who live,
Hell is never knowing
Who they are.
The Singer knew
And knowing was his
torment.
When he awoke, the song was there…
In rhapsody it played among the stars.
It rippled through Andromeda
And deepened Vega’s hues.
It swirled in heavy strains
From galaxy to galaxy and gave him back his very
fingerprint.
Only the stars and mountains knew it. But they were old. And man was new, and chained to simple,
useless rhymes; thus he could not understand the majesty that settled down upon
him.
But daily now it played upon his heart and swept his soul,
until the joy exploded his awareness – crying near the edge of sanity, “Sing… sing… SING!”
Two artists met one
time within a little wood. Each brought
his finest painting stroked by his complete Uniqueness. When each revealed his canvas to the other –
they were identical.
So once in every
solar system there are two fingerprints alike.But only once.
Before the song all
music came like muted, empty octaves begging a composer’s pen. The notes cried silently for paper staves and
kept their sound in theory only.
Oftentimes Love is so
poorly packaged that when we have sold everything to buy it, we cry in finding
all our substance gone and nothing in the tinsel and the ribbon.
He met a woman in the street.
She leaned against an open door and sang through her
half-parted lips a song that he could barely hear. He knew her friendship was for hire. She was without a doubt a study in
desire. Her hair fell free around her
shoulders. And intrigue played upon her
lips.
“Are you betrothed?” she asked.
“No, only loved,” he answered.
“And do you pay for love?”
“No, but I owe it everything.”
The singer touched her shoulder and told her of the joy that
lay ahead if she could learn the music he had sung.
He left her in the street and walked away,
And as he left he heard her singing his new song. And when he turned to wave the final time he
saw her shaking her head to a friendship buyer. She would not take his money.
And from his little distance,
The Singer heard her use his very words.
“Are you betrothed?” the buyer asked her.
“No, only loved,” she answered.
“And do you pay for love?”
“No, but I owe it everything.”
In hell there is no
music – an agonizing night that never ends as songless as a shattered violin.
To God obscenity is
not uncovered flesh. It is exposed
intention. Nakedness is just a state of
heart. Was Adam any more unclothed when
he discovered shame? Yes.
“What would you like
to be when you grow up, little girl?”
“Alive.”
Every constellation
is but a gathering of distant suns. It
is mere perspective that makes Betelgeuse a star. Seen close enough she is a
raging fire. A sphere of flaming
hydrogen, if it be nearer, will dominate the sky and blot out all the lesser
lights. And such a fire will say again,
“Earthmaker has a living Son.”
Like autumn leaves triumph swirled upward into the sky. The song came on forever.
And distant quasars hurrying in space marveled that the
dull and joyless world had finally come of age.
Thus Terra joined the universe who knew the song so long
before, when the parent stars themselves were tracked by wounded feet. And for a thousand years the music never
ceased. It ricocheted through the
canyons and hung in promise over all of Terra’s seas.
And those who know the Ancient Star Song watch with singing
for the sign of footprints in the galaxies through which the little planet
rides in routine cycles of despair.
But joy seldom sleeps for long. And someday in a lonely moment mankind will shake an
unfamiliar hand and find it wounded.
“In the beginning was the song of love,”
he sang.
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02.16.08
Posted in Jest for Pun at 11:29 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Eloise shared the puzzle this morning,
and I guarantee you a wonderful time solving it. Thank you, Eloise! ^_^
Einstein’s Puzzle
Facts:
- There are five houses of different colors.
- In each house lives a person of different nationality.
- No two owners play the same game, drink the same beverage or smoke the same cigar.
- The British lives in a red house.
- The Swede plays scrabble.
- The Dane drinks tea.
- The green house is immediately left of the white house.
- The owner of the green house drinks coffee.
- The person who smokes Pall Mall plays dominoes.
- The owner of the yellow house smokes Dunhill.
- The man living in the center house drinks milk.
- The Norwegian lives in the first house to the left.
- The man who smokes Blend lives next to the man that plays Checkers.
- The man who plays Bridge lives next to the man who smokes Dunhill.
- The owner who smokes Blue Master drinks beer.
- The German smokes Prince.
- The Norwegian lives next to the blue house.
- The man who smokes Blend has a neighbor who drinks water.
WHO PLAYS CHESS?
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02.14.08
Posted in 2008 Potpourri at 11:41 pm by Miracle ♪♫
My fascination for flowers appears to have been
present for as long as I can remember, and this allurement was
reinforced when my family and I lived in a rural, or rather, pristine
setting for several years during my childhood.
The
place seemed enchanted and one of my fondest memories was getting
“lost” under giant trees and wandering off farther than the boundaries
my parents were comfortable with. Aside from
standing still to let a snake pass me “unnoticed” and allowing him to
demonstrate his sense of humour by slithering its way over my foot,
there was also something else in those excursions that I looked forward
to… and because I was only a child, the seemingly tall-tales of my
expeditions were too incredible for adult ears that sometimes it was
better to withhold tales of my secret adventures. It was more exciting in that manner anyway.
One of the outlandish stories was about the giant flower. I
was a little girl so I could claim that the single flower that
magically sprung annually at the feet of the tall trees was this big; *stretches arms wide* The mysterious thing about it was that when I came back for it the next day, it was nowhere to be seen. Maybe
it withered like those short-lived midnight flowers, or perhaps I
wandered in the wrong direction, but I only saw it for only a day, once
a year.
Circa twenty years later, I read about the Rafflesia and searched for photos… when eureka! The
flowers in the photos had the same burgundy and velvety petals that
were enormous enough to only exist in fairy tale forests.
Why all of a sudden I recall this account? Valentine’s Day. Its
huge petals of deceiving vivid colours that attract so many but when
you come very close to it, it has this stench of pagan origin, that
superficially beautiful as it is, it is not worthy of symbolizing Love. No, not even this close… *presses
thumb and pointer together tightly* …and like the flowers we receive on
Valentine’s Day, we cannot preserve or prolong their blooming forever
as much as we want to. The next day will be just
another wilting day, and what’s left of it will be but a mere memory…
and perhaps a few browning petals preserved in a book. *sigh* Love… we can do better than carelessly commemorate or confine it for only a day, once a year.
From Wikipedia:
Rafflesia
is a genus of parasitic flowering plants. It was discovered in the
Indonesian rain forest by an Indonesian guide working for Dr. Joseph
Arnold in 1818, and named after Sir Thomas Stamford Raffles, the leader
of the expedition. It contains approximately 26 species (including four
incompletely characterized species as recognized by Meijer 1997), all
found in southeastern Asia, on the Malay Peninsula, Borneo, Sumatra and
Kalimantan, West Malaysia, and the Philippines. The plant has no stems,
leaves or true roots. It is an endoparasite of vines in the genus
Tetrastigma (Vitaceae), spreading its root-like haustoriaflower. In
some species, such as Rafflesia arnoldii, the flower may be over 100 cm
in diameter, and weigh up to 10 kg. Even the smallest species, R.
manillana, has 20 cm diameter flowers. The flowers look and smell like
rotting meat, hence its local names which translate to “corpse flower”
or “meat flower” (but see below). The vile smell that the flower gives
off attracts insects such as carrion flies, which transport pollen from
male to female flowers. Little is known about seed dispersal, however,
tree shrews and other forest mammals apparently eat the fruits and
disperse the seeds. Rafflesia is an official state flower of Sabah in
Malaysia, as well as for the Surat Thani Province, Thailand. inside the
tissue of the vine. The only part of the plant that can be seen outside
the host vine is the five-petaled flower. In some species, such as
Rafflesia arnoldii, the flower may be over 100 cm in diameter, and
weigh up to 10 kg. Even the smallest species, R. manillana, has 20 cm
diameter flowers. The flowers look and smell like rotting meat, hence
its local names which translate to “corpse flower” or “meat flower”
(but see below). The vile smell that the flower gives off attracts
insects such as carrion flies, which transport pollen from male to
female flowers. Little is known about seed dispersal, however, tree
shrews and other forest mammals apparently eat the fruits and disperse
the seeds. Rafflesia is an official state flower of Sabah in Malaysia,
as well as for the Surat Thani Province, Thailand.
The
name “corpse flower” applied to Rafflesia is confusing because this
common name also refers to the Titan Arum (Amorphophallus titanum) of
the family Araceae. Moreover, because Amorphophallus has the world’s
largest unbranched inflorescence, it is sometimes mistakenly credited
as having the world’s largest flower. Both Rafflesia and Amorphophallus
are flowering plants, but they are still distantly related. Rafflesia
arnoldii has the largest single flower of any flowering plant, at least
when one judges this by weight. Amorphophallus titanum has the largest
unbranched inflorescence, while the Talipot palm (Corypha
umbraculifera) forms the largest branched inflorescence, containing
thousands of flowers; this plant is monocarpic, meaning that
individuals die after flowering.
Philippine Species:
Since
2002 there has been a tremendous amount of activity by Filipino
scientists who have discovered and named several new species of
Rafflesia. Before this time there were two species known: R. manillana
and R. schadenbergiana, the latter of which was last seen in 1882 on
Mt. Apo in Davao Province on Mindanao Island, but was thought to be
extinct.
“What’s new?”
When confronted with this question from someone who I
was romantically linked with a decade ago as remnant red hues of
Valentine’s faded yesterday, I was tempted to say “nothing much.” But that would have been lying. So I answered, “there’s
always something new and changing about me, but there’s also a little
girl inside that’s constant…” and when he sighed in relief because it
was the little girl he fell in love with in the first place, I smiled.
The
conversation did not mean that I ended up with someone overnight, for I
believe we are in love with different people now, but it is a nice
reminder that in my core, there’s an unchanging little girl, and no
matter how much I try new things or struggle to “improve” as an adult,
musically, mentally, or emotionally, the innocent little girl is
capable of being loved without all the perks of being a “woman”.
After
all, isn’t it the heart and faith of a little child that God looks for
in us?
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02.12.08
Posted in Uncategorized at 4:28 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Send me flowers,
Wild, dainty lavenders,
the kind I press inside the pages I read –
les fleurs d’un livre, peach or blue roses,
Die blaue Blume – never red,
lest I deem you to have lost all imagination
and have become too trite.
Send me sweets,
They ought not to be expensive Godivas,
truffles, or coffee treats,
lest I scorn you for squandering good book-money.
Send me books,
Those from your own shelf and slightly tattered,
lest I question their value and readability.
Send me music,
lest I accuse you of being a stranger.
…and better yet, do not Send them,
Bring yourself instead,
but not on Valentines Day,
lest I think you were merely obliged to.
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02.08.08
Posted in Life Betwixt Book Covers, Uncategorized at 3:32 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Now the colored pencils in more detail.
The green one, by a mere whirl of the wrist, could be made to produce a ruffled tree, or the chimney smoke of a house where spinach was cooking. The blue one drew a simple line across the page - and the horizon of all seas was there. A nondescript blunt one kept getting into one’s way. The brown one was always broken, and so was the red, but sometimes, just after it had snapped, one could still make it serve by holding it so that the loose tip was propped, none too securely, by a jutting splinter. The little purple fellow, a special favorite of mine, had got worn down so short as to become scarcely manageable. The white one alone, that lanky albino among pencils, kept its original length, or at least did so until I discovered that, far from being a fraud leaving no mark on the page, it was the ideal tool since I could imagine whatever I wished while I scrawled.
~Mademoiselle O, Vladimir Nabokov~
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02.07.08
Posted in 2008 Potpourri at 6:06 pm by Miracle ♪♫
(Variation on a theme by Nabokov)
Partita, plight of my life, fire of my joints.
My fin, my goal. Par-tee-ta: the tip of my tongue taking a trip of three steps, down the palette to tap, at three, on the ivory.
Par. Tee. Ta.
Reviewing an old Bach Partita +
Coffee +
Obsessing about Russians too much = This.
Haha =P
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02.05.08
Posted in Uncategorized at 11:54 pm by Miracle ♪♫
Forbearing spouse of a humdrum marriage,
in your dark corner you wait – as you have,
as you shall, to the last syllable of my life.
Keeper of secrets,
you know my deepest thoughts,
my basest and my best.
Recipient of my constant garbage,
how much does it ache
when I throw love letters at you,
but not for you?
You gobble my scribbles,
my consonants and vowels
no matter how caustic,
sweet, sour, or unripe.
When I notice you’re full,
I force you to vomit –
and without a sound,
otherwise I would defrock you to the same value as the scraps you digest.
Silent, waiting in the dark,
you teach me patience.
You understand your place in this harsh world… and your drudgery is not in vain,
for cruel as I am to you,
I appreciate the fact that you exist.
Take this.
Consume it.
This time, it is for you… at last.
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Posted in Uncategorized at 2:27 am by Miracle ♪♫
In leaning penmanship,
written at separate times,
for angels alike yet different,
from the drawer of letters meant to be unsent.
I.
To you who feels that dark is not so black, you must have known me believing that my lamenting was a lullaby for both of us. It brought us together, and I thank you for not abandoning me… but I have ceased sobbing, and no lullaby remains. How then shall we sleep? We had red, but reluctant as I am to forsake that, we are aware that other colours exist for us… and in the same way, we exist for other colours.
II.
To you, now demisemihusband of another.
I recently read you in a novel. The Art Lover described you as cerebral, exacting, lively, passionate… you were critical, cold at times, a little monstrous. Melancholy only on occasion. Intelligent. Your eyes traversed great distances of time and space. You had a genuine appreciation for life… but both to your advantage and disadvantage, you are also a Michelangelo sculpture. Glazed by rain, facing only where you think you must and turning your back on what you are oblivious of.
III.
To you who is to befall in my life, I shall know it is “you” when you solve three great mysteries. Because when you utter “I Love You,” you can make known to both of us what is “I,” what is “Love,” and what is “You.”
Now, where’s that trash bin?
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02.03.08
Posted in 2008 Potpourri at 2:19 pm by Miracle ♪♫
The past week unfolded as a magical letter of thoughts. Whenever I expected I had undone the last fold, another uncurtained.
It went on
in this manner until the letter extended to the floor and gyred around me. These thoughts seemed to be written for me
alone. Too private that as much as I
wish to share them, I end up shelving them in my mind for fear of betraying the
subconscious who confidentially wrote to the conscious…
and perhaps these
magical letters are what composes the riddle that I am – well, maybe that, and
an awful amount of heart.
Nevertheless, some thoughts escaped and I know that both
conscious and subconscious will tolerate this leakage. Here are some random admixtures.
Rudeness. If your monthly period cannot excuse such
a thing, nothing can. Be nice.
Love and Hate. I can say with confidence that I am not a
hateful person, and I do not even boast of this for I consider it a gift – a
blessed grace from God. Yes, I
disapprove of a lot of people, but after I have frankly beseeched them of my
sentiments towards them, I harbour no ill feelings. Now, there is an individual who manages to
poke my attention. This person has the
most hateful soul I have ever encountered, but when faced with who this person
vies attention from, this character insists great love. Can this be so? I have no right to judge this individual, but
quoting from James;
“Doth a fountain send forth in the same place sweet water
and bitter? Can the fig tree, my
brethren, bear olive berries either a vine figs? So can no fountain both yield salt water and
fresh.”
Love and Faith. Some may disagree with this certain view,
but I strongly believe that two people in a relationship must share the same
faith. Otherwise, spiritual union – the
most important union – can never be attained, and otherwise, both bodies will
remain intricate jigsaw shapes… they will
gnaw off an arm if necessary to properly fit, bleed at a joint, tilt the head,
or nod a little too deeply just to maintain the vaguely heart-shaped vacuum
that must always exist somehow between them.
Trust me. I bled.
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The Collected Stories of Ben Hecht. This fifty-peso hardbound book has been slumbering on my shelf for
