pomegranates

do we still look for Virtuous? the tribe
has long vanished.  gone after its
last, and last farewell parade.  how 
they had come together, a flock 

merging from crevices of mountains 
wet mounds of rivers, wides from flatlands. 
i look past the large glass windows
of the 15th floor and wonder

was Virtuous ever real at all? or are they
as real as stories of nymphs
no longer believed and yet, men
dreamed in the kept hollows 

of their minds? do we still look for 
Virtuous? on the streets, there could be
a nun, a student, a lawyer,  a thief,
mother, father, children, aunts, uncles

a strange array of the Less
--this whole world--including ourselves
who, after having bitten 
the pomegranates of the underworld

attempts every day
to rise Virtuous above the self.

i woke up shivering

Any one can comment about the strange weather these days.  One country can talk about their drought and heat wave, another about intense cold, these happening all at once.  It is the middle of January, 

and none of the things we used to know apply.  In this humid country, for instance, closer to the ring of fire than others, typhoons are keeping themselves at  bay, watching the too many dead and the grief-

stricken. Now coldness has come, temperatures dropping lower than people can imagine.  In the mountains, animals are dying and the whiff of their death like pollen everywhere, she said, 

commenting on my state over an elaborate breakfast of fluids.  I had woken up in the middle of the dark morning, shivering with fever. Now she looks outside the window and listens to the sound of the river.  

bench at the park by the river

how does a conversation between two humans in their bodies begin?
in awkwardness and in pretension.
pretend the body does not matter.
nor the face.  the length and color of hair, of eyes, of skin.
the kind of smile, the crow's feet around the eyes, the even-ness
of teeth, the lips, the lobes of ear, curve of neck, sound of voice.

in conversation, the two humans list on walls of air
their life's achievements:  the various ways they have survived
the onslaught of years;  the ways they have carried on
all the weight of accumulated disbelief; all the personal
histories seen, felt, or otherwise.  how the body
tends to hide behind the eyes.

if the conversation is long enough, it ends with coffee
together with a hundred other things known
on how to keep bodies afloat on the surface.
 
if the conversation is not enough, the two humans, body-less,
stay on the bench at the park by the river
souls talking to each other, both facing the waters.

there have been many poems about mermaids

I heard mermaids are found this way.

She who is not always near the shore

or in between abandoned mastless ships

sails torn or anchors lost.  She who is

said to be sometimes found in cities

taking the beautiful in pictures, as if

wanting to find and place the missing. 
  
                                                 C. Carreon, Through a camera lucida





Already there are many poems about mermaids, even though these are by far less than the stories about them already told.  Told by way of caution, disbelief, or awe.

If one stares at open sea long enough, they are easy to believe: creatures that resemble like you and me, though freer, under the sea; 

but only maybe 

because it could be a tail or fin of any:

sealion, snake, whale, shark.


 

what is the Golden Fleece?

The lost
The seeking
Argonaut


At the end of each day's hours, in a world's corner where we retreat  to hide at our most vulnerable time, at that most peculiar instance of only a few breath spaces long between waking and sleeping, 

We do sometimes remember.  
And see this strange world as it is: 

A large labyrinth city where we, the argonauts, seeking the fleece, have gone lost, 

Trapped in between sky high walls
working hours
job descriptions
streets, society, and survival.

Perhaps, the minotaur is no beast, no Other, 

But Us,

Who, having lived longer 
 

And longer in this maze 
have turned into 
memory-less beasts.


Where is the skein of thread?
Where is Ariadne?
Where is the Fleece?

azumi, bodhisattva

Yesterday, I spent nearly an entire day watching two quite-lengthy films adaptations, Azumi (2003) and its sequel, Azumi 2: Death or Love (2005).  Originally, Azumi is a multi-awarded mangga series about the life of a young female assassin in feudal Japan; the films were loose adaptations.  

Should one want to, one can always expound on the concepts and/or ideologies couched in the characters; in some readings, for instance, Azumi herself is thought to be a bodhisattva.  

But what most interest me in these two films is the performativity of gender, especially explicit in the swordfight scenes between Azumi and Bijomaru.  Here is Azumi, dressed not unlike a prince  replete with a blue cape; and Bijomaru, as a delicate lady in white gown, seen most of the time holding and admiring a red rose.
. 

light reruns

When we came in to see the feature, two girls at the back row were already whispering to each other in a kind of annotated version about the film.  We caught the word "mind fuck".  So the movie was a mind fuck eh?  We settled on our seats.  Earlier, the poster near the counter had showed a large ship with a face that looked like a skull; something familiar in the countless times I've visited shops of videos-for-rent, looking for suspense thrillers and horror or action films (never gore) to kill time.  After watching these films for some time, one would notice running threads, both explicit and implicit, that one may actually read them anchoring on cultural theories.  How these films do not as much depict actual monsters than monsters as re-presentations of society's inherent, unarticulated fears.

Anyway.  

In the next few minutes it became apparent that the film, Ghost Ship (2011), wasn't the movie I've already seen, though they were of the same title.  This one wasn't remotely horror, but of something else more interesting.  My date and I would discuss the film soon after, and marvel at the movie's concept.  How the movie was not as much about the plot than it was about the concept.  Or the play of the concepts of fate, and choice, and possibilities lived out from the variations brought about by the "intervention" of human decisions in the grand scheme of things.

The ship in the movie was named Aeolus, of Greek mythology.  The name itself distinct; as Aeolus, in the mythology, were three separate characters whose lives became intertwined in a way that each Aeolus becomes indeterminable from the others.  That the characters boarded the ship sets the theme and tone of the film's entirety; though, of course, I also think that if we attempt further to "read" the ship, we may also most likely arrive at the idea that the ship, of course, could mean something else.  Like life per se, etc, considering that the ship as it is, and the sea, and the act of voyage, are themselves metaphors of something else.   

Then. 

So Jess, the character played by Melissa George, lives the varied, yet singular turn of events as a number of her selves attempted to make decisions to get out of the cycle.  In some instances, she watched these selves, and at some point, even engaged with them.  One always manages to follow a certain variation of events which inevitably leads to killing the other self; but always the cycle remains.     

What did the film say about fate?  About the power of choice?  About the metaphysical world and the so-believed parallel universes where each of the possibilities of our decisions are played out as lived?  About life in general?

We did not answer the questions and let them hang open and called it a night.  At home, the dogs welcomed, and they were let out into the humid, star-filled summer night.

foretelling

at any given time a conversation can turn dark.  mention malachy.  or catastrophe.  or asteriod.  cassandra heard, and no one believed her.  but the physicists.  and they make no secret of such things.

in the meantime, everyone's children grow.  

at times in the yard, i prune.   and even though the plants know this, mornings after the mist lifts, they spring.  green.  with a bud for flowering.

mist and green, early morning

another variation of The Story

Another Variation of The Story as Seen from
The Scene of A Poetry Reading  




the man, after having a stroke
of genius, takes his seat 
among the crowd.  his wife
beside him attempts to cover
the length of his left arm
because it had freed itself and
acquired volition.  she made it
keep still.  like a child 
who obeys only with a look.  

at last, the man is called. 
his turn to read his work
because he's been around 
the circuit long enough, and
the young writers, still
trying out the ropes, wanted
someone distinguished.  he
begins by saying how,
these days,

he's much pushed around 
on his wheelchair.  how he has 
become so courteous 
he brings his own chair on invitations.
the crowd laughs, carefully,
at his own careful joke.  he continues
saying he is forty-three and
has had many firsts
he has forgotten. 

anyway, he says, the firsts
are not important.
i'd rather the second
being in itself an affirmation
of the first.  and he carries on
long after the first hour.
the crowd understands, 
claps at cues
to later turn polite.

the wife knows.
the man doesn't.
and his freed arm
slithers off from the cover.  
and without his knowing,
moves
shuddering, slithering
closer and closer 
to the closest woman still. 




C. Carreon













 

a temple of dragons

The red temple of dragons sits atop the city.  Above the known residences of the elite overlooking the city that sprawls itself like a net for all the working middle; that spreads itself thinner as it goes farther from the Uptown and closer to where the port-less edges.

T, though no longer as militant, and I couldn't help "reading" the landscape while climbing up the red stairways of the red-pillared temple:  how myths were, or have become, religion; how a culture is strong and vulnerable, how art is, how economy is.  No lengthy discussions; only many fragmented ideas.  Some photographs.  We tried de-constructing the temple:  turning it into the highest temple of the folk Sky heavens:  Agyo's; or the dragons, turning real, the last protectors of the temple under siege.  We've had had more conversations on culture and the comic book (as cultural by-product) the past forty-eight hours.  

Inside the temple, a kowtow.  And the scent of incense.

For a moment, at high noon, at the foot of the stairs before leaving, T mentioned a word I took for dusk.  

We went to another temple, a coral-stone church; and then another of the most recent architecture, a hundred white walls like dominoes on top of a land that used to be sea; all in two hours. Then it was time to send off T to the airport, to the parallel universe I once had been.

Along the way, watching from the window the road edge curves and the stiff street light posts, I realized I liked lines.  Literal, visual, two-dimensional lines: the way they are drawn against a backdrop of negative space.  "Espasyo," T said.  

The sky was so clear, it was white and cloudless.  Marching the beginning of summer.


On my way home, the dusk in the city was a gradation of the lightest  yellow, to cyan, to a sober dark blue.  No tinge of red.  A waxing moon was rising, thin and white like a clipped nail.