#should rereads maos piece for him......

[prettyboykatsuki]

fmk capitano pantalone dottore

oh nooooooooooo

CAPITANO MUTUALS DONT LOOK!!!!!!!!!!!

fuck - dottore

marry - pantalone

kill - capitano. I HAVE NO DESIRE TO KILLHIM. but i want pantalone super badly fdkjsdj more than i can explain

[widthofmytongue]

who is your favorite poet?

I'm not entirely sure I've got favourites in that way. The first two names that came to mind were Eliot and Dante, but I mean...

Like okay, I do think The Waste Land is the greatest poem, perhaps the greatest work of literature, to emerge from the Twentieth Century. But we all know that Eliot is an absolute piece of shit and doesn't deserve any reverence, right.

And as for Dante, I feel like I ought to discount any poetry I’ve only read in translation, because English is the only language I've ever spoken fluently enough to really appreciate the poetry thereof. I did have a facing copy of the Inferno as a teen, and I did actually read large swathes of the Florentine, and I've also read bits of Verlaine or Schiller or Virgil or what have you in their original, but did I ever really get it? (I did, actually, yes.)

Another name that springs to mind (not least because I was discussing his genius the other day, but I daresay I'd have thought of him regardless) is Derek Walcott. In many ways, maybe, he's like the Eliot we really deserve.

If I'm honest, someone like Spencer Krug or Dan Bejar would probably rank pretty highly for me, to say nothing of the likes of Leonard Cohen or Peter Sinfield or I don't know Bruce Springsteen or Chuck D. And after all why should we remove pop from the canon??

And on a similar note, I actually quite like Tolkien's poetry. It's not exactly profound or moving, but I really appreciate how it updates Old and Middle English conventions to Modern English, and I've spent too much time grappling with the form of the Perle Poet for this not to resonate with me on some level.

In those technical terms, I have always been impressed by the Romantics, especially Byron, whom I appreciate for his fusion of punk rock fuck you thrust and legit sublime classicism. Even Wordsworth (whom I kinda hate) is kinda chef's kiss when it comes to foot and rhyme and metre. That old school shit really self-harmonises in ways that I think no one even recognises since like Larkin or even Yeats.

ALL THAT SAID: something which I've mentioned now and then is that when I've recently reread Gramsci or Mao or Fanon especially, but also like Adorno or Deleuze or Haraway (all but the last of which in translation), I realise how much they really speak to me, touch me, move me, more than, you know, Carol Ann Duffy or Mary Oliver.

Pourquoi tout simplement ne pas essayer de toucher l'autre, de sentir l'autre, de me révéler l'autre? Ma liberté ne m'est-elle donc pas donnée pour édifier le monde du Toi?

Just try to tell me that's not poetry, and I will show you, mon semblable, mon frère, a reader who cannot read. Or this:

This is a dream not of a common language, but of a powerful infidel heteroglossia. It is an imagination of a feminist speaking in tongues to strike fear into the circuits of the supersavers of the new right. It means both building and destroying machines, identities, categories, relationships, space stories. Though both are bound in the spiral dance, I would rather be a cyborg than a goddess.

In the immortal words of Nigel Tufnel: That's poetry that is.

[justjennyvi]

I was keeping this for a time, but now, I just feel the need to let this out. I am trying. I am trying my very best to see the good things more than the negatives. Pero ang hirap. Mahirap when you have been through a lot, and you were able to experience the realities of the world, the injustices; and all those took effect to how you are perceiving the world now and you have no other choice but to keep living. But living, for me, is not as easy as it seems for others. It is not just being able to breath, eat and rest, but it is as complicated as solving calculus equation; you do not understand the process, yet you need to solve it anyway. And it is like domino, one bad or good move (decision), could affect those of others, especially those closest to you.

I was scanning through my old posts before I realized that I have only shared a little part of myself in here. This media is my outlet to my thoughts away from judgment of people from FB, IG, and Twitter. I guess everyone just wanna be understood and this is my way for people to know me and hopefully understood me. This platform is an open secret; I posted links on this on my other social media accounts, and only people who want to know me will make an effort of actually knowing me. But after rereading my older posts, I found out I haven’t shared enough. Well, I could start with this one.

I used to be so innocent and optimist from way back. Despite someone’s meanness, I could always see his/her innate goodness. I am perhaps brought up like that. But that innocence was taken advantage by a person whom I thought was a “friend”. Bear with me, I don’t really know how to tell a story and play with words as my vocabulary is limited and my grammar sucks (still blaming that English teacher from HS who never taught us basic English grammar lol). “Friendship” is such a sensitive topic for me for reasons I’ll share later. I was 7 years old, Grade 3, when a group of “sikat” girls at school welcomed me to be part of their group. We were all on the same grade but “E” (who acted as our leader) was around 4 years older than me. It was a great feeling to be a member of something, to feel like you belong, to find “friends”. Who wouldn’t want friends in the first place? Never did I thought that that honest “friendship” would become my entrance to a darker world, to that real slapped of reality. Perhaps every kid is looking forward to playing at each break time. But not me, all those times were tortures to me. Playtimes were times when I always feel left out & when I always feel useless. E was always the group leader each time we’re playing in a group. During choosing who they want to be in their group, I am always the last person they pick. Most of the time, I am the “baboy-baboy”, the “pakapin”. It was childish, yes, but it’s that act that I first notice deprivation and bullying. I admit I wasn’t sporty, or maybe that’s what they made me feel, that I am not good at anything. Since then, I never like playing. It had stuck to my head that I am not for sports. Dictatorial. That’s the kind of friendship we have with E. It was almost at the end of that school year when I felt something strange; when I felt that change of E’s treatment. She may be changed or maybe I chose to notice. What E wants, E gets. What E tells, everyone listens. If you don’t want to be bullied, you should be closer to E. You should make things that could make E happy. “Pasipsip”, that’s your ticket for a peaceful school year. I was her “alagad”, literal. Mura mig nasa isa ka kulto. She’s a dictator to the point na maski lunchbox nako iyang ikambyo sa iyaha kung walay lami iyang pagkaon, and in replace, ako mokaon sa iyang baon; ako moanswer sa iyahang exams and quizzes, ang akong allowance iyang kuhaon. At first, I willingly give my money, as I have extra, but it reached to the point where she forcedly took the money from me, abrihan akong bulsa, and took everything. Remember when I said I was innocent then? I was, and she took advantage of that. Not just my innocence but my naivety because despite seeing and experiencing all that, I still considered her as a friend and what I was doing is just to keep the friendship. I thought that’s the worst she could do. But no. From getting our (along with my other friends) allowances of 5 to 10 pesos, it reached to her requesting us to get her money for her family, for her outing, and for all other reasons. And from where will we get that amount? That’s for us to figure out, because if not, ‘ipabarang’ mi niya, which could lead to us and our family dying. Imagine the fear that a 7-year old child, who wants to live, felt during those times? “Walay dapat makabalo ani, kay kung dili, ipabarang ta mo. Labaw sa tanan, ayaw ingna inyong ginikanan. Kay once mogawas ni, kabalo namo unsay mahitabo.” Those words were stuck in our minds. “Kailangan na nako ang kwarta karun.” And so, me, together with Cathy, cut classes and walked our way home, kay wala mi kwarta para mosakay, of almost 2 km, and made alibis to our parents, kung ngano mi nanguli, and find ways to get money from our parent’s wallet just so we could live. Yes, we were thieves. Abi namo kaisa lang, but she asked repeatedly. From asking 100 pesos, to 200, even reaching up to 500. That breath of relief each time I can walk out home without them noticing that I stole money from them is as intense as that fear I felt when mother started noticing my weird actions resulting to her checking my pocket and bag before I head back to school. Good thing she did not check my shoes. I still couldn’t think of those traumatic experiences without getting emotional, and I am now, as I am writing this. I suffered mental, emotional and physical torture. Yes, even physical. There was a time when E told us that someone stole her bracelet and the one who stole it is from one of us. She called all of us in the group, asking us to surrender earlier as she will still know eventually after the ritual she will about to make. “Mananagna”, that’s what she told she is. She took a piece of our hair, leave us waiting for the result, as she was talking in front of the tree, crying, praying, conversing with her “invisible twin”. She went back to us from time to time announcing the names of those who she said innocent, leaving me, Cathy and Lovely as the possible culprit. She talked to us individually in different places, all were asked to admit a crime we did not do. In her desperation to made us admit, she physically harmed us. I received several slaps and a mental torture of being called a thief, while Cathy and Lovely were pushed towards a cliff full of big red ants. Knowing that she was capable of physically harming us, we chose to zip our mouth and follow what she told us to do. That kind of life continued til we reached the end of 5th grade. If not for Abegail’s braveness of speaking to her parents, we could have possibly suffered more. Akala ko once the truth has been exposed, I could finally live a normal life. But then I was wrong. Instead of understanding and pity me for what I have been through, my aunt focused on that fact that I stole money from her.  Instead of comforting a child, she exposed it to other relatives, telling everyone that I am a thief, and they all laugh towards my naivety of how simple it could have been if I told them eventually what happened. “Mao na! Kay dali man gud ka mahadlok ug tao! Basin mangatol nana imong kamot ha, inig dili ka makakawat.” Their words have affected me very much to the point that even I am doubting my own self. “Dili kaha ako ang nagkuha ato?” My every thought each time someone’s thing is missing. I judged myself first, thinking others would also judge me the same. I became conscious of what others think of me. I hear their voices more, more so if its negative criticisms about me. Celebrating my achievements became harder as I see those as worthless, knowing people will remember your faults more than the right things you did. If there’s one event in my life that I really want to completely forget, that would be it. Since then, I want nothing else but a restart at life. That is why I was ecstatic upon hearing that we were moving out and transfer to a new home with a new environment and new people finally. But different from what I thought, me transferring to that school has worsened my negativity, my distrust, and unhappiness. High school drama. High school bullying. Being a transferee, I was a victim to all of that. Having that eagerness of restarting my life, the moment I entered that new school, I act the way I want people to see me. I aimed to be good at school in order to gain my parent’s trust back. I want to be a good person. For a time, I thought I was doing good with my restart, I made a lot of friends, topped per grading rankings, and often praised by teachers for being reserved. But I guess humans are humans. Some of my classmates thought that I am just faking everything. “Too good to be true”, that’s what they say. “Pasipsip” “Pagoody-goody” “Igat” “Humok ug Ilong” “Nasa sulod ang kulo” that’s what they branded me.  Restart what? I am back to that whole dark world again. It turns out, they just become friends with me to find fault in me. Guess what? They succeeded. There was that guy who courted me. Those “friends” supported the guy’s act; saying all the good things about him, telling me how sincere he was, and all other good praises about the guy, just for me to say yes. Growing up, I was taught that being in a relationship is not a game. It is sacred. The only purpose for entering it is to marry. But peer pressure. The “friends” are all pushing me to say yes. I have that desire to feel accepted and once again I disappointed myself for giving in to the pressure. They used that case to judge me and my whole personality telling their brandings of me are all real. What can I do? I made the wrong choice. I help them prove that they were all right. Good thing the guy was kind enough the moment I took back my answer. I still feel sorry for that guy though, I saw his sincerity and I know his intentions were clear. But no, that time I know I wasn’t prepared to commit. That’s just the first incident and a lot more has happened after. I can’t survive a single day without breaking down. My lunch breaks were all filled with tears for all the bullying. Maybe I was just too sensitive or maybe they were also rude. Though I was able to find people who stick with me through all that, High School just made my world darker with each passing day. Not that I did not enjoy high school, but whenever I tried to look back, I could think more of those bad times, and the trauma it has caused me.

I still have a lot to share. . . .Hang on. . .