Sometime in 2007

As a kid, I dreamt of growing my own wings. Innocence prevented me from discerning the limits of my feet, but I felt there was something evil in gravity that made me want to fly. When my mother started bringing me to malls and places with sights that I have started to love but with names that I could not recall, I started to understand why.

With gravity, the definition of space between points A and B is always riddled with webs of streets and highways. Treading it is losing yourself in the territory of an unknown. On air though, it is a simple straight line, no bounds, no traffic lights.

To move forward with gravity is to conform, to bind yourself to rules that govern all from the material to the metaphysical, from your dress code to your religion.

Occasionally, this is sexy. But most often, I desire a world without rules, without conformity. A world of zero gravity.

This is my web, welcome to my world.

Cosmic Soup

I am both a left brain and a right brain. String theory equations swim among my imageries and a tattoo of the Chinese chi rests on my chest. It was suppose to catalyze my absorption of prana, but some variable, some metaphor must have fucked up along the way. Now my poems are blinded by this incongruence of energy. Am a motionless vector eating rose petals for my Sunday evenings.

I attempted creative body movements back when body language was still an unrecognized form of poetry. It hurts, the way we stretched our limbs and reach for scientific proofs in between the kubîng beats of the Lumads and the Pinikpikans. Our mentors have always reminded us of letting go, of unlearning, of deconstructing our semiotic meanings. But dance, and the love for it, these were never enough.

We longed for more.

So I slept with Gioconda Belli, and kissed the ground where a hundred Sandinista armies were butchered by Somoza. I drooled over their sambas and rhumbas. I had a toast with Grundtvig and Freire, and marveled with them as Hollywood buzzed over the upcoming movie of the Transformers on 2007 and Martin Scorsese’s victory after 25 years. X-Men III was a shit, I felt better watching Daniel Ortega recite his thank you speech in front of the crowd of Managua. Que puta, that señor.

And while I am asleep, LAMP and AJAX algorithms take over my senses (a Canon EOS 30D camera scouts my vicinity for shinobis, ninjas and approaching meteors). You see, I have this obsessive-compulsive posture towards objects piercing our ozone layer. Can’t google an explanation for it. The Wikipedia page is still unwritten til this date. It must be a longing to reconnect with the cosmos. A higher calling. My rhythm fails, and I scan the Anarchist Cookbook for an answer. Ahhh, my pinky smells of nitroglycerine.

Ciao, need to exorcise my fingers.

I can feel the throbbing of Icharus’ wings.