This is not a poetry reading

this is not a koreanobela: a film trilogy
ACCENTUATION video screening by Jane Jin Kaisen

readings and open mic hosted by Andrea Terán with Mookie Katigbak, Mark Cayanan, Anina Abola, Mikael Co, Mia Tijam, Kash Avena, Adam David, Larry Ypil and more

FEBRUARY 27
/WEDNESDAY, BAR OPENS 8 PM, SCREENING BEGINS 9 PM
GREEN PAPAYA ART PROJECTS for updates please go to http://papayapost.blogspot.com/
124A Maginhawa Street, Teachers Village East, Diliman, Quezon City

This Is Not a Koreanobela: A Film Trilogy
The second edition continues this Wednesday featuring the video work of Jane Jin Kaisen.
Accentuation is a multi-layered experimental short film built up around thirteen chapters of the novel Journey from Holmen’s Canal to the Eastern Part of Amager by the Danish poet and fairytale writer Hans Christian Andersen. The structure of the novel is interweaved with the story of an international adoptee’s journey and reunion with her birth family in South Korea. Accentuation complicates notions of history, memory, and belonging as a non-chronological and fractured process of negotiation. Accentuation extends beyond the personal by implying how international adoption as a phenomenon is also part of South Korea’s patriarchy and painful decolonization and modernization process, while on the other hand, it was fostered by Western Orientalism and cultural hegemony.
Jane Jin Kaisen works with film, video, performance, text, and photography. Born in South Korea (1980), adopted to Denmark and educated at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, she is currently a Fulbright scholar at the Whitney Museum Independent Study Program in New York. She is also a co-founder of Grassroots Cinema Center for Women of Asia, co-founder of the collective Chamber of Public Secrets, broadcasting independent news on tv.-tv, a non-profit TV station in Denmark and an organizer of Made In Video International Festival of Video Journalism in Copenhagen.

Readings and open mic
Andrea Terán returns this month (and every last Wednesday of the month hereon) with her platoon of bloody, razor-edged, biting, but honeyed night readers in their shining bullet-proof armors. Poetry readings and open mics will never be the same again, at least along the Maginhawa strip of Teachers Village East, with this sweet beer guzzling bunch of award-winning poets and writers: Mookie Katigbak, Mark Cayanan, Anina Abola, Mikael Co, Mia Tijam, Kash Avena, Adam David, and Larry Ypil.


And while Wednesdays I’m-n-love/Open Platform principal conspirator and resident fascist Donna Miranda is on a world-tour-of-sort with her of course not this is a bathtub
at Brunnentrasse in Berlin, QC still rocks, GMA is rocked, and politicians suck! Here’s a bottoms-up to your performance, Donna!

What the...?

This is what's wrong:

You like teams, and you like maybe some players from other teams. You hate some teams, and most probably only for a single player in that team. And then a weird trade happens, and it's all blown to bits.

And guys, maybe this half-assed analysis will seem silly and (gasp!) just-like-a-girl to you, but guess what? I am a girl (gasp!). Deal with it.

I love Pau Gasol. I hate the Lakers. Bad trade for me, good trade for Gasol.

I don't care about Shaq. I love the Suns. But I love Steve Kerr more. Go Steve Kerr.

I never liked Jason Kidd. I hate the Mavericks. Go for it, Kidd.

But the worst, the worst of the worst is Kurt Thomas to San Antonio. I hate Thomas. I love, love, love the Spurs! I mean sure, Francisco Elson was a wash. Brent Barry is injured, but he shoots threes! Can Thomas do that?

You know who I suddenly miss? Nazr Mohammad. And is he still with the Knicks? Well, good luck to him.

Okay, I'll shut up now. The last time I ran my mouth about basketball, I lost 500 bucks on a bet.

Did I tell you you're wonder-foil?

1
It started with L. and a poem addressed to a woman on a photograph, which was really a love poem to the man who took the photograph. It was the 1^st of February; we were on the train to Malate, on a mission to reclaim it after a fling-turned-something-else turned nothing-else. But February is not the month of love, nor is it for lovers. What it really is, is the month of the foil.

Valentine’s day—which we don’t celebrate by reliving St. Valentine’s works and deeds (whatever those may be)—brings to mind another sainted character. Walk around a mall nowadays and you will see the real star of the show. That “Oops, I did it again” finger-on-the-lips smile, and who could miss those “Hit me baby, one more time” arrows? And whatever disguise he might have assumed in your own love story—that ‘bridge’ in high school, the shared confidante/messenger in your barkada, the co-worker who fixes you up with a friend—Cupid gets all the credit.

Yes, playing cupid is a blameless job. See, if indeed the just-pierced lovers don’t fall happily ever after, it is never Cupid’s fault. He not attentive, she too needy, they bad for each other; nobody even sings “Stupid Cupid” when their hearts are arrowed in two. Oh, but imagine if it does work out: Eternal gratitude—which may or may not include the couple’s firstborn—, or a sure spot on the wedding entourage, a shot at smugness.

True, Cupid is most effective when he fades into the background—especially when the music starts to swell and words like serendipity (see how effective?) and meant-for-each-other hang in the air like so much bunting—and isn’t that what characterizes the perfect foil? Why else the pain and humiliation in those instances of the ‘bridge’ betraying the lover, falling for the friend, sleeping with the secretary? Let the foil remain a foil, and let the audience love him or her all the more for it.

...

In my Essay class in college, our final exam consisted of first, reading half of an essay then writing its second half. A kind of Choose Your Own Adventure, except there was only one correct ending, which you will arrive at if you recognize the tone of the speaker in the given part of the essay (or are lucky enough to have read it somewhere and remembered), argue the original author’s point correctly, and reach the same conclusion. My answer to that very difficult exam began with a But.

...

But. There is a point to this story, a point I wanted to make when I started to write it. I’m not sure if I want to make it anymore, short of hiding behind Hiligaynon again. But if there has to be an explanation, let it be this story:

When Paul Simon—a Mickey Mantle fan—was asked why he used Joe DiMaggio in the song Mrs. Robinson, he answered “It’s all about syllables. It’s all about how many beats there are.”

Okay, so maybe it doesn’t really explain anything. But there you go. Ho ho ho.

And that, my friends, is all. For now.

2
I find myself fascinated with the possibilities of words. Right now, a play on kuwenta and kuwento—from the Spanish contar, to count (and maybe account?) and to tell (or recount), respectively. And in Filipino, flavored still with the connotation of value on one hand, and small talk on the other. Because I am worried about value, and an accounting for possible effects later on, for example, I am worried that sometimes a story is not just a story. Kuwentong walang kuwenta. Don’t you believe it.

3
A new poem. And, allow me to sing it for you: “You may be right. I may be crazy.”

Vertigo

Half-deaf, one ear
Im-paired
I make no claims on music.
Was it Beethoven’s joy
That he couldn’t hear it
But in his head
Where it began to play?
But waking up today
World spinning spinning spinning
I think of Van Gogh’s
Swirling swirling swirling stars—
Product of vertigo
I’m sure
He cut off his ear for
He wouldn’t hear of it.

Now leveled by fear
Not wanting to risk sense
Both eyes, the good ear
I only
Write it, write it, write it!

4
vertigo = head over heels? sometimes i fear i am insufferable.

I am currently on cerebral oxygenators. For my vertigo, yes. But can you believe it? Suddenly, I cannot stop writing. And cannot sleep. I am not sure if the pills stopped the spinning, or allowed me to catch up.

(Suddenly, too, it’s all mahangin, airhead, insufferable. What a crock of shit.)

So I’m taking L.’s advice: Hoy, get a hold of yourself! And if, lately, you’ve seen me hugging myself, and squinting my eyes in concentration, that’s it. Hahaha.

5
Apologies to Adam Ant, and his wonderful song, Wonderful.

Night at Sea

They had been surrounded
by water and a strange language
all day, they thought they understood
only each other. Looking out the darkness
sky and sea indistinct but for the stars
dropping hints on the water--he pointed out Mars
impossibly close to Venus, and she said
Maybe they're not who we think they are.
Once inside, they found themselves
making love, not knowing who started it
only that there were needs
and rarely any answers.
Tomorrow the men will talk
around them, despairing of last night's
catch, as if because they took to sea
they deserved its secrets.
Meanwhile, they will catch each other
looking away, away from the sea,
its constant rocking.

A Post-Mortem, sort of

I meant to text this message to everyone, but I'm a cheapskate. A lazy cheapskate. But, here it is:

The reading at Green Papaya last night was great. I'm no shutterbug and my phone is cheap-without-camera-a-snatcher-will-not-steal--so I cannot provide any evidence, your honor. But I had a fucking great time. And I think everybody had a fucking great time. So thank you, thank you to all who came, who saw, who read, who clapped, who laughed, and who cried. Hahaha.

Ngyar. Just spreading the love.

Three by Me

1
Hola! Inviting everyone to the poetry reading at Green Papaya on Wednesday, 30 January at 8PM. This reading is part of Green Papaya's Wednesdays-I'm-n-Love Open Platform. Readers are:

1. Mikael Co

2. Adam David

3. Mia Tijam

4. Conchitina Cruz

5. Joel Toledo

6. Angelo Suarez
7. Hussein Macarambon

8. Kash Avena

9. Corin Arenas

... and others, I hope. Haha. We're trying out a themed reading this time, and because it's (still) January, it'll be on new year's resolutions. Haha. Anyway, please come. Open mic readers most welcome, themed or otherwise.

2
Couple of weeks ago, my mom was here in Manila and we had dinner with my dad's half sister, and his half-brother and his wife. It was fun getting to know them, and more importantly, hearing stories about the grandfather I never met. It was amazing to get a picture of this man, whose surname I still carry, from people I hardly know--when my dad himself has so little of his own stories to tell. My grandfather, it turns out, was an hacienda administrator, a job which allowed him to travel--and have different families--all over the country. He had--as far as we know, anyway--a total of 11 children, the youngest only 6 or 8 years older than I am. And with my dad being the youngest of his first three children, my grandfather actually has grandchildren older than the youngest of his children. Haha. Amazing, I tell you.

3
That surname I carry, by the way, has been recently changed to Peram, as I've told in a different post. Thing is, my youngest sister--the one who looks completely different from me--had food delivered from McDo last night. The food came with the receipt addressed to an S. Peram. Whew! And here I was, starting to think I was living with a complete stranger.

*****
Bonus
A quiz:

The stories in this blog are:
(a) true
(b) false
(c) somewhere in between
(d) can be used against the author


"Finally the tables are starting to turn. Talkin' about a revolution." Bow

Three by Heaney

Blackberry Picking
for Philip Hosbaum

Late August, given heavy rains and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then the red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre
But when the batch was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once of the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.


Personal Helicon
for Michael Longley

As a child, they could not keep me from wells
And old pumps with buckets and windlasses.
I loved the dark drop, the trapped sky, the smells
Of waterweed, fungus and dank moss.

One, in a brickyard, with a rotted board top.
I savoured the rich crash when a bucket
Plummeted down at the end of a rope.
So deep you saw no reflection in it.

A shallow one under a dry stone ditch
Fructified like any aquarium.
When you dragged out long roots from the soft mulch
A white face hovered over the bottom.

Others had echoes, gave back your own call
With a clean new music in it. And one
Was scaresome, for there, out of ferns and tall
Foxgloves, a rat slapped across my reflection.

Now, to pry into roots, to finger slime,
To stare, big-eyed Narcissus, into some spring
Is beneath all adult dignity. I rhyme
To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.


The Peninsula

When you have nothing more to say, just drive
For a day all around the peninsula.
The sky is tall as over a runway,
The land without marks, so you will not arrive

But pass through, though always skirting landfall.
At dusk, horizons drink down sea and hill,
The ploughed field swallows the whitewashed gable
And you’re in the dark again. Now recall

The glazed foreshore and silhouetted log,
That rock where breakers shredded into rags,
The leggy birds stilted on their own legs,
Islands riding themselves out into the fog,

And drive back home, still with nothing to say
Except that now you will uncode all landscapes
By this: things founded clean on their own shapes,
Water and ground in their extremity.


aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa--Poems by Seamus Heaney


*****
Wednesdays-I'm-n-Love. Poetry reading at Green Papaya on Wednesday, January 30th, around 8PM. Calling everybody who'd like to read--I don't want to limit the people I invite to the ones in my phonebook! Please text me if you want to read, or use the comments section. I will think up a list of readers, too. Sorry, I'm still on vacation mode (read: tamad). But let me know if you're interested!

*****
Anyway, tatlong kuwento.

1 So I went home to Iloilo for vacation. And to a talking-to courtesy of the parents--which I deserved, but for some parts. I will not talk of the deserved part--too embarrassing, I think, and circles back to the undeserved anger, anyway. My dad asked me why, after all these years--27 of them, I think he meant--did I just realize I wanted to pursue writing? What could I say? I could blame Pisay and its contract (and reduce the number of years of culpability by 12), or I could blame him for talking physics to me when I was a kid. But 27 seems like a good age as any to stop blaming outside forces for my choices. Still, it sucks to realize how much you still want parental approval--defiant 27 or otherwise--and realize you might never get it back.

2 My sister recently received her chem GRE results, with a whopping 97th percentile score. She also attended a chemistry conference complete with Nobel laureates a week ago. I, on the other hand, recently bought 5 poetry books at amazing prices, just firmly decided to get my MA in Creative Writing, and replaced a leaking faucet in my apartment with my own lil hands (plus a wrench, teflon tape, and a lot of swearing, but so what). Does she want to exchange places with me? I don't think so. Thing is, neither do I. Isn't it enough to know that?

3 My other sister, I recently grounded. So no partying for her until end of the semester. Who am I to impose this? And to think I took all precautions to avoid being a mom before I was ready. Turns out I didn't have to.

*****
So now what?