We are craftsmen

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What is your art? It amuses me to hear people say they don’t have any talent or that they’re not good in anything.

“Care of the Soul requires craft.

To live with a high degree of artfulness
means to attend to the small things
that keep the soul engaged in whatever we are doing
And it is the very heart of soul-making.”

Art, as language of the soul, nurtures the soul.
Thus it should be in our every day. 

“The fine arts are elevated and set apart from life,
becoming too precious and therefore irrelevant.
Having banished art to the museum,
we fail to give it a place in ordinary life.”

My art is in people. I like seeing them grow and I’m a believer of change and progress. Seeing through and being seen, that’s when I am most connected to the world, in my very sense of destiny. People when they bloom, for me is the most beautiful that art has ever known.

Art that is not contained in movement, in rhythm, in color, texture and shape, in emotions and still moments — what is your art?

This is what Hey Artist is all about. Focus on your craft, enrich your talent, nurture your soul, and work out your own salvation.

“Pursuit of Loneliness”

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My fellow bloggers, please excuse this post that may not be in the language that you comprehend. I shall try to add a translation afterwards.

Isang panibagong kabanata sa notebook na nakasaksi ng lahat. Hindi ko akalaing nakasulat pala dito ang lahat ng naramdaman ko at ang lahat (halos) ng nangyari sa ating dalawa. Patuloy kong napapatunayan na handa naman pala talaga ako para sa ganitong paghihiwalay. 

Kaya ngayong wala ka na (talaga), sinusubukan kong buksan muli ang aking sarili  na tanawin ang mundo nang may kasama. Hindi, hindi katulad ng sabay nating pagtanaw. Hindi ko alam kung may makakapantay pa noon. 

itong simpleng sabay-na-pagtanaw na nagtulak sa aking magsulat ng tungkol sa “Pursuit of Loneliness” sa Tagalog (Filipino). Walang papantay sa pag-intindi mo sa bawat tula, thesis, at bawat kaliit-liitang salita na sabihin ko man o hindi ay naiintindihan mo pa rin.

Pero ang piyesang ito ay hindi talaga tungkol sa’yo.

Ito ay tungkol, muli, sa pursuit of loneliness. Pasensya na kung mahaba ito kaysa sa inaasahan ko. Kung kumpara sa inaasahan mo, hindi ko alam kasi hindi ko naman alam ang inaasahan mo. At sa totoo lang, hindi ko alam kung anong ipupunto ko. Pero higit sa punto, siguro ay mas mahalaga ang madahang palitan natin ng mga salita, na sa tingin ko, kung aaminin natin ay nagkukulong sa ating kabaliwan at pagiging kakaiba sa loob ng isang ligtas na hangganan. Ang pagkukulong na ito ay hindi iyong nanggagapos ha, kundi ‘yong nakakapagpalaya (the safe borders of insanity).

Sana naiintindihan mo pa hanggang dito. Hindi ko rin kasi sigurado kung naiintindihan ko pa ang sinusulat ko, o baka naman imahinasyon ko lang ang lahat ng ito. At alam ko, tulad ng sabi mo, na hindi ka sigurado kung gusto mo nga ba akong/itong maintindihan. Walang problema. Hangga’t totoo ka ay magiliw akong makikipagpalitan ng mga salita kasama ka. 

At tungkol saan na nga ba ulit ang “pursuit of loneliness?

Sabi mo tungkol ito sa batas ng kalikasan kung saan itinutulak tayo sa mga bagay na hindi naman para sa atin — ‘yong tinatawag mong mga bagay na dapat-wala pero nagmemeron. Na kung sa kalayaan ay kukunin mo, iiwan ka nito sa pag-iisa. Kakambal ng kalayaan ang pag-iisa. Sa madaling sabi, kung nais mong maging malaya, dapat handa kang mag-isa. 

Gusto ko pa sanang dagdagan, pero sa tingin ko, kailangan muna natin ulit magpalitan ng mga salita :) 

There’s a song for everything

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There’s a song for everything.

I said let’s start with head over feet and then ironic.
But you said ironic should go first so it goes:

It’s traffic jam, when you’re already late. It’s meeting the man of your dreams… isn’t it ironic? You treat me like I’m a princess, you’re my best friend…

When I’m mad, you sing mardy bum; in calm and quiet, you’re stuck on the puzzle just like those smitten first days. When we prepare ourselves, you sing La la la la la la I swear I’ll never be happy again! Is this really happening?

I didn’t know we should have taken Pink and Nate seriously. Just give me a reason, why did you vanish like a murderer, Mr. duplicity? Are you thinking of me in the middle of dinner?

Most of the time, when I remember you, I just put my hands in my pocket because we lived, we learned. We loved. I still hope we’ll be coming back, are we? But please, please don’t make me sing for 25 minutes.

Episodes

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A friend understands episodes.

It’s like a deep open wound that periodically chugs liters of blood.
Like asthma that pulls your breath, gotta run for it.
It’s balloon with too much pressure.
It’s rape visiting the victim in dreams.
It’s a ghost nobody else senses.
It’s sudden blur, confusion and pain.
It’s voicelessness while you scream.
It’s release and containment, at once.
It’s wanting to run but having to stay.
It’s the better in you saying, “focus.”

A friend understands episodes, in its utmost urgency.

You’re never coming back

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You said you won’t abandon me like they did, and you’d just pinch my ears instead. But now is the time to let every ounce of hope go, so we can be happy in our own universe. Because the planet you’ve gone to, there is no ride home.

You’re not coming back.

I drown every waking moment into slumber. But in slumber, you’re all I see. I wake up only to the most striking pain in the chest. Do you also think of me?

I get up and tell myself, you’re never coming back.

At my lowest, I wish I can just hold your hand. Wherever I walk, I see you walking with me, towards me, around me. I hear the music of your keys bouncing with every step. Your face gets clearer as you come near.

Your eyes of infinite depth and future; high-bridged nose and dry lips as I last saw them; your hair of exquisite mess; The shirt fitted well on your chest; low-rise jeans and the hole on your pocket, and the bottom one-and-a-half inch fold.

No matter how I conjure your image,
You’re still never coming back.

I remember every single thing that made us amazing.
I remember every single promise that we made.
I will always remember the battle we’ve never won.
Why did you leave without a word?

I know now that you are never ever coming back.

Wiser every mourning

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Create a dreamy afternoon, the sun melting a tangerine sky; on your feet is fine sand becoming finer with every bitter-sweet rendezvous with confusing waves.

The people stare at your open back baring inked skin and no longer toned physique.

They also stare at his piercing eyes of confidence, of holding onto this moment with you. He knows it will go by as fast as you came into his friendly little hometown.

Picture out the night you got there and the bars that you would hop about; the smell of beer and the men who think they’re living the life, and the women who don’t know why they are fucked up.

Draw in your mind the music that will make you stand. And you both will dance because not a pair of eyes could tell that you are victims of time, criminals of the law.

Sculpt very well the touch of his hands as he drags you out to watch the stars he booked just for you. Tonight the clouds take leave to make you fall even more in-love.

Hug him and fear the dawning of the reality. Believe him say that he’ll do something.

Create this dreamy paradise and visit it every night-mare;

and your heart shall become wiser every mourning.

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