My Morning Thoughts Compilation.

“Coolness” online: Drinking is fine if it is wine, not whiskey. Weed is awesome. Breaking rules means you are kickass. Christianity is the root of all evil. Unity in diversity if it conforms with my prejudice. I am rude because I am depressed. Blame China for consumerism. Blame Russia for high cost of gasoline. Blame Trump for the bad-hair day. Blame mom and dad for our failures. Blame the other political party for Mercury Retrograde. Agree with me or I will unfriend you. 🙂🤨😒

News: “This 8-Year-Old Boy Became the Youngest Person to Ascend El Capitan.” Are we obsessed with (world) records! NBA: First to record a triple-double by a non-American before he reaches age of 20 who is single and a Catholic. Cinema: First woman of color who wins an Oscar who is not from the U.S. before she reaches age of (alcohol) drinking. My record: First Asian man who wore double-layer pairs of socks from age 7 to 109. Makes us feel good, I guess. 🧐🤓😎

A smiley “How are you?” from a stranger is a sweet American culture. Back home in the Philippines, it is inappropriate to greet anyone, lest a woman, that you are not formally introduced to. Here, humanity is so friendly. Or maybe social media is different? I seldom greet “friends” via IM anymore because I usually get ignored. I don’t know why. Honestly, I just want to say hello to someone that I knew then but haven’t seen in years. Will never try again, sorry. LOL! 🙂🤨😒

I think some people are getting mentally disturbed because of Trump. Because of their hatred for Trump. All they see is Trump. They parallel anything that they dislike with Trump. All they post are Trump. One day there will be a psychological disorder named after Trump and meds named after Trump. Of course, Trump will charge royalty for use of his name and likelihood. A pill that is shaped like Trump's face or hairdo. I don't think Big Pharma will mind. It's profit. 😒😏💊

A huge contradiction in life these days: Many are so unrealistically “careful” not to hurt feelings. And so when voices are raised in a workplace setting or sports team huddle, or an “inappropriate” term emerges on your FB post or a known person said a harsh word—they are cancelled outright, lose their job, and shamed no end in Social Media. Yet the “ordinary” language that are said here are cuss words and rude remarks. We police words but not attitudes. 🗣👥🤨

Some of the awesome dog/cat Facebook “Reels” are not showing on my Page as frequent as they used to. No problem, I can find them. But I also get nostalgic cool “Groups” from my native Philippines. “Baul ni Juan” is about old movies. Fun titles like “Kumander Mameng,” “Hayok,” and “Kulog at Kidlat.” Basketball of the 1960s to 1980s. And “Kusinela,” cooking videos, old-school on firewood and outdoors. How I wish I’d be transported back in time. 👍🤝👍

Notice some of the movies/TV series these days have annoying dark or dim lighting? They say it is a “lighting technique,” a metaphor. Example: Woman brushes teeth, family dines, man buys cigarettes in a corner store on daytime, board meeting etcetera. Underexposed scenes make us miss important stuff. “Shot on green screen and rear projection,” whatever. Some say dark lighting has become a bit of a lost art. “Lost art,” they say? That’s “artistic masturbation” to me. 😠🎥😡

Social Media has popularized and glamourized invectives—cussing and cursing—that even those people (old as me) who didn’t spit out bad words unless intensely provoked, toss `em here like “f#@!k!” is obligatory in their daily language. A young person here even snarled at me: “How’d you know a word is a cuss word or not?!?” Many don’t know anymore, I guess. It’s just how they talk. Most likely, they'd ask a barista: "Can I have a fu##!!ing latte, dude?” I reckon. 🤨🗣👥

My accent gets me in awkward situations, or trouble. While living in Las Vegas, I was asked “Where you goin’, man?” / “I am going to look for a cheap slot and play!” (I didn’t mean “slut,” uh huh). In Los Angeles, “What do you think about Southern California?” / “I like the beaches…” (It sure came out as “bitches,” I guess). I once had a German friend in New York City named Gunter. For sure, I never yelled at him “Gunt!” after that weird incident on a crowded E train. 😅😂🤣

Our idiosyncrasies. Or a mode of peculiar behavior. Traits that can be weird or crazy without meaning to be part of the fringes or unordinary, because those seem “cool,” uh huh. Few of my “unnaturals,” aside from my OCD fix: I recycle my coffee. I brew a pot that I consume for a week, microwaving a cup each wake-up time. I wear two layers of socks, 24/7. I meticulously draft/file or organize my Facebook posts before I post them. Seldom I post on impulse. 🧐🤓😎

All These Words, After All These Years.

FOR some deeply personal reasons, I left almost all of my work back home in the Philippines when I flew to New York City on my 38th birthday in 1998. Poems, fiction, essays, newspaper/magazine articles and reviews/criticism and column pieces, TV scripts and sequence treatments, stage plays, grant project drafts, screenplays and storyboards, drawings and illustrations, ad copies and thoughts, art photography, paintings (acrylic and mixed media), publications that I edited/published, organizational brainstorms, comics and graphic novel sketchbooks, political platform germs, songs and lyrics, letters and correspondences, community program proposals designed for legislation, book ideas etc. Boxes and folders of manuscripts, notebooks, wads of bond papers. Mostly written in English although some of my literary output were in Filipino/Tagalog language (a few in Spanish and Ilocano provincial dialect). 

       I started writing by the time I stepped in First Grade and professionally writing as newspaper reporter at age 14. Then, it was non-stop. When I eventually decided to settle here in the US when I “discovered” Asheville (North Carolina) few years later, I never made an effort to retrieve my past work—I simply continued churning out more words and (creative) work.

       My past bodies of work (before I "crashlanded" in America) were distributed among friends and ex-relationships, family house closets, file cabinets of organizations that I belonged, media offices, friends in the countryside, even random people that I met while working as journalist, community organizer, concert producer, traveling cultural worker/researcher and artist/musician. Those were the “unplugged/unwired” years. There were IBM computers, floppy discs and tape recorders and 16mm and 35mm movie cameras—but saving or stocking up work in several devices wasn't a general psyche. It's all hard copies and master tapes. Also, I wasn't very conscious about filing up my work or my mind was so busy creating more work and heeding 3 or 4 “day jobs” and loads of community and/or activism commitments so that a consistent, sustained file system didn't have room in my busy, erratic, gungho, cramped up head... 😉✍🙃

A GOOD friend from my theater days in Manila, Joey B., mentioned that he kept a copy of my one-act play, “Maputla ang Ulap sa Laot” (“Clouds are Pale Out in the Sea”). I am sure it was about life in tiny fishing villages where I spent time as writer/researcher and grassroots communications teacher when I was in my early 20s or late-teens. A French friend maintains that I left in her care a crate of writings—handwritten and typed (on typewriter) or printed via those “ancient” noisy IBM machines. She reminded me that she has a copy of a  collection of poems, “The Rainbow is Bleeding," plus an anthology of essays with an intriguing title, “Not Valid for Public Consumption, and other words that I shouldn't have said or written.” 

       Some friends (and ex'es), who are scattered all over the globe, also informed me that I left them notebooks of doodles and/or verses, sheaves of handwritten words on loose bond papers and musty notebooks, prose on personalized cards, lead sheets on music pads, paintings (acrylic and ink), cassette tapes of demos, words and words on fancy scrapbooks  etc etcetera. I also had this practice of writing a few words (poetry, prose) on whatever piece of paper that I could grab and then handing it to whoever was around for keepsake, like a gift. I am glad that some of those beautiful people kept some of those little yarns... I write everyday like it's breathing—I produce work like it's all I do, if I don't do it, I die. 

       So from NYC/summer of 1998 to this very moment, you could imagine the volume of hard copies and megabytes of computer space juices and dirt that I already produced or accumulated—out of my crazy, crazy mind. 

       I am a poor fellow at age 55 with five grown-up kids treading their own paths. I am not sure if I'd be able to leave my kids something on the line of inheritance or trust, in the form of bank accounts and properties/assets—although I am still trying. Maybe a grandfather actually left me a cattle farm somewhere in the Pacific, LOL! Anyhow, all I got are my work. Work that hopefully will amount to many books, movies, projects, stuff and whatever they could be used for. 😉✍🙃

MEANTIME, I just want to keep on writing and writing and writing--whether these get published or not. Years ago, I used to pursue most of these while sharing ideas with colleagues, friends and strangers—in small inner city cafes and barrio farm fields or oceansides, or workers picketlines, commuter bus, terminals. My writing process was always part of my steady, sustained interaction with people. 

       Sadly, I don't have that “luxury” anymore, around my circumstances and situation in the US. We are inside this little gizmo called computers and fiddling around in social media circles. I wish it is easy these days to just sit down and discuss a screenplay's progression or a poem's birthing from a coffeecup without sounding rude, condescending, politically-incorrect, provocateur, or just talky and boring. Every word that comes out of our mouths is a target for a kind of in-depth scrutiny for its sense or sensitivity, although this reflex and response happen at a quicksilver pace. Confused. Attached yet detached; connected yet disconnected. 😉✍🙃

I ALWAYS say that it was easier to write and create before because it was easier to be human and alive in those days, almost instinctive—no matter how physically unpleasing or mentally/emotionally harsh the times when I produced volumes of work. More importantly, it was easier to be recognized or validated and confirmed with whatever I wrote—the work is right there on their hands. 

       These days, I can write 15 poems in 3 days, but once I saved that on my hard drive, it's almost forgotten since more words are going to inhabit and crowd my hard drive and thumb drives, anyway, in the next 12 hours--all funneled in the internet well. One post is a blink because I will be posting more in the next minute. But then many years ago, as I loosely and nonchalantly handed out my work to people, or left them somewhere, they kept and treasured them. 

       Hence, my soul is saved, my spirit exists. No Apple app or the most expensive computer gadget could ever do that. The surest depository or undying bank of human thoughts is the human heart. It never forgets. That is the only way how to live forever as a writer--or as a human being. 😉✍🙃

SOMETIMES, we need rituals to intercede, mediate, or simply act as pesky little go-betweens when life suddenly becomes a wee bit too functional for occasional intangibles to penetrate the security locks of our convenient lives. These are the moments when cash registers forget to calculate, greenbacks turn pale yellow, traffic lights turn blue… moments when a child’s angelic grin melts icebergs, a two-line poetry outwits volumes of mathematical theories, a warm kiss dissolves a hundred world wars, and the mere presence of a Muse changes the tone of day. Always believe in the workings of a heart that beats with a spirit with no shape or color… [--Scribbled on a Greyhound ticket, on my way to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, from New York City. Winter 1999]

IN THE PAST, the only purpose for my writing was to communicate within a specific ideological discourse. I didn’t care whether my work appeals or not to a particular cultural belief or political spectrum. I kept my well-guarded bias tucked in my sleeves and sneered at contrary thinking... I admit, most of what I stood for when I was in my 20s are pretty much still beating in my system—but I’ve learned to also see beyond and appreciate the human depth of things that I didn’t believe in. These days, I’d like humanity to read me—whether they agree or disagree. In that way, I belong. I will only belong in life’s community if my spirit is read beyond my covers. We are so different from each other but it doesn’t mean we can’t coexist…

I ALWAYS hear most say that Asians are not “high on emotion.” Seldom they scream elation or openly weep in public—or say hello, thank you, I’m sorry, or good luck—as frequently as the way we’re accustomed to do in the Western world.

Asians are seemingly distant, remote, unaffected.

Not true…

We are a people who travel far, toil in deserts and war fields and jungles, and leave families behind for years—and come home for a month each year to share the fruits of their labor like it’s all that matters. A people who bury their dead in thousands, and witness their shanties blown away by typhoons and floods each year. People who mourn 5 months, and celebrate 7 months a year—to their hearts’ content, because life is a gift from God, not a privilege from society.

We can take misery anytime—bare bones and raw spirit… as we savor blessings like happiness comes only once a year.

We are a people who could fall in love almost instantly, after a warm evening of intimacy, and believe in it as a human truth—and will hang on to that promise of togetherness till the day we die. A people who forged formidable friendships, life through death, after a shared dinner or rice wine on a rainy day...

[--PPascua, from “Waiting for Winter,” a working novel]