bluerain

“…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’”

- Kerouac, Jack (John)
On The Road, pt.1, ch.1.

It snowed in Tallaght.

Glorious it was on the first day. The intense whiteness of the pavements and lawns reminded me of Christmas winters, the ones I read in books as a child, and of snowmen and sleds, and of Christmas carols. The world was serene. I was blissful for a moment.

It went on for three more days and the chill and the damp became insufferable.

Then the Scotch mist came after the snow. It did not melt the snow, for it was a few degrees almost nil. And the snow mixed with the rain, became ice on the road – slippery, jagged, and cold. It started to snow again, but it melted quicker than it can touch the ground, for everywhere was drenched.

And children never came out to play anymore; snowmen left to melt.

My scrawny fingers too frozen to even turn on the immersion, and I lay in the bitter chill, grubby and befuddled. If anything, I had expected things to be different, to be joyful.

Maybe, it is too much to expect from a snow. It went away swiftly as it came; beautiful and faultless at first, but intolerable in the end. It could not even touch ground.

Ah, too foolish for me to seek things I know of to be impossible to possess. You cannot bottle such beauty. Like everything else, I must learn to let go and move on. The icy pain lingers, but not for long. There will always be another winter; the next time around, it will be whiter, and it will not hurt.

Besides, what is a snow then, but a frozen dew, that in as much as it came from heaven is neither saint nor an angel, but heartless, and cold.

Heartless and cold.

- bluerain

felt the warmth of the sun on my brow

as I stared inanely from my porthole

not searching for anything

just watching them spectre pass by

and they never say hello

dead like the void

you have left in me

yet oddly enough

things get listless

and though lifeless they maybe

i refuse to surrender

from the pall that is winter

intermittently glad

that the tears have dried up

if i were greek

i would have prayed for anteros

hoping that i will be avenged

and perhaps ease the gnawing that i confuse

for something like affection

i told myself to forget

and yet the voice in my head was asking

why forget? how would you fail to remember?

you long to be possessed

you long to be sought

yet like the ardour of orpheus

ours was a tragedy from the start

I often wondered why

aphrodite was never lauded

now I understand

for what she wrought was deadly and hurtful

oh, if she only knew

I shall never linger for you

so I’ll try

and let the sun burn my brow

for nothing

not even the cold winter sun

can deaden the ache

caused by a bare cavity

where a heart is missed

- bluerain

It was the thrift shop, of all places;

twice, our paths crossed.

It was nippy, pure and unexpected.

Your heart poured out.

Wasn’t sure, was it compassion?

Was it amusement?

Whatever, you almost had me.

I was mesmerised.

Days, weeks, months - they went by,

I was happy.

Thought you were happy.

But building castles in the clouds,

you see, they don’t stand

and I was left chasing

the fading scent

I once sniffed on your lapel.

I had troubles remembering.

It was swift, sweet and baffling.

I’d like to ponder the reasons

– of you and me, the fall,

and your raison d’être –

but such questions were never meant

to be asked.

Need you to grow.

I should know,

I was once like you.

I was you.

The heartbreaker,

finally, had his heart broken,

in such a nippy, sweet and strange way.

Shame,

you almost had me.

- bluerain

One of the older lads in the group just could not believe that he is doing this. His wife thinks that he is having a midlife crisis at 50 years of age. I told him that he’s not alone, and that I started having my midlife crisis when I was seventeen, and they all laughed. At least that eased the tension, not to mention that putting up a ’soaked and cold’ wetsuit is a struggle. A bit difficult for guys really, not only are we indecently exposed and vulnerable, our bits and pieces are all in the wrong places. I had all these mistaken impressions of wetsuits, they were not glamorous for one - well, it is actually if you do have a ripping six packs and all the muscles in proper places, but not all of us are made that way.

I always dreamed of surfing. I promised myself that this is one thing I needed to do before I die. The first beach that we were brought to was the Rossnowlagh beach, up north of Bundoran. The waves are a bit mellow and picks up the south winds very well. It was said to be good for beginners like us.

It was the long board for me and it took me just two tries before I managed to stand up on my board. I was ecstatic and so proud of myself. The doubts that we were all having during the dry land lessons vanished, when slowly, most of us managed to stand on our boards. On my second day, our instructor, Killian O’Kelly, gave me a smaller board, and told me I am promoted and I’m ready for the next stage. A smaller board is a badge of honour; difficult to use but best for manoeuvring with the waves.

bundoran

The hard part was catching a wave. Instinct and skills (and a little bit of luck) play a big role here. It wasn’t that difficult, but seriously, you can feel your muscles bursting – fighting the waves (which were swelling by the hour), manoeuvring your board, swimming - all these take a toll on you. No wonder most surfers are ridiculously fit (damn aussies!).

millennium sculpture, bundoran

tullan strand beach

I read somewhere that most surfers would not like to
share a wave with another surfer; it is hard to be surfing side by side with another wave rider. They needed to fight
for their own little turf. Space and gigantic waves are a plenty in Bundoran, that’s why most of the surfers around there were quite happy with their space. They don’t need to elbow and kick each other to catch a wave. It helps that the water is freezing, no bathers around too. The wetsuits were actually amazing, they do keep you warm. We were never cold at all.

Bundoran, is a little town on the coast of county Donegal. In recent years it has become well known to surfers worldwide. Not only does it have breathtaking sceneries, the beaches have surf breaks that are suitable for beginners. The two beaches
that we went were the Rossnowlagh and Streedagh (off Sligo, another town, technically). Other beaches like the Tullan Strand and The Peak are much more for experts – they have gigantic, rough waves, and some undercurrents that are quite dangerous if you don’t know what you are doing.

Bundoran is a bustling little town. It has become a haven for campers, kids and families on a summer holiday. In summer
they have all these rides, circus, music festivals, etc., and the town is busy. On my last night in Bundoran, I went out to watch Shayne Ward’s concert. It was unplanned, but since he was doing the gig there and I was there, well, I said why not. I went with this older couple and I thank God I was sitting with them, because when the tweenies started screaming, I thought I was going to go blind, not deaf but blind! The wailing screams were enough to burst your head! It was good craic (as the Irish
would say). Nothing spectacular with Shayne, just all the sexy dancing and whinny singing that he is known for and the tweenies loved it, so did the cougars mums/grannies! The lads in the audience were all acting butch and serious (not wanting to show that they were having a good time, too), of course their excuse was that they just went with their partners/mums, etc.,
I’m not easily fooled though.

While in Bundoran, I stayed in Turf N’Surf lodge, they run both surfing school and bed and breakfast facilities. In the morning they have surfing lessons for kids and in the afternoon, for adults. On weekends, they do yoga-surfing lessons. Surfing with the group was a Canadian lad who was a solo traveller like me.  Visiting Germany, then Ireland and soon Scotland, as part of his dream to discover his roots being Irish-Scottish - he will be traveling to an island in Scotland that has a population of just over 90 people. I think he’s mad – he reads Albert Camus (and I was impressed with that, as we went on discussing about Camus and ‘existentialism’) and he surfs wicked.

the cheese guy

I admire individuals who have the courage to travel all by
themselves. I met one Japanese girl in Italy who did exactly the same thing, and she did not even speak a word of English. Made me remember Mark Twain when he wrote: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover

letterkenny, co. donegal

I left Bunduron on a Friday morning and went up to Donegal
town. Joined a tour group that went up to Donegal bay, the fishing village of Killibegs, Bluestack Mountains, and all day long we were witness to the breath taking scenery that is Donegal. In the evening, I went further up to Letterkenney, the gateway to the northwest of Ireland. I was knackered. I made a previous overnight booking at Gallaghers Hotel (a three-star hotel) and was lucky enough to get an executive promo, 65 euro a night for a double bedroom. Highly recommended indeed, the hotel was outstanding. Room service was cheap and
the meal was fantastic. Yes, I decided to pamper myself, thank you. All the surfing and hill-walking has drained me. A little pampering before I go back to Dublin the next day wouldn’t hurt, not at all.

church square, letterkenny

Travelling is the best education you can get in your
life. You learn more than what you can read in travel magazines. It is life and culture presenting to you in real time. I always think that you become a different person after every
journey - not necessarily a better person, but richer in essence.

- bluerain

For some moment,
succinct and awe-inspiring,
some munificent deity decided to loan the world
an angel with the gift of the spoken word.
And her words were like ice and fire,
bottled like a concoction,
that freed the world,
that mesmerized,
even for some brief seconds,
we pondered her words, and saw truth – naked.
She was called back,
and has now sailed in her sleep
back to the roguish deity,
who knew that with her little voice,
some others might listen and understand;
and not only a handful did.
Sail now, Shannon,
the poet will be missed,
but the poetry, like your essence, lingers.

 - bluerain

On Saturday June 14^th,  poet and artist, Shannon Leigh Lewis (age 20),
got into a cave diving accident at Ginnie Springs in Florida. On June
30, 2008, she head on to her spiritual quest, on to her next great
adventure.

Click out link to YouTube:

Sudanese Children by Shannon Leigh (HBO: Def Poetry)

Poetry by Shannon Leigh (January 2008):

For the people planning to picket Heath Ledger’s funeral
because he did Brokeback Mountain

Christ, what have they done to your hands
they have filled them with placards
and sewn up your tendons with cotton

I remember you used to bleed.
This is not my Calvary, the M-4
in your arms held stiffly with broken shoulder arched
this is not my cross, at its foot I
don’t remember those small skulls
listen closely. They have fed
your starving with salt and sulfur
AIDS and typhoid your birthplace
is the grave of some woman or some
small child and they say this
is righteousness.

A child stuck with needles rubbed with cocaine
and fucked by her mother’s man a woman
cut out of herself, her dark dreams
spread open and excised, in India
white women pay the poor to carry their children
this is the world
for which you died that
sacrificial offering that paved
these bloodrun streets
your sons are holding makeshift grenades
and bringing knives into grade schools
your daughters are bleeding out
in crowded waiting rooms and God,
what have they done to your words

they are tattered, buried in shrouds of silver this
is not my God

who was a man
who did no great thing but speak
to the poor and outcast and then die
raging at the fate he wished
he knew, he had
skin then
bright fire-eyes and open hands
scar-dotted and waiting
born of an unmarried woman who said to save herself
that she was holy
and made him believe, those hands
are not signposts
that cross is not a billboard with a picture
of a baby that blood
is only blood like ours, Christ

what have we done to you
you simple country carpenter you
perfectly timed suicide you lover
of the blasphemous listen closely:
don’t come back.

We will see your feet and call you beggar
we will feed you with the fat
the rich discard and your teeth will rot away you
will be denied shelter and we will not care
even enough
to kill you

you will always deserve it. You will be
freak, john, junkie, you will catch lice from shelter pillows
and we will call you bum
the refugee camps will have no room for you the buses
will not stop and street miracles
will not even get you airtime

don’t come back

when you hug men you will be called
faggot when we hear you preach
we will call you Jew at least that
has not changed and when
we come for you, there will be no trial
only an ambulance
restraints and syringes. Slowly

you will forget you are God
and write mad poetry on your skin
with felt-tip pens the nurses
will call you quiet and we will never
remember your name.

I remember you bled once
and I was too young to believe it was for me

do you still remember wood
beneath your palms, do you still
love the starving and the lame
or do you wish for a lesser death
wondering how we can possibly believe
this has all been for you
if you open up your hands
will you be home again

don’t wait for us.

You’ve already seen what we
think of your
forgiveness.

The last few months have been quite interesting to say the least. How can I put it in a way that will prevent me from explaining everything in detail (as I am sure nobody will be interested anyway)? Maybe I will write in fragmented thoughts, you see, I think of myself more of a receptive fool than a writer.

First and foremost, I have just completed my “work-related” 10-week course, and then I should mention that I just bought a Canon EOS DSLR and will soon embark in a serious attempt at amateur photography (a rather overdue Christmas present for myself). I will start volunteering work shortly (for AIDS prevention), as well as joining a running group every Saturday (that’ll be next year of course).

There’s the case of my beloved colleague, friend and mentor, who decided to say goodbye to this rather unkind world and brought it upon herself to put an end to her own life. I shall not judge her resolution, for I, too, have seen the futility of life. So often, it has revealed itself in the most disconsolate and heart-wrenching prospect
no human-being should endure. Yet, there, too, exists love and beauty. If for these alone, life is worth a second try, or a third, or a fourth, etc.

I am going home, after almost two years. I have never been home since my father passed away. Zamboanga? I have never seen the place for 13 years. I am a gypsy. I never stay in one place for long.

I recently watched ‘A Guide To Recognizing Your Saints’ –
amazing piece of work. Definitely, amazing, that is all I can say. Like a spike that drove right through my heart. Maybe, being clinically melancholic makes me relate to a whole lot of shit in the world, but this piece of film definitely did hit me.

I am going home, and I don’t know what to expect. Like in the film (and in the book), the writer said – “In the end, I left everybody behind, but nobody, nobody left me.”

It’s two degrees Celsius outside and I have decided to put
on an extra piece of clothing and set up the heater to 27 deg. Funny, how we can never be contented with what we have. We want a warmer climate when it’s snowing outside, we want snow when it’s scorching, we want a tan when we’re too white, and we want to be white when we’re dark.

And there’s the case of those abandoned children in  Mongolia who sleep in the sewers where the heated pipelines are. They keep themselves warm by sleeping near the pipelines and most often, they get burned and scalded. Some needed to commit petty crimes just so
that they will be thrown in jail where there will be decent food, warmth and shelter.

Nowadays, I buy my clothes not only to keep me warm, I also buy them to make me look and feel good, I really don’t care much what they cost. Some of us will get into
photography next year or join a gym or something, some will even get ‘to recognize their own personal saints’ and I’m sure some will think that it’s a waste to exist in this world and go blow their brains out, and yet there are those who can’t even turn the heater on and desperately seek some warmth even in the cruelest circumstances, just so that they will live one day more, because they know in their little hearts, that if they hold on, that there is a world out there that is kind, loving and beautiful waiting for them, a place that is worth staying alive for.

-bluerain

I don’t want to sound preachy or anything, but one of these
days, we will have to face the fact that our world is dying. I know that most of us are too absorbed with
our own remarkable lives that almost nothing daunts us when it comes to news
about our environment and nature as a whole. This brings me back to high school while studying biology in class. I’m sure most of us remember the unlucky frog
project, where you need to find a frog, boil it, take its skin/tissue off
(yeah, I know, grotesque!), and construct a masterpiece of perfectly pieced
and framed frog bones. If you are one of
those people who never bought their projects in a flea market and instead went
through the tedious process of catching a frog (and not a toad), finding a
special sanctuary (in their backyard) to set up their cooking tent so that their
mothers won’t find out that they are using her ‘caserola’ to cook their frog, then
you would know for a fact that you cannot put a frog in a boiling water. One of three things will happen if you put a
frog in a kettle of boiling water – one, you will need to go through the whole
process of frog hunting again because the frog will jump out of the kettle quicker
than you can say “pu—- ina!”, two, you will faint at the sight of a crying,
begging frog that could not jump out of the kettle and you will be scarred for
life and become a social deviant, or three, you will drop high school because
your frog jump out of the kettle, spattered boiling water all over you and you
screamed like a girl, your mother heard you and found out about the ‘caserola’
and decided that you are too retarded for a regular school! – But, there is an
easy way to tame your little green friend, get tap water, put the frog in it,
place it on a stove and cook it on low fire. The frog will slowly feel
comfortable, and eventually fall asleep and before it can wake up and smell the
coffee, you are showing its bones to your biology teacher! Hah! It’s the same
with humans really.  Climate change is
happening whether we acknowledge it or not. Only the most retarded of us all could not notice the signs. We only act when changes in our lives are
abrupt and immediately threatening. We
are like frogs lying comfortably in a kettle of soon to be boiling water. Unless we do something about it, most of us
will never know what hit us.

Let us start doing our share in preserving the only planet
we have. Soon I will be posting some
simple ideas that we can do to help in our war against global warming. In Ireland we have this concept of “the Power of One” – which I will share next. You, my friend can start by spreading facts
and news about climate change to your friends and neighbours.

For more information on climate change please check out these
links:   

http://www.ncdc.noaa.gov/oa/climate/globalwarming.html

http://www.liveneutral.org/

http://www.carbonfund.org/site/

http://www.stopglobalwarming.org/

There are a lot more information that we can get from the
net. Let your voice be heard, stand up
and show your support in our fight to end global warming. - bluerain

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we
are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most
frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented
and fabulous? Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your
playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about
shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to
make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us;
it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other
people permission to do the same.

Nelson Mandela 1994 Inaugural Speech

Tiene vez
ta olvida tu el mga cara, nombre, lugar y mga palabra para crea un descripción
na ciudad donde tu ya engranda, mas difícil si ya dura tu no-hay volve o si
hende man, hende tu tanto ta usa el di tu lenguaje firmé. El di mi memoria tiene vez ta juga con di mi
cabeza, como un ‘puzzle’, calayat y nuay
na lugar; como un película donde el un gente ta suña - un sueño pero pedazo y
tiene vez no-hay man cosa quiere decir, basta lang.

Tiene vez,
ta acorda yo el casa del mi aguela na calle carmen. El casa na entra medio de agua, el taytayan,
el ‘quadrosonic’, el prito huevos. Na di
mi sueno, como bata yo ule, ta corre na aplaya, mi tata ta pesca na aplaya, el
arena blanco, el sol de tarde, y el boulevard. Y el Tumaga, el otro sitio donde yo ya engranda también - el rio
de Tumaga, el ‘hanging bridge’ (donde si de veras tu hombre necesita tu brinca!
Mga locuras y tonterías cuando mga bata pa kame ay ta cre gayot!). El mga palabras cuando mga bata pa kame, ay
no puede usa na casa – ‘chingga!’, ‘coño ‘bu nana!’, ‘cabron!’ – si hende ay
hinca tu un hora na sal!

Bien facil
olvida todo este. Mas facil si lejos ya
tu na lugar donde tu ya engranda, mucho cosas ta perde ya na di mi memoria.
Cuando antes todo las cosas simple y no-hay complicación, ahora todo necesita
razón, necesita explanación, y necesita practícal. Tiene vez, mas bastante era si todo cosas mas
apacible. Pero antes aquel, otro ya
ara. Pero masquen donde man yo llega na
otro parte del mundo, na mi corazon, ay esta yo zamboangueño - hasta para
quando.

- bluerain

(hell! what am i thinking? - posting my HS pics! anyway, unless somebody discovers this blog, i’m doing this for posterity sake!)