There was an old man who lived in a small home atop a hill; his house overlooked an eternal meadow of foxgloves as far as the eye could see. When the wind blew through the flowers it was as if his house was an ark upon the neverending purple waves. Inside this house was one large room with a solitary wooden chair in the center. The old man would pace so much around this chair that indents of perpetual footsteps formed a ring of lost agitation around the musty wooden floor. There were no doors leading into or out of the house, a single cramped round window high up the dark wooden wall was the only opening. Sunlight would flow though this diminutive entrance onto the chair, warming the small circular patch of the quiet home.
But the old man was not alone in this room. The towering dark walls held ninety-nine perches. And upon these perches sat ninety-nine birds.
Ninety-nine birds. Groups of dignified flamingos, syndicates of shrewd hawks, troupes of cheerful sparrows, bands of flamboyant parrots, huddles of brooding vultures, and many more; they all lined the walls around him, making no sound. A thick silence spread like seeping darkness through the nooks and cracks of the man’s derelict home, brusquely punctuated as he paced over the creaking floorboards. And he paced. And paced. And paced.
One day something unusual happened. A nightingale fluttered down through the window to the shoulder of the old man. A feathery dream riding the river of light, a stranger, a hundredth bird in this room of ninety-nine. But the old man did not falter at this; in fact he smiled for the first time and slowly drifted to the chair in the center of the room. "Shall I tell you a story?" he whispered to the small bird. Gently resting himself on the chair's hard wooden surface, he stroked the soft head of the nightingale; and with his quiet aged voice, he spoke to her. He told her stories of a magnificent world from his imagination, of short laughing children and tall white mountains. The bird loved these stories and day after day she remained upon his shoulder, enamored by his magnificent words. After many days the old man asked a question. They were the first words to leave his mouth for a long time and were full of mysterious beauty. "Do you love me Nightingale?" "Yes" she answered almost immediately, as every other bird in the room turned to watch. "How much do you love me Nightingale?" wheezed the old man. Surely there was madness now to what he asked, he knew not why he continued. The bird’s small dark eyes fixed upon those discolored orbs of the man, and she answered him with her song. Her song lifted the feathers of all the other birds but most of all it pumped through the weak heart of the old man. Its beautiful tune washed over him like a cooling shower that relaxed his being, and he was so at peace with the nightingale’s aria that tears ebbed over the heavily lined rondure of his cheeks.
Slowly his hands grasped the still singing bird and he gripped her slightly in his palm.
The days went by and the man continued to munificently rhapsodize and the nightingale continued to sing; and as time wore on, the old man’s grip gradually grew tighter. But the nightingale’s song only grew sweeter. It was a tale of dreams. The two tones intermingled together, song and story, to create a steady hum that reverberated throughout the room. The birds around the two grew vexatious. One by one they flew down to the old man and they whispered in his ear.
"Let go." "She lies." "You mean nothing to her." "She is nothing to you." "Her lies are your desperation." "Her soul is your fear." "She does not exist."
But the poor old man did not listen to the birds, giving up their efforts they flew back to their respective perches and watched him settle upon the wooden chair. Some watched with eyes reeking with vindictive spite, others with mingled confusion and worry. Nothing changed until one day a canary flew to the outstretched arm of the old man clutching the nightingale. He spoke with the singing bird and wrenched her out of the old man’s spindly fingers with his beak. The nightingale was free, she glanced at the canary and together the two of them flew across the room in circles chirping together. The man stretched out his wrinkled hands to the birds, like aged white trees they craned in the wind of his desire. The canary laughed maliciously at him. "Men do not have wings." it sneered, "you cannot fly." And so it was true.
Day after day the canary and the nightingale flew around the room together, her feathery back was always cast at the old man. He sat alone in the chair, watching somberly through his glistening patch of daylight. The vultures would cackle wickedly.
"We told you." "Even such nascent a dream shall only be a transitory craving." "She does not exist." "She was never meant to be."
But as always, the old man turned a deaf ear to the sneers of the vultures and other birds. "Let me tell you a story," he called to the nightingale "Come here and sing me a song." But she would never reply. “In a house of ninety-nine birds, there is no room for one hundred. She cannot exist.” said the canary to the old man. And one day, the old man could only watch as the canary flew along with the evanescent nightingale out through the open window and into the dazzling sunlight.
Surrounded by silent birds, the old man suddenly felt more alone than he ever had been. He roared with all his might for the nightingale to return to him but all that was gained was a ripping feeling in his throat. Suddenly he became aware of the absence of sound in his house and he grew weary. He saw flashes of the canary’s cold eyes and new, abrasive thoughts sprouted in his head. There was no way in or out of this house except a small window incredibly high up the wall, which he faced. How was such a thing possible? Where was he? How did he get here? He felt trapped, startled. The beam of sunlight cast by the window made a large bright circle in the center of the room, outlined by a rim of fading footprints, ghosts of a lost agitation. Here the old man sat in his chair. The rest of the house was engulfed in thick velvety shadow, there the birds rested on their perches, winged sentinels of the dark. They were ever as still as the man they watched, swaying only to the vibrations of his vociferant thoughts and rattling breaths. He pushed his arms on the ends of the chair to lift himself but found he could not move, looking down he saw that he had no legs. Perhaps they had gradually faded away from lack of use. Perhaps he never had legs at all, the old man could no longer remember. The birds that scorned him in the past smirked and pointed with their long wings.
"She could never be, so she will never return." they whispered as one.
So he sat in his chair, his mouth sagging open as he fell into spotty patterns of sleep and stupor. Glimpses of the canary riddled and numbed his thoughts. He was no longer certain when he was awake or when he was dreaming, both worlds seemed just as aphotic and destitute.
He dreamt of the nightingale one day, she had rested in the open palm of his hand. She sang. And sang. And when she stopped she gently brushed his stale tears with her soft wings. But when he opened his eyes, he was quite alone as he had been.
"How long must I wait to die?" began to feebly escape his dry lips. They were the only words that did, ticking through the air like a beat, like a mantra, continuing on and on.
"It is your curse." rang a sharp voice of fate throughout the room. Immediately silenced, the old man responded to this anomalous sound of unbreakable destiny. Peering to the side he saw a raven watching him beadily, it pulsated with fierce omnipotence. "Ninety-nine lives." piped up the raven again, "It is your curse. You will live ninety-nine lives."
And so the man sat taciturnly. He never blinked but stared off at nothing in particular, always wondering. His mind had fallen into a bizarre limbo as sharp yet subtle chords of sense and insanity and light and darkness tightly wrapped around eachother, cutting a swelling chasm of space. Time drifted along and the old man had not moved from his chair. Every so often, feeling the time of its death, one of the many birds would fly out the open window and the old man would feel a tiny part of him fading away. Twenty-nine had gone. Fifty-four had gone. Eighty-one had gone. Ninety-seven had gone. The canary returned alone to sit upon the sill of the window. It watched the old man for a while who looked now like a decaying gray statue.
"Fly to me old man." it whispered softly. And with those words the canary flew away to the flowers outside and died among the rest.
It was only the old man and the raven now. "The end approaches" the raven said heavily. It grimly watched him, its black eyes like shadowy yet inescapable tunnels to nowhere. "Ninety-nine lives" it called to him one last time as it too flew out the window to its death.
In this decrepit house with one room, there was not a single opening save for the small circular window above, there was a solitary wooden chair in the center which sat an old man who had not moved for a long, long time. Ninety-nine empty wooden perches lined the lofty walls of this house, phantoms of their winged inhabitants. Ninety-nine birds had once sat on these perches, but the old man could no longer remember. He sat and he waited and he waited and he sat. Day after day after day after day. Not a sound penetrated his ears, not a sound escaped his lips. Not a single movement occurred in the house. All time, sound, space, and matter, had become encapsulated in a single drop of existence, a drop that hung at the edge, a drop that waited to fall.
And then one day, after what felt like eternities, it happened. One bird flew through the window and landed on the old man’s shoulder. He did not turn his eyes nor did he reach out his palm to clasp the bird he had never forgotten. But the drop burst. The chasm filled. "Old man," whispered the nightingale, "I came once before. Do you remember?" The old man nodded. "I have seen the world,” continued the nightingale, "It is beautiful. Shall I tell you my story?" For the first time in a long time, the corners of the old man’s mouth lifted and he smiled. "Sing me your story." he murmured softly.
And so the nightingale opened its beak and began its aria. The tune of the song spread to every corner of the house, lighting it brilliantly with its musical incandescence. The major chords rang with tales of love and promise, while the minor hummed with waves of sadness and violence. The intricate power of every feeling to ever exist rang through the old man and he closed his eyes, tears blooming over with the sublime beauty of it all.
Perhaps the nightingale was only a dream, for in a house of ninety-nine, there was no room for one hundred. Ninety-nine birds had left the house. Ninety-nine deaths the old man had died. But one hundred lives the old man had lived. This final bird, never meant to be, returned to him and this song, this story, is what it had brought. The music danced through the air and then began to steadily fade. With a rushing sensation, the old man could feel himself gently lifted out of the wooden chair and through the open window.. As the nightingale flew away to the distance, he was carried through the wind, passing over the rolling hills of foxgloves. It was as if he himself was a bird, flying into the dazzling sunlight over the neverending purple waves.
"Goodbye."
It was a tale of eternity. The two tones intermingled together; song and story, to create a steady hum that reverberated throughout the world.
Also, I had an idea for a collaborative performance. Something along the lines of "Never leave a love letter unsent." It would be a compilation of letters or phrases never said out loud. A piece of secrets told together.
Identity Piece: You don't know me@ You know nothing of this clash of culture cultivated through love to create... this. Evan amongst the transience in a building built to deliver passage to those seeking pilgrimage unto this acclaimed "Land of the Free," you'd neever know me nor my Filipino mother who worked her whole life to set foot on this dirt called America.
It's dirt, rather filth, thickens with the ashes of desecrated souls looking for nothing but a space to call home. And no, my daddt never earned his 40 acres of that damn mule.
And i don't expect you to relate for my skin is a benevolent symbol of peace covered up by ignorance in the form of reveries vouched by blinded men unable to sanctify interracial matrimonys. However, i stand color blind by gaining conciousness collected through courage to counter those cowards content with categorizing Earth's man cultures.
I am filipino and black, try to fill a bubble with that.
working on a piece right now about different emotions, confusion and feeling lost. I will get it done as soon as possible. I promise.
I also have another piece that I was thinking about. It is already written but it is back at home. I will get it this weekend. I did not mention it because I know that we already have a lot of pieces. But I still wanted to mention it. It is a poem called Breathe. It talks about someone who is suffocating because they are being oppressed by love.
"...It's dirt, rather filth thickens with the ashes of dessecrated souls loking for nothing but a space to call home. And no my father, roots calling back to slavery when masser cracked the whip to scar insecurities upon the backs of men still swimming toward the sun, swimming past the fools--- calling dark skin inferior, finding black man rising superior. But no my daddy never got his 40 acres or that mule..."
Radiohead once sang to me "I want a perfect body, I want perfect soul, but I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo, I wish I was special, so fucking special". We all want to be special, my whole life I've been trying to figure out why am I special. What do I have to do to put that "extra" in this "ordinary" Unfortunately, in this land of freedom, self esteem has never been free body figure , social status, college degree, we're all been driven by greed. And now, society wants you to be yourself, but reject any differences that might disturb the wealth. Commonality, it is what we're all been searching for, but what happen when I have to assimilate till I can't speak my language no more. And now, I've lost my heritage, replacing my history with disadvantage. You can ask me to repeat every sentence. But just remember, not every is good at second language. language.... I don't remember how to spell my language..... Well, go on, laugh at it too. Talk shit about someone you never knew. Label people as the inferior, cause they can't speak their English as well as you. Pause - and - rewind- you can only repeat yourself so many times, you exhaust yourself till you speak with no rhythm or rhyme And before you know it, you've been silenced. Tip-toe across the crowd avoid getting knocked out while keeping balance. And that's why I have shut down my lips, trying to find another way to fight with those ignorant bliss. And that's how I've become an artist and visual artist. I learnt to speak through my work, not through my word. But somehow, society still manage to judge me like they're the eyes of the lord. My work has become part of the competition blindlessly striving to be better with no definition. That's not what art is about selling your soul till your breath has run out. But now, I've learn to write poetry release my anger and creativity like a gentle symphony. I'll make my word counts I promise, and spit out what's necessary. And maybe.. just maybe I can bring this world together in a better harmony.
So acknowledge me. For I am me and this is who I want to be. I have perfect body, I have perfect soul And won't you please come grow with me. Because we're special so fucking special.
KRYS, here are my editing suggestions for your IDENTITY piece::
Krys: You don't know - me ---this clash of culture cultivated through love to create...ME. Evan amongst the transience in a building built to deliver passage to those seeking pilgrimage (? this is poetic but unclear in meaning…) You don’t know - my Filipino mother who worked her whole life to set foot on this dirt acclaimed "Land of the Free," America/This land’s dirt, rather filth, thickens with the ashes of desecrated souls looking for nothing but a space to call home. You don’t know - my father, roots calling back to slavery when masser cracked the whip to scar insecurities upon the backs of men still swimming toward the sun, swimming past the fools--- calling dark skin inferior, finding black man rising superior. But no my daddy never got his 40 acres or that mule..."
(HOW DID YOUR PARENTS CONNECT – MIX – CULTURE CLASH TO CREATE YOU?)
My skin is a benevolent symbol of peace covered up by ignorance in the form of reveries vouched by blinded men unable to sanctify interracial matrimonies. (However) (←Is this word necessary?) I stand color blind by gaining consciousness collected through courage to counter those cowards content with categorizing culture. I am filipino and black, try to fill a bubble with that.
A little figurine top gilded in gold with the sky for eyes exposed the truth through our tongues twisted with lies And there was no bullshit, I miss you star Did your light go out, I'm an electrical engineer so maybe I can fix it. Maybe the wires got twisted from the acid drops, drip, dripping on your skin twirling every thing from within. Can we go back to basic. Did the ignited wick from lighter flicks desolder the wires tip, opening the circuit, a lost connection we used to call perfect. I loved you You traded me for drugs, and I wonder was it worth it? I once had my chest cut open ribs broken and bent back Vessels visibly pumping blood from my heart, you consumed me like crack And the drugs consumed you right back. You told me you were fine but I read between the lines that time when i felt the vertebrae of your spine in an embrace. I miss that little girl who used to take me to outer space, we shared rice krispie treats to bad music and disrupted the public without meaning, kicking and screaming, You were my favorite high Lets unsmoke us, turn the fumes back glow, then to plants that can grow, I heard the soil is fertile since the sun melted the snow And this is no bullshit. I miss you star.
Don’t mistake my quietness for ignorance I am quiet by both choice and oppression Eternal thoughts perpetuate my mind But I can never find the words to qualify.
I want to speak for justice.
I once spoke with conviction but this tragedy of uncertainty has filled my words with tails that end with, do you feel me? As if I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions Rather my beliefs have been determined by jurisdiction
I want to speak for justice.
Looking for approval and appreciation I need a compilation of support to validate my conclusions See, I think in declarative sentences that have been infected with interrogative impressions
I want to speak for justice.
With dreams of jaws locked shut, I fear my words are insufficient Longing for speeches of substance, free streams of consciousness I wait as I am called on to whisper my reflections But I should be able to speak in the absence of permission
I want to speak for justice
Contrary to popular belief, it is not enough to speak under your breath So I flex my best, fight back, take back, shout straight facts Close my eyes, open wide, no lies, I’ll be noticed Rewriting history, I’m done being courteous. I will speak for justice
IN THE HOUSE OF THE NINETY-NINE BIRDS
ReplyDeleteThere was an old man who lived in a small home atop a hill; his house overlooked
an eternal meadow of foxgloves as far as the eye could see. When the wind blew
through the
flowers it was as if his house was an ark upon the neverending purple waves.
Inside this house was one large room with a solitary wooden chair in the center.
The old man would pace so much around this chair that indents of perpetual
footsteps formed a ring of lost agitation around the musty wooden floor. There
were no doors
leading into or out of the house, a single cramped round window high up the dark
wooden wall was the only opening. Sunlight would flow though this diminutive
entrance onto the chair, warming the small circular patch of the quiet home.
But the old man was not alone in this room. The towering dark walls held
ninety-nine perches. And upon these perches sat ninety-nine birds.
Ninety-nine birds. Groups of dignified flamingos, syndicates of shrewd hawks,
troupes of cheerful sparrows, bands of flamboyant parrots, huddles of brooding
vultures, and many more; they all lined the walls around him, making no sound. A
thick
silence spread like seeping darkness through the nooks and cracks of the man’s
derelict home,
brusquely punctuated as he paced over the creaking floorboards.
And he paced.
And paced.
And paced.
One day something unusual happened. A nightingale fluttered down through the
window to the shoulder of the old man. A feathery dream riding the river of
light, a stranger, a hundredth bird in this room
of ninety-nine.
But the old man did not falter at this; in fact he smiled for the first time and
slowly drifted to the chair in the center of the room.
"Shall I tell you a story?" he whispered to the small bird.
Gently resting himself on the chair's hard wooden surface, he stroked the soft
head of
the nightingale; and with his quiet aged voice, he spoke to her. He told her
stories of a magnificent world from his imagination, of short laughing children
and tall white mountains. The bird loved these stories and day after day she
remained
upon his shoulder, enamored by his magnificent words.
After many days the old man asked a question. They were the first words to leave
his mouth for a long time and were full of mysterious beauty.
"Do you love me Nightingale?"
"Yes" she answered almost immediately, as every other bird in the room turned to
watch.
"How much do you love me Nightingale?" wheezed the old man. Surely there was
madness now to what he asked, he knew not why he continued.
The bird’s small dark eyes fixed upon those discolored orbs of the man, and she
answered him
with her song. Her song lifted the feathers of all the other birds but most of
all it pumped through the weak heart of the old man. Its beautiful tune washed
over him like a cooling shower that relaxed his being, and he was so at peace
with the nightingale’s aria that tears ebbed over the heavily lined rondure of
his cheeks.
Slowly his hands grasped the still singing bird and he gripped her slightly in
ReplyDeletehis palm.
The days went by and the man continued to munificently rhapsodize and the
nightingale
continued to sing; and as time wore on, the old man’s grip gradually grew
tighter.
But the nightingale’s song only grew sweeter.
It was a tale of dreams. The two tones intermingled together, song and story, to
create a steady hum that
reverberated throughout the room.
The birds around the two grew vexatious. One by one they flew down to the old
man and they whispered in his ear.
"Let go."
"She lies."
"You mean nothing to her."
"She is nothing to you."
"Her lies are your desperation."
"Her soul is your fear."
"She does not exist."
But the poor old man did not listen to the birds, giving up their efforts they
flew back to their respective perches and watched him settle upon the wooden
chair. Some watched with eyes reeking with vindictive spite, others with mingled
confusion and worry. Nothing changed until one day a canary flew to the
outstretched arm of the old man clutching the nightingale. He spoke with the
singing bird and wrenched her out of the old man’s spindly fingers with his
beak. The nightingale was free, she glanced at the canary and together the two
of them flew across the room in circles chirping together.
The man stretched out his wrinkled hands to the birds, like aged white trees
they craned in the wind of his desire. The canary laughed
maliciously at him.
"Men do not have wings." it sneered, "you cannot fly."
And so it was true.
Day after day the canary and the nightingale flew around the room together, her
feathery back was always cast at the old man. He sat alone in the chair,
watching somberly through his glistening patch of daylight.
The vultures would cackle wickedly.
"We told you."
"Even such nascent a dream shall only be a transitory craving."
"She does not exist."
"She was never meant to be."
But as always, the old man turned a deaf ear to the sneers of the vultures and
other birds.
"Let me tell you a story," he called to the nightingale "Come here and sing me a
song."
But she would never reply.
“In a house of ninety-nine birds, there is no room for one hundred. She cannot
exist.” said the canary to the old man.
And one day, the old man could only watch as the canary flew along with the
evanescent nightingale out through the open window and into the dazzling
sunlight.
Surrounded by silent birds, the old man suddenly felt more alone than he ever
ReplyDeletehad been. He roared with all his might for the nightingale to return to him but
all that was gained was a ripping feeling in his throat. Suddenly he became
aware of the absence of sound in his house and he grew weary. He saw flashes of
the canary’s cold eyes and new, abrasive thoughts sprouted in his head.
There was no way in or out of this house except a small window incredibly high
up the wall, which he faced. How was such a thing possible? Where was he? How
did he get here? He felt trapped,
startled.
The beam of sunlight cast by the window made a large bright circle in the center
of the room, outlined by a rim of fading footprints, ghosts of a lost agitation.
Here the old man sat in his
chair. The rest of the house was engulfed in thick velvety shadow, there the
birds
rested on their perches, winged sentinels of the dark. They were ever as still
as the man they watched, swaying only to the vibrations of his vociferant
thoughts
and rattling breaths.
He pushed his arms on the ends of the chair to lift himself but found he could
not move, looking down he saw that he had no legs.
Perhaps they had gradually faded away from lack of use.
Perhaps he never had legs at all, the old man could no longer remember.
The birds that scorned him in the past smirked and pointed with their long
wings.
"She could never be, so she will never return." they whispered as one.
So he sat in his chair, his mouth sagging open as he fell into spotty patterns
of sleep and stupor. Glimpses of the canary riddled and numbed his thoughts. He
was no longer certain when he was awake or when he was dreaming, both worlds
seemed just as aphotic and destitute.
He dreamt of the nightingale one day, she had rested in the open palm of his
hand.
She sang.
And sang.
And when she stopped she gently brushed his stale tears with her soft wings.
But when he opened his eyes, he was quite alone as he had been.
"How long must I wait to die?" began to feebly escape his dry lips. They were
the only words that did, ticking through the air like a beat, like a mantra,
continuing on and on.
"It is your curse." rang a sharp voice of fate throughout the room.
ReplyDeleteImmediately silenced, the old man responded to this anomalous sound of
unbreakable destiny. Peering to the side he saw a raven watching him beadily, it
pulsated with fierce omnipotence.
"Ninety-nine lives." piped up the raven again, "It is your curse. You will live
ninety-nine lives."
And so the man sat taciturnly. He never blinked but stared off at nothing in
particular, always wondering. His mind had fallen into a bizarre limbo as sharp
yet subtle chords of sense and insanity and light and darkness tightly wrapped
around eachother, cutting a swelling chasm of space.
Time drifted along and the old man had not moved from his chair. Every so often,
feeling the time of its death, one of the many birds would fly out the open
window and the old man would feel a tiny part of him fading away.
Twenty-nine had gone.
Fifty-four had gone.
Eighty-one had gone.
Ninety-seven had gone.
The canary returned alone to sit upon the sill of the window. It watched the old
man for a while who looked now like a decaying gray statue.
"Fly to me old man." it whispered softly.
And with those words the canary flew away to the flowers outside and died among
the rest.
It was only the old man and the raven now. "The end approaches" the raven said
heavily. It grimly watched him, its black eyes like shadowy yet inescapable
tunnels to nowhere.
"Ninety-nine lives" it called to him one last time as it too flew out the window
to its death.
In this decrepit house with one room, there was not a single opening save
for the small circular window above, there was a solitary wooden chair in the
center which sat an old man who had not moved for a long, long time.
Ninety-nine empty wooden perches lined the lofty walls of this house, phantoms
of their winged inhabitants.
Ninety-nine birds had once sat on these perches, but the old man could no longer
remember.
He sat and he waited and he waited and he sat. Day after day after day after
day. Not a sound penetrated his ears, not a sound escaped his lips. Not a single
movement occurred in the house. All time, sound, space, and matter, had become
encapsulated in a single drop of existence, a drop that hung at the edge, a drop
that waited to fall.
And then one day, after what felt like eternities, it happened. One bird
ReplyDeleteflew through the window and landed on the old man’s shoulder. He did not turn
his eyes nor did he reach out his palm to clasp the bird he had never forgotten.
But the drop burst. The chasm filled.
"Old man," whispered the nightingale, "I came once before. Do you remember?"
The old man nodded.
"I have seen the world,” continued the nightingale, "It is beautiful. Shall I
tell you my story?"
For the first time in a long time, the corners of the old man’s mouth lifted and
he smiled.
"Sing me your story." he murmured softly.
And so the nightingale opened its beak and began its aria. The tune of the song
spread to every corner of the house, lighting it brilliantly with its musical
incandescence. The major chords
rang with tales of love and promise, while the minor hummed with waves of
sadness and violence. The intricate power of every feeling to ever exist rang
through the old man and he closed his eyes, tears blooming over with the sublime
beauty of it all.
Perhaps the nightingale was only a dream, for in a house of ninety-nine, there
was no room for one hundred.
Ninety-nine birds had left the house.
Ninety-nine deaths the old man had died.
But one hundred lives the old man had lived.
This final bird, never meant to be, returned to him and this song, this story,
is what it had brought.
The music danced through the air and then began to steadily fade. With a rushing
sensation, the old man
could feel himself gently lifted out of the wooden chair and through the open
window..
As the nightingale flew away to the distance, he was carried through the wind,
passing over the rolling hills of foxgloves. It was as if he himself was a
bird, flying into the dazzling sunlight over the neverending purple waves.
"Goodbye."
It was a tale of eternity. The two tones intermingled together; song and story,
to create a steady hum that
reverberated throughout the world.
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteAlso, I had an idea for a collaborative performance. Something along the lines of "Never leave a love letter unsent." It would be a compilation of letters or phrases never said out loud. A piece of secrets told together.
ReplyDeleteLastly, *insert love poem w/ Leslie & Sama here*
ReplyDeleteLog Line:
ReplyDelete"i am a manifestation of beauty; of color unbound by the restraints of society-- a voice of melody for those deaf to the sounds of unity.
Identity Piece:
ReplyDeleteYou don't know me@ You know nothing of this clash of culture cultivated through love to create... this. Evan amongst the transience in a building built to deliver passage to those seeking pilgrimage unto this acclaimed "Land of the Free," you'd neever know me nor my Filipino mother who worked her whole life to set foot on this dirt called America.
It's dirt, rather filth, thickens with the ashes of desecrated souls looking for nothing but a space to call home. And no, my daddt never earned his 40 acres of that damn mule.
And i don't expect you to relate for my skin is a benevolent symbol of peace covered up by ignorance in the form of reveries vouched by blinded men unable to sanctify interracial matrimonys. However, i stand color blind by gaining conciousness collected through courage to counter those cowards content with categorizing Earth's man cultures.
I am filipino and black, try to fill a bubble with that.
montoya and my pieces
ReplyDeleteI would also like to do an orgasmic piece
a african dance jazz piece
and a aladdin piece
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteworking on a piece right now about different emotions, confusion and feeling lost. I will get it done as soon as possible. I promise.
ReplyDeleteI also have another piece that I was thinking about. It is already written but it is back at home. I will get it this weekend. I did not mention it because I know that we already have a lot of pieces. But I still wanted to mention it. It is a poem called Breathe. It talks about someone who is suffocating because they are being oppressed by love.
yep :]
identity piece [EDIT]:
ReplyDelete"...It's dirt, rather filth thickens with the ashes of dessecrated souls loking for nothing but a space to call home. And no my father, roots calling back to slavery when masser cracked the whip to scar insecurities upon the backs of men still swimming toward the sun, swimming past the fools--- calling dark skin inferior, finding black man rising superior. But no my daddy never got his 40 acres or that mule..."
Personal piece that will go into identity piece
ReplyDeleteRadiohead once sang to me
"I want a perfect body, I want perfect soul, but I'm a creep, I'm a weirdo, I wish I was special, so fucking special".
We all want to be special, my whole life I've been trying to figure out why am I special.
What do I have to do to put that "extra" in this "ordinary"
Unfortunately,
in this land of freedom, self esteem has never been free
body figure , social status, college degree,
we're all been driven by greed.
And now, society wants you to be yourself, but reject any differences that might disturb the wealth.
Commonality, it is what we're all been searching for,
but what happen when I have to assimilate till I can't speak my language no more.
And now, I've lost my heritage,
replacing my history with disadvantage.
You can ask me to repeat every sentence.
But just remember, not every is good at second language.
language.... I don't remember how to spell my language.....
Well, go on, laugh at it too.
Talk shit about someone you never knew.
Label people as the inferior, cause they can't speak their English as well as you.
Pause - and - rewind-
you can only repeat yourself so many times,
you exhaust yourself till you speak with no rhythm or rhyme
And before you know it, you've been silenced.
Tip-toe across the crowd avoid getting knocked out while keeping balance.
And that's why I have shut down my lips,
trying to find another way to fight with those ignorant bliss.
And that's how I've become an artist
and visual artist.
I learnt to speak through my work, not through my word.
But somehow, society still manage to judge me like they're the eyes of the lord.
My work has become part of the competition
blindlessly striving to be better with no definition.
That's not what art is about selling your soul till your breath has run out.
But now, I've learn to write poetry
release my anger and creativity like a gentle symphony.
I'll make my word counts I promise, and spit out what's necessary.
And maybe.. just maybe
I can bring this world together in a better harmony.
So acknowledge me. For I am me and this is who I want to be.
I have perfect body, I have perfect soul
And won't you please come grow with me.
Because we're special
so fucking special.
KRYS, here are my editing suggestions for your IDENTITY piece::
ReplyDeleteKrys:
You don't know - me
---this clash of culture cultivated through love to create...ME.
Evan amongst the transience in a building built to deliver passage to those seeking pilgrimage (? this is poetic but unclear in meaning…)
You don’t know - my Filipino mother who worked her whole life to set foot on this dirt acclaimed "Land of the Free," America/This land’s dirt, rather filth, thickens with the ashes of desecrated souls looking for nothing but a space to call home.
You don’t know - my father, roots calling back to slavery when masser cracked the whip to scar insecurities upon the backs of men still swimming toward the sun, swimming past the fools--- calling dark skin inferior, finding black man rising superior. But no my daddy never got his 40 acres or that mule..."
(HOW DID YOUR PARENTS CONNECT – MIX – CULTURE CLASH TO CREATE YOU?)
My skin is a benevolent symbol of peace covered up by ignorance in the form of reveries vouched by blinded men unable to sanctify interracial matrimonies.
(However) (←Is this word necessary?) I stand color blind by gaining consciousness collected through courage to counter those cowards content with categorizing culture.
I am filipino and black, try to fill a bubble with that.
!!! I love it !!! strong strong ending.
A little figurine top gilded in gold with the sky for eyes
ReplyDeleteexposed the truth through our tongues twisted with lies
And there was no bullshit, I miss you star
Did your light go out, I'm an electrical engineer so maybe I can fix it. Maybe the wires got twisted from the acid drops, drip, dripping on your skin twirling every thing from within. Can we go back to basic.
Did the ignited wick from lighter flicks desolder the wires tip, opening the circuit, a lost connection we used to call perfect. I loved you
You traded me for drugs, and I wonder was it worth it?
I once had my chest cut open ribs broken and bent back
Vessels visibly pumping blood from my heart, you consumed me like crack
And the drugs consumed you right back.
You told me you were fine but I read between the lines that time when i felt the vertebrae of your spine in an embrace.
I miss that little girl who used to take me to outer space, we shared rice krispie treats to bad music and disrupted the public without meaning, kicking and screaming,
You were my favorite high
Lets unsmoke us, turn the fumes back glow, then to plants that can grow, I heard the soil is fertile since the sun melted the snow
And this is no bullshit. I miss you star.
REVISED Justice Piece. -Anna Marie's Part
ReplyDeleteI want to speak for justice.
Don’t mistake my quietness for ignorance
I am quiet by both choice and oppression
Eternal thoughts perpetuate my mind
But I can never find the words to qualify.
I want to speak for justice.
I once spoke with conviction but this tragedy of uncertainty
has filled my words with tails that end with, do you feel me?
As if I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions
Rather my beliefs have been determined by jurisdiction
I want to speak for justice.
Looking for approval and appreciation
I need a compilation of support to validate my conclusions
See, I think in declarative sentences
that have been infected with interrogative impressions
I want to speak for justice.
With dreams of jaws locked shut, I fear my words are insufficient
Longing for speeches of substance, free streams of consciousness
I wait as I am called on to whisper my reflections
But I should be able to speak in the absence of permission
I want to speak for justice
Contrary to popular belief, it is not enough to speak under your breath
So I flex my best, fight back, take back, shout straight facts
Close my eyes, open wide, no lies, I’ll be noticed
Rewriting history, I’m done being courteous. I will speak for justice