Houston we have a problem

*Among the permanent and temporary pieces displayed at Aphro Living, these framed ones by the entrance has piqued my interest since I first visited the gallery and in subsequent visits. I do love me some spaceman art. Haha! If you do drop by, try the slide. 

Timeless art always possesses the possibility of being timely.

Back in 2014, Emmanuel Santos exhibited some of these pieces in Immanent Geographies, a collection of both topographic and social landscapes by various Filipino artists. This featured familiar locations with stark twists.

Second Earth imagines a hyperreality where an astronaut finds himself in local terrain, however displaced and even out of place in these spaces—of all spaces—but the outer.

I’m partial to astronomical subjects 👽🚀🛰 and postmodern contexts 🤓 yet there’s a grimness to these that make me a little uncomfy but I can’t ignore it.

There’s also a bit of Foucault’s heterotopia in his work, as the astronaut searches for his place in a world that’s comprised of nature, the virtual, and what’s in between. This is relevant in our tech age that propels itself into a progress that could spell self annihilation with no signs of slowing down.

But what of children that wish to stay grounded and mounted to preserving life on the blue green ball of life? Earth born and earth bound dreamers 🌏🌍🌎

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Persisting I

*Passed by the Art Elements Asian Gallery weeks ago with my parents and we discovered Norlie Meimban. Boy would I have loved to take home a piece or have something commissioned. Given his animation background, his style is a lovely mix of techniques and themes that give it a very postmodern look. Would love to meet him someday and see more of his work and how else it can evolve

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that centerpiece!

I’ve been so fixated on his series of unbroken motion depicting ideas of perhaps of a persisting self. I’ll always be curious about the temporal and the causal facets of continuity. Much to read on. Art that makes you think, a feast for the eyes, and food for thought, y’know 😊


Featured images: © Norlie Meimban

Flowers for your thoughts

scha.png

was supposed to do something else for class and I ended up doing this

Safe to say my classmates and I have been thrown outside of our comfort zones for the rest of the term because of contemporary epistemology class. I’ll admit that although it’s been so daunting and stressful, the sort-of-Socratic method-entailing-actual-hard-work kind of teaching style will inevitably be for our own good and growth, hence you’ve got yourself some sun flowers for all that thinking and analyzing.

While reviewing the philosophy textbook for senior high school, one of the reviewers quipped that the book is not an easy read. She worries that teachers and students might not understand it. A colleague replied that unfortunately, there is no better way to teach or do philosophy. Though philosophy students generally think that philosophy is difficult, I think they often forget why it is so. It is not because of the language or the concepts, it’s because philosophy deals with the very realities we struggle with everyday, sometimes unconsciously, for others more deliberately. Philosophy is a loving struggle with life and its questions. Therein lies its value. So perhaps the best way to begin is to have a loving struggle with the text.

—M.A. Dacela, my contemporary epistemology professor

May the struggle prove to be fulfilling!


Featured image in collage artwork: © Chris Kolupski (2008) for his amazing representation of The School of Athens on canvas

Cold showers

Summer began
with the heat of ending conversations,
from the fiction of your push and my pull,
and the way some of those words burnt me,
and it hurt.

Summer began
with lasting cold shoulders,
the only kind of cold that ever bothered me,
and how I sit under each cold shower,
waiting for artificial rainwater
to take me away.

tub

was gonna use a real photo I had but it’s in my laptop

Baby blue, caffeine-infused

*I haven’t had much junk in my system the last few weeks, not too sure why. I’ve been avoiding coffee and tea on purpose however. The last time I drank some English breakfast tea if you read the post below, and it wasn’t even so long ago haha just this week, it really really came back to bite me. I feel I don’t need the caffeine anyway, even if I love the taste and aroma so much. My brother told me although it’s good for the heart, it’s healthy, it’s a stimulant, so it’s also quite responsible for mood swings. I’ve been moody prior to learning how to drink coffee or tea though but I do believe it’s still a substance and I don’t react well to substances. I think it makes me a little more erratic and impulsive. Physically, I tend to get palpitations especially when I’m not in a good place. Like now. It also keeps me up and these days I don’t want to be kept up. If it isn’t school work keeping me up, I have enough in my mind to do that for me. But today, after not having eaten good-proper meals over the last two weeks, my mom decided to take me to an afternoon high tea place cause I usually love those, and we bumped into some other ladies. To keep me a little busy in the midst of their 4-hour conversation, I had myself more than the usual amount of caffeine that any one person would order for leisure. So much for skipping out. And boy do I feel weird. So here’s another crappy poem I’m not proud of.


Caffeine makes a heart break a little faster and a little slower.
She thought she was carrying a near broken heart tucked underneath a baby blue dress that gleamed of summer love.
It was heavy.
There were sharp edges in the walls that surrounded it for protection that did come back to hit her hard.
It sunk.
And in an attempt to carry on as normally as possible, she took casual sips from the good things in life. Tea cups of cheer-me-ups.
But then her insides drowned further in a creamy brown.
It caused her injured heart to toss and tumble throughout the rest of the day, like she did all night and all morning in bed.
“Would you like another round of impulse and regret?”
“What about a warm cup of anxiety this time? To keep you up with all your worst nightmares coming true with your eyes wide open.”
Fruity notes of Earl Grey watered the wounds she blames herself for.
A latte left to get cold never burned so much.
She looks out the car window, finds herself at home glancing past the bedroom window this time, wondering about time yet again.
It’s going too slow and all the more too fast.
She fumbles to crack open a bottle of water for a change.
Mineral water has never left such a bitter taste in her mouth.
It’s never been this hard to drink down.
She’s filled with water and caffeine in her system, spinning in hopelessness, humbly disguised in her baby blue dress which she’s just taken off because it doesn’t help.

breakinfused

when ya still want sadness to look pretty anyway

Bed over troubled water

*Must’ve written this 4 days ago according to the draft details… But it applies to each of my mornings the last week or two, still. 

A moment of judgmental shame for my new found passive aggression towards sleep.
I don’t want to sleep because in the silence of everything, little monsters come out to play. If I do fall asleep, don’t wake me up because waking up to real life can be just as daunting.

afloat

deep waters scare me, they make me feel uneasy so you get my “drift”

The (Un)Art of Winging It

*Unlike my usual midnight posts, I’m even making a change in the time I publish things, weee. This was finished at 9:34 in the evening. Pause for applause. The night is young, haha. If you’re a crammer, you might relate 😛


“I’ve been a crammer my whole life,” I confess with a misplaced sense of pride in between the highs of getting there in the middle of the night, the more indescribable highs of actually getting lucky, and the lows of only recently failing to.

Who wouldn’t feel like gray-hoodie sporting Rocky at the end of that Gonna Fly Now scene, after getting through almost anything and everything last minute? Claiming I work best under pressure, almost appropriately I show up the morning of the exam in a sweatshirt. Inserting a quote about diamonds in the rough; linking an over-shared meme because we all relate. I’ve romanticized my own bad habits, blamed technology, referred to my Myers & Briggs type, given power to my own opponenttime and pressure, then likening it to a skill that happens to work wonderfully well with natural smarts and talent.

brokenwingin

that’s supposed to be a coffee hourglass haha

I realized I wouldn’t look back at my 17 years of schooling and think sentimentally of the latter “mornights” trying not to doze off to 40 more impossible pages. A clock never looked so scary. I’m searching for an excuse not to make it to class. Can I afford it? Nah. It’s a crappy feeling, for lack of a better word. I stay up beyond the suggested number of hours. I wake up (and I mean in the right mind finally) two weeks later, reading a draft I previously submitted full of typographic errors, ranging from minor spelling mistakes to greater mishapssomething about a dog and McDonald’s, and maybe some Freudian slips here and there. My pre-med progressive penmanship, hieroglyphics to the untrained eye, on daunting piles of yellow pad paper, has proven I’ve been half asleep through my classes. I have as well been more than half asleep through all that late night homework. I might even be a half-sleep-talker and it translates in writing, now a half-sleep-writer, apparently there may be such a thing.

My cool “winging it” academic life motto has lost its charm. I hope to say I used to call it, “The Art of Winging It” in my own head a lifetime ago, even if it was just yesterday and predictably a preview of the following weeks. It’s not an art, it’s no beautiful mess. It’s just messy and sheer luck; two things that aren’t going to keep getting me very far. Like every other thing that has for a while seemed shiny and my own: the night, yummy 3-in-1 coffee, starting after 12, and the relief after the storm; it gets old.

As I threw caution to the wind, taking time off what I’m currently cramming, to write about it, I’m shedding the heavy pair of broken wings that have carried me just inches above from metaphorical waves of those scary 0.0’s time and again. Call me a recovering crammer, I won’t be winging it anymore. I never want to need more time and I want to start drinking coffee while the sun is out, like a proper adult.

clock