Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Lost in Transcription

Whenever I try to express myself in writing, I often commit the mistake most amateur writers commit: I don’t get the real “me” do the talking. I think that this occurs mainly because of two reasons. The first one is my natural inclination to be so obsessed in knowing other people’s opinion about my work. More often than not, I secretly wish people would love what I write, and thus, letting other people speak in my works, instead of me speak in them—a thing that often happen to several advertising agencies. The second one is my strong affinity to my idols. I can’t help but imitate how they write, think and talk. I’m even interested in the kind of alcoholic beverage that puts them in the creative mood. And I would like to try that too. Apparently, in the process of my worship to these artists I admire, I lose my identity as a writer.

But if you really mull about it, the two are not really much of an anomaly. Desiring other people to want your works is a feeling most successful writers also have. What’s the point of writing if you don’t want to touch other people’s lives? Also, knowing what you like to read is part of knowing what kind of writer you want to become. The things you are attracted to could actually help in defining who you are. So obviously, the two are not so big of a deal. Probably, my real problem is not so much the tendencies themselves, but my strong propensity to go to the extremes of these natural inclinations. Because of this, my true voice gets lost in the whole labyrinth of self-expression and social communication. Consequently, my writing career is in jeopardy since knowing your voice in writing is the foundation of good writing as it endows uniqueness to your opus.

I decided to text one of my greatest most honest friends and the only person I trust when it comes to understanding my writing, X Vallez. Right away I told him my writing predicament. And low and behold, he made it even more complicated. He said, “you know Czyka, you have to learn how to command to silence. I studied two years of zen just to learn that.” What the hell?! First of all, I need urgent money as my family needs a hand in paying our monthly bills, so I have to improve my writing now, not in two years time. Secondly, I don’t have the luxury of time to study at this point of my life. But of course, I understood X’s point: I needed to make time for deep contemplation so I could think straight without distraction, feel with my mind, be one with nature and for other mushy stuff to occur that could allow me to grow in self-knowledge and thereby finally get my authentic voice speaking in my works. Well, being the most stubborn person I have ever met in this lifetime, I don’t follow this advice. I’m too lazy to do that. And I love the noise of the world too much to stand a minute of oblivion. So instead of bringing myself to contemplate to a quiet place where I could “command silence” to sit, roll and stand, I open my laptop, and start writing.

And out of nowhere, like a star falling in the vast universe of clouds at twilight, the tips about writing in a book I read a few years back called “Trip to Quiapo” by Ricky Lee came to mind. But only a small section of it. According to that part, there are three ways of getting to Quiapo—Quiapo being the metaphor for achieving good quality writing. He talked about three types of writers who all aspire to arrive at Quiapo.

The first one is the learned one. He reads the map contrived by the experts. He religiously followed every instruction in the map, not straying one bit from the “right” path. Consequently, he arrives at Quiapo just right on time without experiencing confusing hassles on the road. He thus becomes a good writer.

The second one does not bring a map along with him. Hence: he gets lost. But only temporarily, as he eventually asked directions from the people around him. After a long while he arrives at Quiapo a little later than the first one. Since he got lost and experienced new things, he discovered a new route to Quiapo. He founded a new style of writing that veered away from tradition. He’s therefore a better writer than the first.

The last writer didn’t bring a map with him and didn’t asked for directions from anyone either. As a result, he wasn’t able to reach Quiapo. Yet according to Ricky Lee he’s the best writer among the three. Why? It’s because he made his own Quiapo. He told himself, “Why do I have to follow these people and go to Quiapo if I could find a better place?”

Lesson: be yourself? I don’t know what to make out of what I just said actually. I did not narrate this to lecture to you or something. Like I said, I just thought of it all of a sudden. It just crashed into my crazy mind. Anyway, I now decide to just write and write and write and write and write and write and write…until I discover who I am, and then let that person speak in my works. I believe that that’s the only answer to my problem: just write. I don’t care if “experts” would say that I’m doing it right or not, I’ll just write and write. And I’ll write for myself because I believe that however unique my ideas and experiences are, other people could always relate to it simply because we are all human beings breathing under the same atmosphere. Oh there could actually be some other helpful follow up’s. After writing, I could let other people read and comment to my works. Knowing other people’s point of view won’t hurt and could actually help in making my works mature. Constantly reading the works of good authors could also help me in refining my thoughts and writing style.

For me, knowing once voice in writing is a lifetime process. I think one could never be certain that “this” is his or her writing technique. Style changes in time. Ernest Hemingway only had existentialist themes in his latter works. As writers age, their works also grow. But of course, there are also things in one’s tekne that is not altered by time, like Gabriel Marquez' classic romantic use of words, and J. D. Salinger's angst and Haruki Murakami's incessant mention of the background music played at the scenes in his stories. Anyhow, it’s therefore best if I keep a journal so I could be familiar of my own variations and constants.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Meta Sutra

Meta Sutra

“What else would I want?”

—Larry asking Alice to strip in front of her at Closer

I.

Listen to what I say,

to the words slivering

thin mists before my lips,

to the marriage

of my syntax and lexis

still,

you cannot hear me.

Inhale my breath,

the gasps of my neck,

my shoulders,

my nape,

still,

you cannot smell me.

Take off my shirt,

my pants,

my bra,

my panty,

still,

you cannot see me.

Caress my cheeks,

my breasts,

my legs,

my back,

still,

you cannot touch me.

Lick my tongue,

my ears,

my belly,

my nipples,

my cunt,

still,

you cannot taste me.

II.

Unless you understand the lyrics

of my silence, the melody of the gestures

I deplete and their harmony

to the heavy sighs I secrete,

you can never hear me.

Unless you breathe the scent

of the transcendent, the shadow

fumes of my present behind

my body’s crescents, my thrust’s

glowing embers of tomorrow

escaping from yesterday’s

burning sorrows,

you can never smell me.

Unless you look beyond

my body’s nooks, see the scars

behind my smiles, the gaze

of forever in my stare,

you can never see me.

Unless you stroke the mysteries

swathed in human pelt, the sweat

of memory trickling secret

frets and regrets,

you can never touch me.

Unless you lick the subliminal

beneath the carnal, the ethereal

living in the self’s animal, and melt

them all in your tongue.

you can never taste me.

III.

I am the music

that slakes

the ear’s passion

but goads it to hear more.

I am the aroma

that sates

the nose’s hunger

but prods it to smell more.

I am the vision

that quenches

the eye’s thirst

but rouses it to see more.

I am the form

that douses

the hand’s longing

but yearns it to touch more.

I am the food

that satisfies

the tongue’s yen

but craves it to taste more.

I am your unknown lust for eternity.