Posts Tagged ‘Film’

It’s like a white plate.

Soiled and you try to wash it afloat

with suds of soap and rinse repeatedly

at the sink.  Letting it dry and wait

until the film of water subsides down

into its gleamy surface. You try to contain

the glister.  The immaculateness of being 

unbroken, unsplintered.  Fragile.


It’s like a white paper.

Someone will throw dots and smears.

Smudges  and graphite dusts messed up

into your  page and jag the lines into visual noise.

But then, an eraser is a confident friend,

swiping them all.  Albeit,  the indentation

marks a heavy trace on the heart. Not quite

visible at the distance, I know.


You didn’t notice how I try to write the lines.

Ambiguous as it seems, indirect in its approach.

You think flaws are the darkness of the soul, but wait-

it isn’t that way you know, though. For in it you hope.

You dream.  You strive to become the light.

You seek to define the completeness of your whole,

unwavering  and uncompromised to the mold-

the dictates of the common.


No matter how broken it may get, the mosaic

of the plate is still a creation on a canvas.

No matter how crumpled the paper was,

someone will see it as a great work of art.

You try to accept the way you live your reality,

where living doesn’t stop there, it’s in how

you would be able to discover something new.

A difference you can call your own.


It’s like a white space.

When the horizon of doubt blurs

the line that separate you from immortality.

And all you see is your own lightness

that no shadow would keep you

stalled towards your destiny.

There,  you would know that peace

is the only way to move on.

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She prepared her new year’s resolution in advance

writing down beginning and ending of things

and the reasons why she needed a starting over.

There is a luggage she’s tugging down the concourse

hurriedly outpacing the brisk walking of time,

meeting down in the alleys of strangers and guests,

with a  mask of smiles and warmth of handshakes.

She wrote words about her past life compiled to a book

for the world to read awaiting for her autograph signing

and a keepsake of empowerment how she made it through

hell and have been there when no one cared to witness.


It is another dramatic story rolling off the press

of another life written down for movies to gobble up

sparking another way for media moguls raking in profits.

She did not understand that her life became a playground

for dreamers and drifters praying for some kind of salvation.

When tomorrow will be another sorry day for someone

who can match up sympathy and the public adulation.

When she forgets about the time when reality is not

what she is on TV, but a flickering glitter destined not

to last another year. As fickle as the world spins around,

she begins another round of playing masquerades again.

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Be still. Please focus. Would you wait

until my iris capture you of snapshots? I am here.

Don’t notice. Your portrait on my mind, I dodged

and burned. Don’t worry. I won’t

over-expose the sequences of the memory

fleshed out from my canister, the last strip of film.


On my negative- your wavelength of light escapes

through my lenses, I would carefully unfold and record.

Don’t look. Deeper. While single color vanishes

with intensity into highlights and into shadows.

Frame by frame, I would filter the black against

the white. Your reality becomes my abstraction.


Would you mind, if I convert the colors of the spectrum,

your seemingly pixilated illusion to just shades of gray?

Tracing back the images in a locomotion, so slow.

My camera obscura. Clear and sharp, as you illuminate

a world forgotten just for once. A neutral silhouette

Don’t notice. Keep focus. Don’t cry. I am here.

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You chose not

to keep memories.

Not to keep promises.


But I chose-

to keep,

each single imagery,

each single scene

into a film.


Tell me  a word.

And whisper niceties.


I consummate,

each single  line,

each single thought.

You must know.


I had kept you.



some faded photographs-

of us.


In the quiet corner

of my mind.


We dream.

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Watching a Peter Pan movie evokes the illusory  and wonders of childish fantasies we learn to symphatize with.  We miss the adventures and the circumstances surrounding with this little boy who refused to grow up. We will be forever haunted by the craving of how we wish that we can be so much younger but not powerless.  Instead, it is a bold statement that even then, we as a child assert our own independence and freedom to experience this child in us.

But things have changed.  The idea that we can fly like Peter Pan is but a distant childhood wonder that has faded through the years.  We cannot deny the fact, that soon we will be fathers and mothers of those fragile beings waiting to explore this vague realities of this world.  And it is amazing to note that we become another mouthpiece of a Peter Pan story.

The problem with Peter Pan is that he is forever trapped into that surrealistic world, only to live in a web of manufactured dreams.  He stopped to be challenged and criss-crossed by the reality.  He failed to see the beauty and the blessing of maturity by being contented to remain as a child.

We cannot remain to be child. Let us accept that our life shifts into a newer and braver perspective of adulthood, where the responsibility is of heavier weight.  We cannot play as long as we wanted because our life is only short.  Therefore, we need to make up. To catch up.

And it is meaningless to say that the world is our playground.  There are nobler things that is needed to be done in the hope of making a more enriched life.  A life that is worth a breather.

Neverland is just fitting to be remembered as a place where childhood stops a clock.  Presently, to learn that our journey to Neverland must stop somewhere.  It has come into a saturation point wherein, you and I needs to grow up to assume a bigger responsibility.  It is in the knowing that our childhood past doesn’t define our future.

We cannot remain wallowing in the past.  We must come into terms with what will bring us into fruition of the things that we have hoped for.  Such as what we find would make us a defined and purposeful individual.  Treating the world like one big workshop to work on. To make us better.  To make us stronger.

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Star Wars:

> Yoda: No, try not. Or do not. there is no try.

> Yoda: You must unlearn what you have learned.

> Yoda: A Jedi uses the Force for knowledge and defense. Never for attack.

> Yoda: You will know (the good from the bad) when you are calm, at peace, passive.

> Yoda: That is why you fail. (In response to Luke saying, "I don’t believe it")

Legends of the Fall:

> One Stab: Some people hear their own voices with great clearness and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy or they become legends.

> One Stab: I thought Tristan would never live to be an old man. I was wrong about that. I was wrong about many things. It was those who loved him the most that died young. He was a rock they broke themselves against however much he tried to protect them.

Memoirs of a Geisha:

> Pumpkin: A long time ago, you took something from me, the only thing I ever truly wanted. Well… now you know how it feels.

> Mameha: We do not become geisha to pursue our destines. we become geisha because we have no other choice.

Men of Honor:

> Tagline: History is made by those who break the rules.

The Departed:

> Fitzy: She didn’t notice us, she must be a cop. Delahunt: yeah, she must be the fucking Police Commissioner.


> Eva Peron: And as for fortune, and as for fame, I never invited them in…though it seemed to the world they were all I desired.

> Eva Peron: I’m not that ill. Bad moments come, but they go. Some days are fine, some a little bit harder. But that doesn’t mean we should give up our dream. Have you ever seen me defeated? Don’t forget what I’ve been through and yet, I’m still standing.

> Che: The greatest social climber since Cinderella.

Vanity Fair:

> Becky Sharp: Revenge may be wicked. But it’s perfectly natural.

> Miss Matilda Crawley: How do I look? Beck Sharp: A good deal stronger. They will be disappointed.

What Dreams May Come:

> Chris Nielsen: A whole human life is just a hearbeat in heaven. Then we all be together forever.

Million Dollar Baby:

> Mo cuishle means My Darling. My blood.

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Its all about the strict regimented all boys school where Robin Williams play an English Literature teacher who defied the conventions of traditional thinking and methods of teaching.  His character delved deeper into exposing the ills of the educational institution that keeps the medieval   struggle for  prestige and shallow self-esteem among its students. 

It is no different in our present society.  This film carries the obvious. Exposes the classic battles. Of wits and prejudice. And the politics of norms and standards.  What mars the genuine purpose of education is the mediocre visualization of intellectual propensities and ullulations by higher echelons of academics.

They have profited like vultures.  And the carcasses of hapless majority still claiming education as the only salvation lie in wait the doomsday knocking.  Education teaches us to be consumers of vomitted intellectual trash hanging in there for almost centuries. Education miscalculated the need of a society for consistency and diversity of cultures to sustain civilization.

Real education is an expression. A culmination of  life’s experiences. A spirited consumption of the senses. The one that divides stratifications of a human being into a vivid image of self. A euphimism of realistic to abstraction. And the metaphor of plain into ornate.

Who needs irrelevance? Being contained like a fish in a bowl. Living in a four-cornered wall of existence. Standing beside the picket fences of high class rundown. Does irrelevance make sense to those who breaches the edges of sanity to ascertain the worth of this pseudo-learning?

An artist. The one who have been in a kaleidoscopic juggle of uncertainty to pinpoint the certain. Exploring the condition of the society that reflects an era. And where wisdom never fails to connect the future and its simplistic cycle of rebirth. 

If all in this world may decay, the words of the poet will not.  If all the world falls deep into the abyss, the vision of a painter will not.  Theirs is a world who can hold their own against the vagrancies of the hypocritical and the commercialized.

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