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Archive for the category “Music”

Something Old Like a Dream

Oh! I have been resting from the hustle and bustle of blogging?? I haven’t gotten the time to explore regular stuff lately. But the Almighty smartness never seems to fail to update me every now and then. I accidentally logged on my Facebook account and this song, on the news update, had me at one click.

The sun was almost up a few hours ago and there is barely a space for us to breathe in as we do our regular tasks for the day, plus some relief send-offs to my countrymen who have been devastated by the flood. But here’s a good song to catch up the train of wily, escapist’s thoughts. Once you’ve listened to it, there really isn’t much air to breathe in between daydreaming and wanderlust.



The Craft of Re-Discovering

And here’s what I missed after a week-long vacation: the trepidation in between seconds of hiding the monitor from our boss as I browse online for songs and share some ridiculously annoying stuff on Facebook; my cluttered desk before our sun-kissed window; and yes, the noise that would cause me to borrow someone else’s headphones, create my own distant world, and bask in the entropy of the vast online world — but of course, with a little help from a few talented musicians whose songs have taken me a notch away from a vapid, laborious day.


1. Wandering Star by Polica



2. 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins



3. Bad for Me by Brendan Benson



4. Well They’re Gone by The Dandy Warhol



5. Hold On by Alabama Shakes



6. Warrior by Kimbra, Mark Foster, A-Trak



7. A Weeknight Memoir by Taken by Cars



8. My Life’s Arithmetic Means by The Camerawalls


Hiding Some Notes

It’s not everyday that I get to listen to new songs. Well, I can’t say that I’m a big, fat connoisseur in the all-time fascinating world of music, but I suppose I am all set to do what I do best, which is (long pause) to appreciate 😉 Here’s a list of songs that cradled me on a Wednesday night repose.

1. Lover’s Game by Geographer


2. Wait by Wild Nothing


3. Walk with Me by Memoryhouse


4.Until We Bleed by Lykke Li


5. How Can U Luv Me by Unknown Mortal Orchestra


6. Under Your Spell by Desire


7. Love Love Love by Avalanche City


Time is Music

Oh I miss this. The headphones on my ears. the inconspicuousness of contentment coming from the solitary experience of listening, reading and discovering songs. Unperturbed by the darkness that awaits outside our office, I hold the richness of having time as my companion. As I patiently wait for my friend to finish his workload, it again introduces me to this one forgotten friend, Music:


1. Unless You Speak from Your Heart by Porcelain Raft


2. Simple Song by The Shins


3. Somebody that I Used to Know by Gotye Feat. Kimbra


4. Young Blood by The Naked and Famous

5. Feel to Follow by The Maccabees


6. Never to Part by Tennis


7. The Sound that It Makes by New Animal


8. Connect Me by Christopher Norman


9. It All Feels the Same by Tennis


10. Jump into the Fog by The Wombats


11. My Better Self by Tennis


Six Hundred Thousand Meanings of a Love Song

The artistic world has its own slate of writers and poets that had indeed romanticized love. Their individuality merged with our present idea of what love truly is. On an abridged format, a line, or one erotic word, we have unconsciously tatted umpteenth embellishments on the nature of lust and love or the folly after the consummation of unrequited love and of course, the rapture in our soul once we contain love on our own bottle of dreams and expectations.

With regard to matters of the heart, the world, time — the mere passing of age — are nothing. We want to acquire, to possess what is that “more” in loving and living the same way we manipulate machines or a video game character. We crave to be the subject of love’s sacrifice, joy, tragedy, and triumph. We want our heart’s demands to be put in an equation for everlasting sustenance, inspiration, companionship, truthfulness, loyalty, and affection. We yearn for the unconditional, for an extraordinary love from an ordinary person; thus, the invalidity of our own formula.

These songs often fall on the category of inane religious sensibilities and practices. If it were, then loving must be a boring religion too. The songs were written by an imperfect king whose heart was just as vulnerable (sometimes, conceited, gullible) as ours. It is for us to do a bit more researching to grasp even just the one out of its six hundred thousand meanings 🙂



Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—
for your love is more delightful than wine.
Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes;
your name is like perfume poured out.
No wonder the young women love you!
Take me away with you—let us hurry!
Let the king bring me into his chambers.


We rejoice and delight in you;
we will praise your love more than wine.


How right they are to adore you!

Dark am I, yet lovely,
daughters of Jerusalem,
dark like the tents of Kedar,
like the tent curtains of Solomon.
Do not stare at me because I am dark,
because I am darkened by the sun.
My mother’s sons were angry with me
and made me take care of the vineyards;
my own vineyard I had to neglect.
Tell me, you whom I love,
where you graze your flock
and where you rest your sheep at midday.
Why should I be like a veiled woman
beside the flocks of your friends?


If you do not know, most beautiful of women,
follow the tracks of the sheep
and graze your young goats
by the tents of the shepherds.


I liken you, my darling, to a mare
among Pharaoh’s chariot horses.
Your cheeks are beautiful with earrings,
your neck with strings of jewels.
We will make you earrings of gold,
studded with silver.


While the king was at his table,
my perfume spread its fragrance.
My beloved is to me a sachet of myrrh
resting between my breasts.
My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms
from the vineyards of En Gedi.


How beautiful you are, my darling!
Oh, how beautiful!
Your eyes are doves.


How handsome you are, my beloved!
Oh, how charming!
And our bed is verdant.


The beams of our house are cedars;
our rafters are firs.



I am a rose of Sharon,
a lily of the valleys.


Like a lily among thorns
is my darling among the young women.


Like an apple tree among the trees of the forest
is my beloved among the young men.
I delight to sit in his shade,
and his fruit is sweet to my taste.
Let him lead me to the banquet hall,
and let his banner over me be love.
Strengthen me with raisins,
refresh me with apples,
for I am faint with love.
His left arm is under my head,
and his right arm embraces me.

Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you
by the gazelles and by the does of the field:
Do not arouse or awaken love
until it so desires.

Listen! My beloved!
Look! Here he comes,
leaping across the mountains,
bounding over the hills.
My beloved is like a gazelle or a young stag.
Look! There he stands behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
peering through the lattice.
My beloved spoke and said to me,
“Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, come with me.
See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.
Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.
The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me.”


My dove in the clefts of the rock,
in the hiding places on the mountainside,
show me your face,
let me hear your voice;
for your voice is sweet,
and your face is lovely.
Catch for us the foxes,
the little foxes
that ruin the vineyards,
our vineyards that are in bloom.


My beloved is mine and I am his;
he browses among the lilies.
Until the day breaks
and the shadows flee,
turn, my beloved,
and be like a gazelle
or like a young stag
on the rugged hills.


All night long on my bed
I looked for the one my heart loves;
I looked for him but did not find him.
I will get up now and go about the city,
through its streets and squares;
I will search for the one my heart loves.
So I looked for him but did not find him.
The watchmen found me
as they made their rounds in the city.
“Have you seen the one my heart loves?”
Scarcely had I passed them
when I found the one my heart loves.
I held him and would not let him go
till I had brought him to my mother’s house,
to the room of the one who conceived me.
Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you
by the gazelles and by the does of the field:
Do not arouse or awaken love
until it so desires.

Who is this coming up from the wilderness
like a column of smoke,
perfumed with myrrh and incense
made from all the spices of the merchant?
Look! It is Solomon’s carriage,
escorted by sixty warriors,
the noblest of Israel,
all of them wearing the sword,
all experienced in battle,
each with his sword at his side,
prepared for the terrors of the night.
King Solomon made for himself the carriage;
he made it of wood from Lebanon.
Its posts he made of silver,
its base of gold.
Its seat was upholstered with purple,
its interior inlaid with love.
Daughters of Jerusalem, come out,
and look, you daughters of Zion.
Look on King Solomon wearing a crown,
the crown with which his mother crowned him
on the day of his wedding,
the day his heart rejoiced.



How beautiful you are, my darling!
Oh, how beautiful!
Your eyes behind your veil are doves.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
descending from the hills of Gilead.
Your teeth are like a flock of sheep just shorn,
coming up from the washing.
Each has its twin;
not one of them is alone.
Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon;
your mouth is lovely.
Your temples behind your veil
are like the halves of a pomegranate.
Your neck is like the tower of David,
built with courses of stone;
on it hang a thousand shields,
all of them shields of warriors.
Your breasts are like two fawns,
like twin fawns of a gazelle
that browse among the lilies.
Until the day breaks
and the shadows flee,
I will go to the mountain of myrrh
and to the hill of incense.
You are altogether beautiful, my darling;
there is no flaw in you.Come with me from Lebanon, my bride,
come with me from Lebanon.
Descend from the crest of Amana,
from the top of Senir, the summit of Hermon,
from the lions’ dens
and the mountain haunts of leopards.
You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride;
you have stolen my heart
with one glance of your eyes,
with one jewel of your necklace.
How delightful is your love, my sister, my bride!
How much more pleasing is your love than wine,
and the fragrance of your perfume
more than any spice!
Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride;
milk and honey are under your tongue.
The fragrance of your garments
is like the fragrance of Lebanon.You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride;
you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain.
Your plants are an orchard of pomegranates
with choice fruits,
with henna and nard,
nard and saffron,
calamus and cinnamon,
with every kind of incense tree,
with myrrh and aloes
and all the finest spices.
You are a garden fountain,
a well of flowing water
streaming down from Lebanon.


Awake, north wind,
and come, south wind!
Blow on my garden,
that its fragrance may spread everywhere.
Let my beloved come into his garden
and taste its choice fruits.



I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride;
I have gathered my myrrh with my spice.
I have eaten my honeycomb and my honey;
I have drunk my wine and my milk.


Eat, friends, and drink;
drink your fill of love.


I slept but my heart was awake.
Listen! My beloved is knocking:
“Open to me, my sister, my darling,
my dove, my flawless one.
My head is drenched with dew,
my hair with the dampness of the night.”
I have taken off my robe—
must I put it on again?
I have washed my feet—
must I soil them again?
My beloved thrust his hand through the latch-opening;
my heart began to pound for him.
I arose to open for my beloved,
and my hands dripped with myrrh,
my fingers with flowing myrrh,
on the handles of the bolt.
I opened for my beloved,
but my beloved had left; he was gone.
My heart sank at his departure.
I looked for him but did not find him.
I called him but he did not answer.
The watchmen found me
as they made their rounds in the city.
They beat me, they bruised me;
they took away my cloak,
those watchmen of the walls!
Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you—
if you find my beloved,
what will you tell him?
Tell him I am faint with love.


How is your beloved better than others,
most beautiful of women?
How is your beloved better than others,
that you so charge us?


My beloved is radiant and ruddy,
outstanding among ten thousand.
His head is purest gold;
his hair is wavy
and black as a raven.
His eyes are like doves
by the water streams,
washed in milk,
mounted like jewels.
His cheeks are like beds of spice
yielding perfume.
His lips are like lilies
dripping with myrrh.
His arms are rods of gold
set with topaz.
His body is like polished ivory
decorated with lapis lazuli.
His legs are pillars of marble
set on bases of pure gold.
His appearance is like Lebanon,
choice as its cedars.
His mouth is sweetness itself;
he is altogether lovely.
This is my beloved, this is my friend,
daughters of Jerusalem.



Where has your beloved gone,
most beautiful of women?
Which way did your beloved turn,
that we may look for him with you?


My beloved has gone down to his garden,
to the beds of spices,
to browse in the gardens
and to gather lilies.
I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine;
he browses among the lilies.


You are as beautiful as Tirzah, my darling,
as lovely as Jerusalem,
as majestic as troops with banners.
Turn your eyes from me;
they overwhelm me.
Your hair is like a flock of goats
descending from Gilead.
Your teeth are like a flock of sheep
coming up from the washing.
Each has its twin,
not one of them is missing.
Your temples behind your veil
are like the halves of a pomegranate.
Sixty queens there may be,
and eighty concubines,
and virgins beyond number;
but my dove, my perfect one, is unique,
the only daughter of her mother,
the favorite of the one who bore her.
The young women saw her and called her blessed;
the queens and concubines praised her.


Who is this that appears like the dawn,
fair as the moon, bright as the sun,
majestic as the stars in procession?


I went down to the grove of nut trees
to look at the new growth in the valley,
to see if the vines had budded
or the pomegranates were in bloom.
Before I realized it,
my desire set me among the royal chariots of my people.


Come back, come back, O Shulammite;
come back, come back, that we may gaze on you!


Why would you gaze on the Shulammite
as on the dance of Mahanaim?



How beautiful your sandaled feet,
O prince’s daughter!
Your graceful legs are like jewels,
the work of an artist’s hands.
Your navel is a rounded goblet
that never lacks blended wine.
Your waist is a mound of wheat
encircled by lilies.
Your breasts are like two fawns,
like twin fawns of a gazelle.
Your neck is like an ivory tower.
Your eyes are the pools of Heshbon
by the gate of Bath Rabbim.
Your nose is like the tower of Lebanon
looking toward Damascus.
Your head crowns you like Mount Carmel.
Your hair is like royal tapestry;
the king is held captive by its tresses.
How beautiful you are and how pleasing,
my love, with your delights!
Your stature is like that of the palm,
and your breasts like clusters of fruit.
I said, “I will climb the palm tree;
I will take hold of its fruit.”
May your breasts be like clusters of grapes on the vine,
the fragrance of your breath like apples,
and your mouth like the best wine.


May the wine go straight to my beloved,
flowing gently over lips and teeth.
I belong to my beloved,
and his desire is for me.
Come, my beloved, let us go to the countryside,
let us spend the night in the villages.
Let us go early to the vineyards
to see if the vines have budded,
if their blossoms have opened,
and if the pomegranates are in bloom—
there I will give you my love.
The mandrakes send out their fragrance,
and at our door is every delicacy,
both new and old,
that I have stored up for you, my beloved.


If only you were to me like a brother,who was nursed at my mother’s breasts!
Then, if I found you outside,
I would kiss you,
and no one would despise me.
I would lead you
and bring you to my mother’s house—
she who has taught me.
I would give you spiced wine to drink,
the nectar of my pomegranates.
His left arm is under my head
and his right arm embraces me.
Daughters of Jerusalem, I charge you:
Do not arouse or awaken love
until it so desires.


Who is this coming up from the wilderness
leaning on her beloved?


Under the apple tree I roused you;
there your mother conceived you,
there she who was in labor gave you birth.
Place me like a seal over your heart,
like a seal on your arm;
for love is as strong as death,
its jealousy unyielding as the grave.
It burns like blazing fire,
like a mighty flame.
Many waters cannot quench love;
rivers cannot sweep it away.
If one were to give
all the wealth of one’s house for love,
it would be utterly scorned.


We have a little sister,
and her breasts are not yet grown.
What shall we do for our sister
on the day she is spoken for?
If she is a wall,
we will build towers of silver on her.
If she is a door,
we will enclose her with panels of cedar.


I am a wall,
and my breasts are like towers.
Thus I have become in his eyes
like one bringing contentment.
Solomon had a vineyard in Baal Hamon;
he let out his vineyard to tenants.
Each was to bring for its fruit
a thousand shekels of silver.
But my own vineyard is mine to give;
the thousand shekels are for you, Solomon,
and two hundred are for those who tend its fruit.


You who dwell in the gardens
with friends in attendance,
let me hear your voice!


Come away, my beloved,
and be like a gazelle
or like a young stag
on the spice-laden mountains.

–From Songs of Solomon Chapters 1 to 8

Every word of sacred Scripture has seventy faces and six hundred thousand meanings (Mark Batterson, Primal)”

Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry

Friday. I had to rush out of the office so I can finally attend a poetry reading event, and listen to Lourd de Veyra. Pester my good friend, Paz, I must, for I will not be able to edit those advisories and leave the office just in time for the second leg of .mov International Film, Music, and Literature Festival.

Ayala Museum. The second to the last row looked decently inconspicuous for a late comer like me. It gave a good perspective of the stage too.  The volume of my psychological noises went down a little, then gone, as I beheld, listened to Michael M. Coroza’s poem, Magnanakaw (Thief). And my engagement to his dictation, the invisible scheme of his voice that matched the theme of his creation, became a solid round of applause. Here’s some excerpts from his poem:


“Ginigising tayo ng alinsangang

dulot ng kaniyang pangahas

na hininga ngunit dagling

naglalaho siya sa pagmulat ng ating pangamba.”


We’re startled where his warm

breath dares,

but quickly he darts

off even as our trembling

stirs,  its eyes wide open.


“Malaking puwang sa ating

loob ang iniiwang bakas

ng kaniyang pagdalaw sapagkat

tinatangay niya pati ang liwanag

sa palad nating binutas ng bagabag.”


A gaping void he

leaves within

when he comes visiting,

taking even the torch.


And I just have to add how igniting, burning, gorgeous the Filipino language is and kudos to those who have the love-lust to use it.

Then, came Marra PL. Lanot to read her poem, Ina. She asked the audience not to mind her guttural voice but it did give her reading an unusual effect. It made one good point that stings my mouth – and you’ll understand why of all my body parts, my mouth gets the spanking.


“Ako ang ilaw ng tahanan

na korteng kweba, kubo, katedral,

na mistulang parke at paaralan.

Ako ang gatas sa labi

sa halip na maasim na tuba

o mapait na serbesa.

Ako ang unang ngiting nasisilayan sa duyan,

ang mangkok na pinagbubuhusan

ng iyak ng mga anak

pagkagaling sa eskuwela,

ang batyang pinagbabaran ng galit

ng asawang napagod sa pabrika.

Ako ang yero sa pagbilad ng luha,

ang langgas sa sugat,

ang puntod ng dalamhati.”


I am the light of the home

shaped like a cave, a hut, a cathedral,

that appears like a park or school.

I am milk on the lips

instead of sour coconut wine

or bitter beer.

I am the first smile seen in a cradle,

the bowl into which children

pour their tears

when they come home from school,

the pail where the husband soaks his anger

when he returns from the factory.

I am the iron board where tears are dried

the  cure for wounds,

the tomb of grief.


“Sa kaunting init ng ulo,

sa malaswang galak,

sa sukdulang kamalasan,

sa silakbo ng damdamin,

bakit ako ang minumura,

ako na ina ng mga ina

at ng mga ama at diyos-diyosan?

Bakit, paano

sa labi ng musmos

naging puta ang ina?

Paano, bakit

sa dila ng mundo

palaging puta ang ina?”


At the slightest hot temper,

in a malicious joy,

in an extreme bad luck,

in an outburst of anger,

why am I being cursed,

I, the mother of all mothers

and of fathers and false gods?


Why, how

on the lips of children

did mother become puta?

How, why

on the tongue of the world

mother is always puta?


Jose F. Lacaba’s Tagubilin at Habilin and Pia Montalban’s Saleslady and my anxious desire to just hold the book while listening to the readers got me into buying the book – this is after all a book launch of – Under the Storm: An Anthology of Contemporary Philippine Poetry. It’s original price is at 800 PHP. I got it for 600, launch price but had I pre-ordered, I would have gotten it for 400 or 450 bucks (bad memory). It’s the first Filipino poetry book on my book shelf. It wasn’t that long before my attention was back again to the reader in front. This time, he was not only a reader and a poet, but also a ventriloquist. Ronaldo Carcamo blew me away with his laughable repertoire afore his candidly written poem, Ha-ha-ha.

Vigo enveloped the museum with their uncanny music which then readings from music and TV personalities followed: Mercedes Cabral of Ligo na U, Lapit na Me, Rox Puno, Ketsup Eusebio, who just recently starred in Rakenrol. The group, Why Not, gave a strong performance to cap the night. To thank and invite the crowd to the event’s after party, Khavn dela Cruz gallanted the stage and called this maverick event full of oeuvres a night, that I shall note as an unforgettable one.

4th .mov International Film, Music, and Literature Festival

Last night, after a boring day in the office, I went straight to Podium and became this estranged woman among the famous personalities socializing with each other, and among the random names of guests posted on each chair, who happened to be film magnates. I heaved a dreamy sigh of ‘I wish I’ll become one of them too.’ There I was, at the 4th .mov International Film, Music, and Literature Festival.

I saw Nityalila Saulo, an officemate from the previous company where I used to work before I got into ABS-CBN. She’s a singer-songwriter, a true-blue artist, whose Dad owns a cool shop in The Collective: Yadu. Bags sold in Yadu have this eccentric and ancient stroke of designs: ethnicity, tradition, and a humble cloud of modernity.

BUT. We aren’t really that close so I had to wade off the awkwardness so I munched some free food and observe what is there to observe. The program started around 8 P.M. I could only remember the consul general of Slovenia addressing the crowd and commemorating Alexis Tioseco and Nika Bohinc who were murdered two years ago. Unfortunately, their case hasn’t been resolved up to date. I wish I knew them. They spoke about their passion on Philippine cinema that I achingly wish I, too, have: that same rush of endearment towards something and an impeccable taste on arts.

Khavn dela Cruz and Alexis’ sister sang Sapat Na. I didn’t know Khavn could play the piano so well. The song accompanied by the grand piano is a creation on the bosom of subtle grandeur, which lyrics painted a sad longing in me. That simplicity of having to love and care for someone, the littlest thing from waking up in the morning and kissing your loved ones to hearing them say those three precious words, I love you, gave me that elusive Thursday repose.

The Brocka’s also did a number where Khavn led Alexis’ The Letter I Would Love to Read to You in Person into one revolutionary stint.

I’ve read the letter just now as I write this entry. It had such prowess. And I would like to read and read and read it again to remind me where my stance is, how his passion for film, for arts, has gouged deeper into my heart. I never actually tried to understand why I download and care to watch films, classics, indie, those that are most likely perceived by everyone as boring and weird, but the answer, or rather, that fact has really been there all along. I wasn’t just curious enough to understand the dealings of my own.

Quoting from Alexis,

“The first impulse is always one of love,”

I didn’t know that the world of film, music, and literature has a small area dedicated for someone like me, and in that small space where I marvel at the magnificence of such creations and bask in the unmistakable presence of the artist’s ardent passion, I find contentment and beauty in being a keen spectator.

“One thing has slowly progressed into another and, what began as a simple curiosity pursued with sincerity, has evolved into a commitment. “


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