Asked for his bio by the encoder, Edel E. Garcellano, could only text that he lives with his family in Quezon City, along with Kayenne their cat who recently lost his brother Bugsy. His preface completes whatever is worth knowing about his authorship.
So there, the book “Fashionable Nonsense”, by Sokal & Bricmont who cracked the academic joke that post-modern intellectuals have ignorantly abused scientific theories, turning everything into narratives. It is like a cadaver on his table, & waiting to be opened while his mind races toward his useless anger that having only one subject to teach so far this semester would mean technically having a capuccino once a year! That’s a major disaster for any bourgeois pedant, haha! He still begs for crumbs from the establishment while his former students are fucking around in cosmo style, raking in moolah, & worse, taking up creative writing courses because they think, they type, they shit, & therefore they have something to say?
It was summers ago when they – the future of his past – hoved into view but as quickly dissolved among the waves. He thought what madness was that but he felt idiotically theatrical. Anyway, he is now looking at a fiery red horizon where voices from the distant bank echo & as suddenly as the sounds mute into sheer sighs, the faces at the end of the ocean melt into dots, slowly beading into one rugged line of cloudy shadows. The moon quickly rises, & its soft stream of light turns everything into apparition.
Something he knows has been irretrievably lost: What is it he can’t put his finger on?
Is it sadness? Everyone is in the business of it. Is it despair? It’s just a jive if you ain’t got the money.
But isn’t he deep into the professorial crap of “connecting with the young?”
The young turks have aged, but somewhat contaminated by the very ways of First World living. Worse, he has known some die at the hands of fascists who keep multiplying & keep coming back like those Hollywood zombies. Everything is a hassle game, it seems, where bogeymen become bigshots & licensed texters of the muse: This is the fashion these days. A Ph. D. in poetry? The poem itself is the final arbiter that makes & unmakes poets.
& so this blog.