Taal

Trigger Warning/Dream Sequence

Taal had a violent eruption. It took place late at night, around 9 or 10 pm. I recall how the sky was full of stars. There was no moon. Then, in the direction of the volcano, we could see magma oozing out of the crater. Minutes later, black plumes signal a more violent pyroclastic ejection. The explosion was so strong and so powerful, I wasn't able to move from my spot. Since I was in a hilly position, I could see everything reaching us within seconds:

Volcanic rocks flying in every direction.

Clouds of hot gases that could sear every living thing to cinders barreling over like a tsunami on the loose.

In that dream, I think I was one of the dead. Prior to being rudely awakened from my sleep, I saw two women, talking to each other. I do not recall what they were talking about, but seeing their surroundings, vegetation have somehow returned to the grayed out landscape. In front of them was a pink ancestral house, its wooden carapace still caked in ash.

End of dream.

/Rant

Perhaps, that recollection was not meant to be written. And I will keep it that way, knowing I made an attempt to tell my side of the story.

An entire blog entry, ready to be published, erased completely by Grammarly.

I mourn for the precious time wasted.

Eternal Blue Sky

I hardly write this aspiration on these pages. Maybe, I have dropped a line or two on Twitter, where random thoughts are easier to publish because there is no need to create narratives to support the idea. In my deepest yearning, if I were to choose a way to live, I would like to be a travel writer: someone, who creates vivid images with words and paragraphs to describe what the eyes can see. To this day, I refuse to part with the idea, knowing too well that I may never have the clarity of thought to tell a story that pleases my taste. For I have this habit of artistic self-flagellation, of finding this odd pleasure of looking down at my own works, ashamed to let it out in public. 

This thought is just between you (blog) and me (writer), and you know what is strange? I never had this doubt before, when I can still switch between writing in Filipino and English, sometimes, even mixing the two languages together in one essay. I guess times have changed, and I am paying the price for setting up the benchmark too high, that my own free time cannot afford it. With instant gratification I enjoy on social media, and more work asked for the raketship, I have little reason to believe that long-form artistic writing - for pleasure - is just a memory. If I were to endure this literary eclipse, I will have to change my storytelling style to something closer to once was the less uptight writer in me. 

With two successive posts published this November, it is my hope that the time of de-flowering has again resumed. 

As We Return The Relics

Out of this desire to write something - anything, just to catch up with my 10 blog entries published every month, I tried recycling works I have penned long before online writing became a calling. I've spent the rest of the night rummaging articles, stored on my computer's magnetic vault, hoping they could be used for my self-preservation. They were written in college, back when I knew nothing about Creative Writing, and all we ever did was to write using journalistic principles learned from our discipline. They were a source of pride, I tell you. Given my scarce vocabulary and infantile style, some of them could stand against the self-scrutiny I often apply in my works today. The problem is, the narratives could be published in connection with the present. Something I'd have to unearth and refurbish to gain some credence. But it's almost daybreak and nothing I could spin would make them relevant. So I thought, maybe, I'd let them linger in oblivion. They have more value than being reduced as a stand-alone throw back post. There too were the cheesy poems inspired by real-time events. Cringe-worthy as they may sound, nothing I could do would make them get past their juvenile musings. Finally, there was this one piece scribbled in my attempt to immortalize a trip down south. Replete with descriptions about the sights and tastes of Davao City, what I find lacking is the sense of journey. Forgivable offense, I thought. After all, the journal existed long before I learned this gift of writing.  

Eventually, I was left with nothing but this hurried post that will appear on my blog before sunrise. If there was something I have picked in that little time travel to my own pre-history, it is the affirmation that I've told stories long ago. One day, I would have to weave a tapestry warping the past and the future, so they may find permanence in cyberspace using the weft I have always carried along.

Bad Shot

And so the first blog entry for July was written and published 15 days since the first morning of the month, and whose author had his world shrink because of a busted sim card that needs a quick replacement, and whose raketship needs to be attended double-time, while his clients from the day job howls at his incompetence.

Pending job tasks pile on his imaginary desks, wilting herbs, half of them dead because of neglect, and a workout program that has to be delayed to recuperate from a malady afflicting the body.

He's been down with a flu since Monday night, with a mind thinking nothing but sleep, with a throat choking, and muscles aching, like it was being punched by a million tiny fists. The sad part is, he's been stuck in his own black hole and nobody seems to care. And he would have to devote his day-offs for complete bed rests just so he can get back on his feet and catch up on the things he has been forced to abandon this week.

A Place In Displacement

It has come to a point that I have nothing to write, not because personal narratives have eluded me, but maybe I'm just too preoccupied catching up with life, after I choose the path of wanton abandon. 

I have yet to recover from that week-long absence at my jobs.

What I have learned from the deviation is that routines need to be sustained. Otherwise, the carefully crafted lifestyle built from embracing a humdrum existence might get broken, and the sudden newness in experiences might overwhelm me, like it did, when I spent days out of my cave and reaching out to people until I spread myself too thin.  

I will tell more in the coming entries, if I manage to get back in the zone, in spite of the pressing demands of the raketship, of the home affairs, of the troubles that I need to sort out after the consequences of my actions. All I am saying is that I still linger and I will keep sharpening this craft, even when the luxury of time, and creation appears to be in a full-scale retreat.

  

Salisi

Note: Fleeting, our expressions have become. And while poetry abounds in forms unexpected, the social media landscape tends to bury these words under a cacophony of random thoughts. And while obscurity has become the new norm, let this pursuit allow voices to be heard, here in this corner of the web, where permanence, for now, remains certain.

Sabi mo
Gabi na.
Kailangan mo ng umalis.

Sa isip ko
Kanina ka umalis
Bago ka pa dumating.


Credits:

NASA
Binibining Camel

A Moment Adrift

Snippet: 

Mugen is a BPO supervisor who also does email and chat technical support, as well as SEO writing. He also offers basic gardening, errand assistance, blog writing, and more.

---

1. Too much work makes one forget the passing of days. I was surprised to learn yesterday that it was already Sunday, all my friends were drinking, and there I was, responding to email inquiries sent by users at 2 in the morning.

2. Mother's Day came and all I was able to accomplish is buying flowers for my mom at Dangwa Market. She was pleased when she saw it, as she never got one from my father in all the years they were married. I bought my sister a bouquet of roses too, something her husband cannot do given his economic limitations.

3. I've been encouraging the Weatherman to pursue his plans of applying for emergency passport. I even volunteered to accompany him at the DFA, which, I will never do to anyone. Not even to my sister. 

4. He needs to have a passport so he could be with his mom who had a delicate surgery last week.

5. Never has my body clock been this fucked up in recent years. I sleep in late afternoon, wake up at around early evening, take a nap at 12 midnight, after the batch of pending emails were sent to customers, and wake up again at 2 am to continue working. I clock an average of 5 hours of sleep every day.

6. And I'm able to squeeze the workouts despite the woozy feeling.

7. Yesterday, I participated in this social media meme on Twitter where one has to confess something about himself for every "star" he gets. I got 25 stars in a span of an hour, and had to tell some of my darkest confessions I have yet to write on my blog. One condition I imposed is that I will delete everything at 6 in the morning. Too bad for those who woke up late as they will never get to know the adventures I had in my previous lives. 

8. I sometimes feel that my money-making activities have robbed me of my creativity. In all fronts, I feel that something within is wilting, including writing. I may still keep a treasure trove of words, but hardly do I use them for artistic expression.

7. Like a pure shot of caffeine, I decided to start the month with this blog entry, while trying to beat the deadline for the raketship at 8 in the morning. I succeeded in doing both.

8. The title of this blog entry is an appropriate description of my state of mind: lutang.

Room Improvements (Little Stories Pt. 2)

I.  Mirror

Once there was a mirror, hanging on the wall behind the door of my room. It has been there for ages, and I no longer recall how, and where the vanity item was acquired. All I know is that it served as my last stop every time I had to leave the house, or when I had to examine my nasal orifices to trim some wiry hairs protruding out my nostrils.

The mirror was a source of pride, not because of its plain and functional design, but because it was made of wood. Something I value when everything mass-produced is made of plastic. To me, the mirror reflects a bygone era, a time when ornately carved furniture adorned homes of ancient families and people with tastes. So imagine the sense of loss when my brother-in-law slammed the door of their room adjacent to mine, and the mirror came crashing to the floor.

His wife, my sister, shouted at him for being careless. But the error has already been made, microscopic shards have punctured a wound under my toe.

II. Rechargeable Flashlight

In a house resided by hoarders, it is easy to acquire stuff with questionable uses. One example is a wall calendar given by my aunt. The calendar was said to feature photos shot by my cousin. It would have been easy to perch the item at some unoccupied corner downstairs. But with space becoming scarce, the bunch of rolled calendars ended up squeezed behind the huge portrait of my long-dead father. They have been there for months, hidden from plain sight, until I pulled out the unused days planner only to dispatch them straight to the garbage can.

Same can be said with flashlights. We had pen-sized ones, as well as mini rechargeable lamps for sudden power interruptions. They were all over the place, until one by one, the electric torches disappeared. Some got broken, with batteries oozing with toxic substance still lodged inside their sockets. The flashlights were replaced by candles, but with matches as flame source, igniting a stick in pitch-black darkness might turn the lightbringer into a sorry firestarter.  

III. Herb Pot

The time of replanting meant returning to the Circle to shop for herbs I will grow on plastic pots. I had two unused ones, canisters, whose previous occupants had to be ditched as they were invasive weeds whose seeds piggy-backed on birds' feathers. The pots were immediately put to use, with cuttings clinging to life as new roots refuse to sprout. Meanwhile, a mature Purple Basil, a variety I haven't cultivated in ages remain confined within its plastic wrap. Had I obsessed less with symmetry, I wouldn't mind keeping it there until I get to buy a sturdy polymer in my own leisure. But with the plants around it already kept in plastic and aluminum containers, it felt that my work is not yet done had I let it remain without a bowl to establish its domain. 

Hence the original idea of embarking on a canvassing trip at Wilcon's for my carpet replacement summer project, ended with me paying for the acquisitions that were the subject of need in this blog entry.

  

Cock Pic

"Bulge mo na lang kulang."

The Bag Hanger posted on my timeline after he caught me teasing another Twitter friend, whose bulge I claimed was a face towel tucked under his shorts.

"Show it. Share to us." He dared.

Victorian Age prudery requires that I should have never accepted his challenge. After all, I am dealing with social media accounts whose owners love posting pictures of their weenies and bulges for all to see. While I do condone their behavior, I recall saying on the same social media platform before that I don't talk to dicks. Hence, the blocking of several accounts whose display pictures show their family jewels instead of faces.

So what happened?

In the age of selfies, with Kim Kardashian "Breaking the Internet," to show off your private parts has become the "cool" thing especially for people with exhibitionist streak. Maybe it's human nature defying old taboos, or perhaps the joy of being unchained from the bounds of propriety.

All I know is it tempers the libertine leanings, while providing space for sensual expressions. 

In a lifetime that precedes the Gundam Age, I too, have caved in to the digital needs of the flesh.  It was the next best thing given the risks and troubles of live act performance. Having a high-resolution camera attached to the phone made it easier to snap pictures of the hard-on and send it to the playmate who is expecting some visual delights. 

There is nothing to hide. This was part of the trade-off.

And since this new dare was a sort of gentleman's agreement with lads, who still see me not as playmate but a friend, my hope is that the gesture to post the hardcore photo through private message was meant to show that I'm not as snooty as many people have impressions of me.

So one morning, despite the biting cold, and a boner that refuses to cooperate, I laid on my back after pulling down my jerseys. And after fondling the junior (while conjuring memories of past encounters) until it gets to a point that the pole stands stiff, albeit showing signs of limpness, I positioned my Sony Xperia's camera some distance away from the shaft, so the flattering shot impresses the recipients.

"Because I promised."

A private note I composed attached to the picture.

"Enjoy!"

Hours later, both lads sent a collective response.

"Sarap."

Grotesque

The fault was ours to begin with. It was the boss who accidentally nudged the figurine leading to the ceramic boy's decapitation on the floor. But instead of putting back the pieces together, the object, whose purpose is to trail days remains broken when we kicked off the shift earlier today.

And then, the dissonance of the imagination hits me. Thus, the bodily parts re-arrangement.

Grotesque the outcome might be, the exercise spawns the surrealist within. Whatever pebble of knowledge, a tear drop of reflection, or a timeless learning I cast in the wind as a result of that boredom, I encapsulate in a pensive sentence:

Sometimes, the creative impulse twists our perspective of things to see beauty in perversity.

A Pervert's Log

Decided to skip the daily juicing in preparation for an arranged trouble today - which was cancelled at the last minute. 

And when I decided to fap the bird - rather than let it probe a stranger's warm and moist orifice - I was surprised at how stiff it remained. Blood appeared to have blocked every cavity, swelled every capillary there is in that pole and when it was time to drain the pipe; to make way for an explosion - a leak I held back for two days - the seed spreading, and spermy genocide was pure bliss.

Habit changing is forthcoming, and maybe, this less attention to my little friend may grease the sex machine I once was.

Caudex Digitalis

Previously: Travel Writing

The idea took shape one night. I was too lazy to sit in front of the laptop, to tap the keys, and write a blog much like I am penning right now.

Instead, there was a desire to craft a story while I laid flat on my stomach in bed. In this body posture, words seem to flow easier, and the mind is less cluttered when I am mere winks away from sleep.

The method would have been easier to accomplish with Samsung's Memo app. But with the replacement of the old phone with Xperia, I found Sony's Notes disappointing. Not only is there a limit to the number of characters you can write in a page, entire drafts disappear when one fails to save his work.

The app simply isn't created for writing journals much like this.

So off I checked Google Play for a fitting replacement. I tried a few apps, including Evernote and found them too difficult to use.

All that has changed when I chanced upon the Notebooks app. From that moment, after it was installed on Ndoto, half of the works I publish online found their drafts in this software's binary code.

Notebooks Pro

Simply put, the app lets wordsmiths like me create entire works using a single page. It means, there are no limits to words, sentences and paragraphs in a page, and image attachments are optional, if a writer plans to import the draft to another medium. One can also close the app, and even switch off the phone, and still find the draft saved to the most recent revision. I could just imagine a novel, written in parts before bedtime, using nothing but this application. Chapters upon chapters read aloud by the author and edited, before being converted to a .pdf file.

The basic app is free. But with advertisement comes the unnecessary distraction. Knowing I can write anywhere and anytime using Notebooks, the investment of 2 dollars in local currency for the full version has already paid dividends.

Drafts Page

Writing for me, in essence, remains a lifetime pursuit. A tireless discipline that goes on even in the absence of an audience.  And in a time when these writing practices experience a collective withering; when Blogging as an artform no longer find patrons among the pedestrians, this handy digital parchment, I could tap when creative muses yearn to craft - away from the laptop - spells the difference between the total and complete surrender of the journal,

And the continued embrace of the written word elevated in long form.

Leibster

Dear Sepsep,

Consider this response, a promise kept. It's been a while since I was tagged in memes like these. 

Thank you.

Here are the rules:

1. Link the blog that nominated you for the award. (Done)

2. Answer the 11 questions given to you. (Done)

3. Create 11 questions for the people you nominate to answer. (Too lazy to write questions) 

4. Choose 11 bloggers to nominate who have less than 200 followers. (Too few readers to tag.)

5. Let the people you have nominated know that you have done so. (I won't be choosing 11 bloggers)

6. You can't nominate the person who nominated you. (No, this blog's a black hole.)

The Answers:

1. Which is worse, an unrequited love or unrequited lust?

Unrequited love siyempre. Kasi nag-invest ka ng emotions at pinairal mo ang puso mo, tapos one-way lang pala. As for unrequited lust, ayus lang. Edi huwag ituloy ang sex. Ibalik sa palaisdaan ang partner kapag hindi na-tripan at pagkatapos ay humanap ng iba sa Grindr.  

2. Nahuli mo na bang nagse-sex ang mga magulang mo? How?

Hindi ko nahuli. Pero may vague memories ako na nakikipag-make out yung dad ko sa bath tub - with my yaya.

And yes, I have a half-brother. 

3. After mo tumae sa isang inidorong may flush, pinapanood mo ba yung ebak mo habang fina-flush mo siya? Bakit?

Oo. Force of habit na yan. Natatakot kasi ako na baka hindi ma-swak yung ebak, magpalutang lutang at masilayan ng susunod na gagamit ng toilet. 

Nakakahiya.

4. Magbigay ng limang gulay na wala sa kantang Bahay Kubo. Explain why and then simplify your answers.

Carrots, Cauliflower, String Beans, Patatas, at Broccoli. 

Kung iyong mapapansin, lahat ng gulay na binigay ko ay tubong Baguio. At kung sinuman ang nagsulat ng kantang Bahay Kubo ay never nakatuntong sa lugar na iyon. 

5. What's the worst thing you did for love?

Bought him a laptop when I had none, just to pay the price of my planned and certain exit from his life. 

6. What's the most unusual thing you did for lust?

I rimmed and fucked even when I'm supposed to be a Bottom. Pero sa isang tao ko lang ginawa iyon, at talagang may nararamdaman ako sa kanyang intimacy kaya ginawa ko yun. Other than that, I have this habit of taking selfies of my dick. But I never post it online. 

Trust me, I've done wilder things when I was a kid.

7. Nautot ka na ba habang nakikipagsex? Ano ang reaction ng partner mo?

Nope. I can't remember.

8. Nahuli ka na ba na nagjajakol? Bakit ka nagpahuli?

Not sure if I was caught, pero one time, habang nagbabate ako sa DVD ng Bel-Ami, napasilip yata yung utol ko. Nakasiwang na lang yung pintuan ng room ko nung tumayo ako para kumuha ng cum rag.

9. What is the worst thing you ever said or did to your ex or your current partner to intentionally hurt him?

I'm not sure if it would count, pero save for the most recent ex, I slept with other guys just to get back at the second and first. Hindi ko rin kasi kinakaya ang pakiramdam na ginagamit ka na lang for their ends Gusto ko rin makaramdam ng halaga sa iba, kahit panandalian lang. 

10. Nakatikim ka na ba ng kupal?

Nope, pero gusto ko makatikim ng uncut. 

11. Lastly, kanino ka naniniwala dun sa pukinginang issue tungkol kay Vhong Navarro?

I stopped following the issue the third day after it became public. Nakakasawa na din, at wala rin naman akong mapapala sa mga celebrities na yan. Besides, I have no sympathy for Vhong Navarro. Masaya pa nga siguro kapag masyadong na-trauma yung itlog niya, hindi na siya titigasan forever.  

Believe

Before I learned to raise my hands in the air, and let my hips drop to the ground; before I started doing pelvic thrusts with strangers and bounce my head to the beat of the sound; and before I learned to identify a progressive trance from a hard house, and get acquainted to the music of Fatboy Slim and Dirty South, I owe my love for Electronic dance music to a diva known to everyone as Cher.

I just remembered her, and her music as it was one of the questions thrown at me on Ask.FM. Those who knew me as someone with vast knowledge and ear for EDM could not believe that my roots lie with Dance Pop.

Blogapalooza 2013

Blogging is the new graffiti on the walls: moments of one’s existence forever inked on temporary surfaces. But some habits are difficult to let go.

The Art of Blogging

Musings of a Lost Soul

There was a time when this was the epicenter of happenings. The sociopetal fulcrum of dialectics. This used to be the home of many, the melting pot of voices. Varied, distinct, uncompromising voices. Now it lays in the silence of oblivion. Falling into disarray, becoming obsolescent in the changing climate of social media, of shorter and fickler attention spans, and shallow, crass, soulless content. What used to be a kaleidoscopic space, chromatically psychedelic, is now geige and muted. In the absence of its voices, it has become blunt and still.

(In)still

Red is the New Black

I was out in the streets this afternoon when I received the letter. It was an email from Vince, the founder of WheninManila. The invitation was about an event: a gathering of bloggers, brand specialists and social media influencers. Dubbed Blogapalooza 2013, the activity aims to showcase products - thoughtfully packaged in the form of loot bags - famous bloggers and Twitter demi-gods are expected to promote in their social media page. 

I read the letter, clicked some links leading to the event's landing page, and found some 150 bloggers who will be attending the event. Most of them are endorsers - people who made a name in blogging press releases for local products and events. Some are bloggers who write about gadgets, and travelling. Others are foodies - people who love to take pictures of food and write stuff about eating places. 

While it is interesting to note that I am familiar with some of the bloggers attending, at the back of my head, I wonder, what stories will these people share of the experience?

Will they be doing crafty storytelling, or become a random mouthpiece of the products they are endorsing?

Not so long ago, I too used to get invites to such gatherings. The only flip-flops I wear today is courtesy of Ipanema. When they launched their sandals in the country. I got mine for free, in exchange for covering the event with some of the blog luminaries of that time. The event was well rehearsed, the dance performance was aimed to show the beauty of the footwear, and the guests went home with their tummies full.

I still remember the exact feeling of sliding your feet in one of these flip flops. I wrote that it felt like stepping on a White Rabbit chewy candy. The flops' soft pads have this buttery texture. The footwear was designed with comfort in mind, and even if the wearer treks the countryside the whole day, he won't get blisters from all that walking. 

Had I known the Ipanema slippers would last four years (and counting) after the first time I wore them, this important detail would never miss my entry.

I'll recommend the product for its durability. 

These thoughts come across as I contemplate the blogging scene today. I read in one blog that blog marketing in the Philippines is actually growing; that in his words, readership is on the rise. While he didn't include a link to the study supporting his claim, the truth is not too difficult to discern from reality: None of my friends still publish their written works, and while blog marketing remains a vibrant niche (according to its advocates), these bloggers' impersonal approach to writing leaves many of their comment boxes empty.  

Thus, SEO junk aside, my hope is that the event delivers, and the products' selling points really get out on the web. For I still believe in the power of storytelling, and connecting to your readers on an intimate sphere. In a time when the shadow of the paid hacks (the Big Bad Bloggers) still loom large over blogger readership, photos and general information don't court a following.

It is the blogger's personal touch and honesty that make people read one's work.  

To be sure, I won't be attending the event - despite the freebies I'd be getting, and the potential exposure and network I'd be receiving. I won't be there, not because I publish a personal blog (whose author is in the middle of catharsis), or it is an exclusive event attended by people who know each other, and breathe the same marketing air that snuffed out many other bloggers in the past. 

I won't be going for one reason. 

One that strikes deep into the craft itself, and of my existence.

"To each his own," I would remind myself while writing this entry. It is for me to see the big picture, and to sound less condescending when the final draft gets published. For the longest time I've been telling stories. Stories that were drawn from my solitary journeys and epiphanies. True to my approach, the only reason I have come this far is because of the notion; of that enduring belief that I have no audience.

Much as I would like to enjoy the perks that comes with blogging. I get inspiration to pen words when I know my works are beholden only to myself.

Ask.FM

Ask.fm is a social networking website where anonymous users can ask other users questions they wouldn't bring up when their identity is in the open. It is taking my Twitter timeline by storm since last week, and some turned out more of an inquisition rather than a harmless Q&A pastime. Ask me for my insight and I would say that deception defeats the purpose of creating an account, and it's no fun to spin your answers when everyone tries to be real. 

  

When the trend became the subject among my friends, Garppy suggested that I create my own account. I said I'm terrified of being interrogated. 

"You can ignore the questions that you don't want to answer naman eh." He said in defense. At the back of my head, I thought censorship is boring. I might be able to bury the truth in cryptic answers, but then, it is in my nature to be brutal with facts. 

A single sentence question requires a single sentence reply. 

There were occasions I leaned towards joining the bandwagon, especially when intelligent examinations took place and the ones in the spotlight were able to articulate their responses. But when I thought of the prying questions - some, I would reveal below - I am convinced to leave the mystery uncovered for truth sometimes, trails into darkness than lead people towards the light.

• When was your last sex and with whom?
• You have let go of the past, but still, why don't you follow your ex's Twitter account?
• The kinkiest sex for you is?
• What was your strongest reason to stop pursuing your last date?
• Who among your friends did you sleep with last summer?
• Do you really have to cease talking to those you have hurt and those who have hurt you?

For these are difficult questions, comments will not be allowed for this entry.

   

Throw Away

The Baywalk, Million People March

When time comes I find no use anymore, cast me into the sea so I can drift away where memories can never reclaim me.

Please Transpose EU (Extended Use)

I listen to Ambient and Downtempo music on YouTube from time to time. When the mood calls for it. And one of the things I observe is that instead of a video clip, a breathtaking image complements the music stream. These images were sourced from the Internet. In community pages like Deviantart and Flickr.

To find these artworks would take time, as seldom does the music uploader give credit to the graphic artist. Even the source community is often denied reference. So for those who love having these images for wallpaper or for one's sensory indulgence, someone on YouTube shared a tip on how to upload pictures from YouTube to your desktop.  

• Press Ctrl + U. A new tab opens.
• Go to Line 18. There is a link there with a .jpg or .png extension.
• Copy the link and paste it into the address bar.
• Save the image.

That's how it's done.

Beach House

listen
and fill you head with
wistful memories
of sand, sea and waves
frothing down a listless shore.

Time forgets how long these ears have been spell bound by electronic dance music. Their sonar functions used to the slight, almost inaudible pitch, that it is almost certain for them to hear the difference between a Deep House and Ibiza by the sound of the beat. 

Not so long ago, House Music - as we know it - was just flourishing and multiplying into different styles. The genre trickled mainstream, until Disco House and the pop remixes bounced off the speakers perched above the dancing grounds of Malate. La Dida was the place of introduction, and from that day, no longer would Trance from my Ministry of Sound collection hold monopoly of me.

But this entry is not about my love affair with House and its derivatives. Neither I desire to cart the pages of history to reveal another look at my past in Orosa. This post is about the great finds I come across when I surf the radio stations for new beats. One such artist, whose works take my breath away lately is Mango.

  Mango feat Aqua Diva  - At The Edge Of This Mountain

Mango, Andre Frauenstein feat Ludmik  - Disappear

Google offers very little about the identity of the musician - if you don't know where to find. Using the right key words, a little known Facebook account leads to Alex Golovanov, whose hypnotic melodies is steadily gaining him a spot at the center of Progressive House circles. 

True to the artist belonging to an independent label, not even Beatport supplies details about Mango. His only exposure comes from dozens of anonymous fans uploading his work on YouTube. That is how I found him after some of his stuff were played on U-Radio one summer morning.

Despite his name hardly spoken, Mango's creations are short of divine. His signature minimalist sound conjures images of the shore, on a sunny day, with the listener somewhere in the tropics sipping a glass of coconut juice as the sun sets on the horizon. Golovanov must have though of sunshine in Moscow that his longings inspire him to produce sounds that perfectly captures the mood of a relaxing beach holiday.

Serge Flibustier  - Nowhere (Mango Remix)

A seaside escape may not be forthcoming. Not when pressing matters ground me at home. But when I think of the music that would carry my thoughts - to the palm trees and white sands, where not a single soul is there to block my sunshine; even at the heart of a destitute city, Mango gets me to my destination.