Heres Estrella

More Stars than There are

Tag: writing

Seasons

Is it really true---what they say,

“One life ends, Another one begins.”

If so, is it the best one could wish for?

We live in a strange reality, one in which the best lessons are taught with loss and death. We survive the perished, and live our days breathing leftover air.

We go to different places, make new bonds, start and restart new lives---each a second chance, all to one way or another, make up for what we could not rescue in the first place.

"We'll do it Better this time."

It's not so sad as it is bittersweet, like the passing and rebirthing of seasons.

getting even with madness

shadows crawling, sins go on repeating
as you scantily prop your back,
fighting cross-generational
demons.

years without Transcendence
or pure self destruction,
cut out from the fast and easy
perishing---

do you find yourself now
so needlessly harsh,
morbidly crass;
so stubbornly brash?

would opening your skull,
and peeking in to
snap these tense cords
bring you final release?

mute screams, muffled
between inner ears
reverberate and
seep---

until we are nothing
but knots over knots:

finding ourselves
in a messy string.

But hey now---
hey now, hey now:

If we are so Lucky
as to
Carry On Living...

Remember,
Grit your teeth!
trace the harder
route to Release---

Follow the timeless Patrons
of Form and Patience,

And all the while,
.
.
.

Rage.

Plan with fervor;
Desist; Trample if you must---

but Do---
not try but do,

Toss
until chaos
becomes Peace.

Contemplation: A Midnight Night Storm

The rain has been persistent throughout this night. It is a bit past midnight, and woken up by the whirring phone that warned of a possible flood, I am urged to stay up and wait for this tumultuous deluge abate into anonymity, so that the mind can finally quit thinking out loud.


The nature of the thunderstorm was not felt until I looked out to the balcony to rescue our potted majestic palm, which had been tipped over by the fierce wind, and was laying miserably on its side, with its branches awkwardly stuck into the balcony fence.

"My poor friend..." I lamented as I ushered myself outside the door.

Almost immediately, the reality of nature struck, as my pants and T-shirt quickly began soaking up the rain droplets being blown sideways past the illusionary comfort of having a roof. Wet garments feel thinner than when they were dry and warm, and the wearer gets reminded of how divorced we as a species truly are, when a little wetness and rain seem to become an ordeal.

I scurry back to the apartment with the palm, feeling its weight compounded by all of the water its soil drank up during the three hours it had been left in the downpour. Maybe it was no coincidence: I needed to get up from my purposeless slumber to ensure the comfort and survival of our botanical companion.

The various drizzling sounds of precipitation, with automobiles occasionally traversing in its midst downstairs, coupled with intermittent lightning strikes and their delayed, distant rumbling---there is something nearly otherworldly about the rain. It dresses our surroundings with a mystical skin that which speaks a variety of stand-alone languages: clarity, release,  even a grimy ruggedness, and more (depending on one's experience).

As a human creature departed from nature, I was(am) an lizstomanic, so I put on my pair of budget noise-cancelling headphones: a tune from seemingly another era comes up unexpectedly, and I am rushed into a special place, delivered there by a simple, much taken granted for ritual.

It is the strangest feeling: when personal melodic favorites that defined previous periods of one's life re-emerge in the distinguished present---he/she is temporarily dropped in an altered state, in which most of the old sentiments associated with the those near forgotten songs come rushing to the forefront of his/her senses, and it is so vivid that one could begin to fantasize, and maybe fear, if time and reality had rewound itself to a point in the unraveled, perhaps unravished past, or even more incredible, if the present reality was even real at all. What if, instead, we actually all unknowingly dwell within some simulated dream-like realm fabricated by our consciousness that had long ago been laid to sleep, perhaps forcibly locked away, shut tight behind a set of heavy, cold doors? What if---our True Awakening would produce a Light so Bright, that it'd tip the universe at its present state off its balance, and blind all of those who are too acquainted with both the Dark and Light..? 

Ugh, but really, who has ample practical time to ponder elaborately on such thoughts?

I beckon it'd be better to live and sift through the pieces as they come. So long as one remembers to simply.listen.

You might pleasantly surprise yourself with an set of tunes so personally ancient that upon hearing such, a mystical picture of that instant of yourself, now barely recognizable, is freshly painted before your mind's eye. Old song, old Self---but listen and feel closer, and allow New Interpretations and Realities to manifest, albeit they are many folds more difficult to procure than their once bone and flesh counterparts from that foggy, distant Past...

Still, Do try, partner! Like a slap happy Western Adventurer, striving on, against the lasting barrenness and with ever dogged Optimism and Faith, seeking to rekindle those porcels of Gold: prized Jubilance and Humanity, that which were hollowed out by Time and Fate, while the conscious of old became suspended in a day-by-day, week-by-week, and years-to-decades daze.

By this, look from outside your self-possessed veil, and acknowledge your hidden oppression, to which you had unwillingly handed your consent: to bear and its shroud of shoulder bending, neck snapping weight. Feel the pain and weariness, and acknowledge them. Then brew them all into a nice cup of rolling Storm, and let it rain down with a thunderous deluge, stirring you to wakefulness from your induced Sleep.

Look! Your Majestic Palm has been blown side ways, flailing in helplessness! Who does it have, but the full attention of your present Wakefulness?

 

A Breath of Change

*** A bit of a Update ***

After having sat on the idea of this initiative for many months, I’ve finally taken a step towards associating my work platform with a less pretentious and ridiculous label, renaming it from the former name of “Vermis Meridiem” to “Heres Estrella,” the latter of which having a much closer tie to my Name, “Heres Pang” (you are free to make whatever assumption about my circumstances and physical attributes from this name alone—but I hope it ultimately does not interfere with your reception of my written works themselves, which are magnitudes more critical than how I intend to be or am actually perceived).

From everything said above, the only notion I am trying to convey here is that, from this point on, I am going to take greater care, time, and effort towards managing more serious output, the kind that I hope to snowball into collections of material that can exert greater reach over you, portions of our society, and beyond.

Again, I hope.

(One can only Hope, Inshallah).

As for you, the Dear Individual reading along this very line, I wish for you to have greater success over finding your own place in our world. And by this I mean not overindulging in the idea that you (or me, or anyone else) is more special, privileged, or distinguished relative to anyone else, but instead realizing more and more with practice and time,  that our species is driven towards the greatest of its feats of marvel under the internalization of a broader fact:

Each of US is no more or less than a very necessary brush stroke on a grand, cohesive canvas—the picture painted on which would be rendered less complete if any of You and I remained unawakened to our delegated, interdependent roles.

(In short, a little less being in the center of attention, and a little more playing our position. In a good and cosmic way, that is).

*** End of Update ***

It has been a long and testing Winter, and even in its closure, the Coldness seeps into this late-on-arrival Spring. Things are certainly changing, so let’s not sit out the impetuous wave this time.

 

—Gather Ye Flowers While Ye May, my Kin.

 

Best Wishes,
Heres Pang.

 

 

Work

 

“I can change,
I can change,
  I can change—

If it helps you 

to Fall in Love.”

 

 

Spring Forgives

Spring was late to smile upon us this year—Her sweetness felt shorter than usual, yet it was just as reassuring as the all the eternal Hope that She embodies. We shall take in full Gratitude what Grace, regardless of how ephemeral,  that She has kindly imparted upon all of us—whether we opened our sleeping eyes to See or not.

Not Yet Ready for March

Crowded places filled with gazes of much un-needed Inquiry:
Curious, tense, lustful, and envious—mostly afraid—
Vexing to the extremities of bone.

Can’t a Brother eat alone
Without getting smothered by cloudy and judging glances?

damn unwholesome souls
lurking rampant on this Earth

so disturb me;
perpetually motivated from outwards, of which’s approval they seek;
must we ceaselessly suck like maggots
and compete with one another in nothing
but creature obsessions? 

Escaping the suffocating boxes of Men (and Women too),
Rows of densely packed Crackles sing like
Stereotypical Hispanic Aunties,
Fast and incessantly energetic—
Sitting on the power lines, they look like
Lines of blotched ink, so morbidly jet black,
That a weak mind may just mistake them
For a bad, bad omen—

and can we stop reducing our fellow creatures
into metaphors of our own mere understandings? 

You see, it might just be a rest stop
Along the journey of their mass, seasonal migrations—
Amongst themselves, a make-shift conference is undergoing.

A slow walk toward less crowded blocks,
Outdated Post Offices and Abandoned Factories,
Peeling Paints; Corroded Metal Beams—
Ironically, at such sights, the soured Heart sits more at ease;
Maybe they remind Us of our lost
But once True Essence,

Now empty shells, waiting to be swallowed up
Whole, down the fat, fat belly of the Real Estates,
and gentrified into “Creative Work Spaces.”

Looking into the dark corners of these obsolete Sentinels,
A pair of dimly gleaming green eyes peer back
in Innocent Caution; a Young Black Feline.

“Hey there, Friend.” You say.

For it is a rare encounter, after all,
On this humid Dusk quickly morphing into total Night Fall,
It is only you and the cat
Keeping Sigil at the Graves, six feet under which
Lay the molding corpses of the Earnest and Industrious.

Eventually, this on-foot excursion ended,
Leaving you atop an empty garage, possibly
Another tasteless fruit of some Real Estate Empire—
The view falls far short of what you anticipated:
Foggy flatlands scattered with boxes containing men and women
who mostly busy themselves glancing at each other.

A breeze blows, but does not freshen your face.

Oh February of 2018,
You stubborn Animal,
Must you so soon leave us empty handed?
I dreamt of more adventures in your bleakness.

Baptized Lot of Metropolitan

It’s been raining all day here in my city; it’s nice to have these temporary periods of freezing but ultimately refreshing showers, as if nature is cleansing all of us in a preparatory ceremony of what’s ahead. Contrary to the conventional morose connotations associated with overcast days with incessant, chilling precipitation, I wish to persuade all of us to see it under a different light: Rain Excites; it dawns upon those who are willing the physical manifestation of inner tranquility, and rinses the once dried-up-tight knots of both the mind and body. Rain is a spiritual symbol of the meditative, altered state of mind, as well as the carrier of life. 

 

Advent

Of something
Fresh and rare—

Eager like the
Playful
Spring Breeze,

Blowing
Your loose
Lettuce

up,
Up,

and       awaaayy—

An enigmatic
Encounter,

So New
and
Ancient

Once again.

Love at Midtown

I fell
In Love
With a fine,
Young Lady

From the Other
Side
Of town—

She North
And I South—

Two neighborhoods, separate lives,
And both having
Miraculously crossed,

Would never
Once
Be
The same.