of ginsberg and writing

James Franco portrays Allen Ginsberg in the 2010 film Howl.

Just last night, I was watching Howl. Allen Ginsberg’s biopic: A film about the obscenity trial of his published piece, Howl. Set in the 50s, the movie centers on a court trial, where the prosecution regarded the material (Ginsberg’s Howl) crass and insulting, something that requires banning --defense thought otherwise. Several witnesses, some of whom were credible literary giants, at the time, were called forth to the stand, in court proceedings, where arguments on freedom of speech and creative expression were explicitly discussed --whether or not the actual poem has literary merit. In a nutshell, the trial went in favor of the publisher. And all’s well that ends well in that San Francisco courtroom.

The real beauty of the film though, lies not within the court drama, but in the effective retelling of the poem itself, replete with breath-taking animation and rich images depicting the subcontext of each of the poem's lines. I won’t spoil much but I do recommend seeing it for yourself --figure out what lead me to say, with full conviction, that Ginsberg truly was a genius.

I consider it one of several movies that left me in awe, at how a counter-culture maverick came up with a brilliant masterpiece, so ripe with emotion, so driven, and haunting and accurate. Makes you wonder how in the world could a man ever come up with something as moving as that? You ask yourself, will I, at some point in the future, ever come up with something so… legendary…

Personally, I’d like to think that I’m… well… deep… deep enough, I guess. But yeah, there are circumstances when that claim feels far too precarious, even for my standards. If it’s any consolation, I invariably take utter delight in basking in culture’s many aspects. So much so, that I’d often caught myself deeply absorbed in other people’s works, notable, amateurish, whatever sparks my interest, and resonates with my core –those are the kind of stuff I’d be more than willing to digest. I have to admit, sometimes I do get it, and other times I don’t, but mostly I pretend that I do. Give me new material and my response to strange, unfamiliar names is akin to that of an eager kid who cannot wait to play with his new toys, his new… discoveries.

I’ve been lurking in the blogging community as of late, and I was quite impressed at the amount of talent available. I felt the distinction in everyone’s voice, the substance, and I thought wow… these… these are the stuff of literary merit. And someday, I can only hope that my writing could develop into such.

Writing that is –suffice to say, peppered with grand epiphanies. (or could induce one.) You see, I have yet to master that. I was beginning to think, of all writers, I could be just as phony, just as pretentious. Ah Literature… I was starting to question its construct. Was it as illusory as I am now beginning to think it is? How do you fathom that… that certain formula?

Are those marvelous sentences and stellar paragraphs a product borne out of cleverly phenomenal instances, those exquisite mishaps, the almost pre-arranged miracles and abrupt vapid sequences of flashing hallucinations? Or are these masterpieces, of the naturally crafty? Do writers create something grand out of stark naked realizations –sensations, or do they fabricate something out of a need to experiment, to embody, to showcase… to... to something…

For me, there is this basic incessant need to pour out. And that in itself is where I figured I should’ve been focusing on. Not the need to impress, to blow people’s minds or to exceed every staggering expectation there is. Roughly, my style is very honest, bare, and as raw as it gets. No matter how debilitated I feel when I look at my drafts, and see that my thoughts are amiss, my metaphors too abstract --or sometimes, shallow- that recognition, resonance, fails to come through. I’m hopeful, that I will find my distinction --something to set me apart, in the near future.

I was at that disquieting state when I began to feel something. Amidst my peripheral, a miracle was taking place. Beneath the solitary window on my room, I noticed night slowly turning into day. I felt the wind whisper as I saw blue light seeping through the dewy leaves of the verdant backdrop. Could it be? Was this the epiphany I can write about? The wisps of fog and early morning daylight confirmed that an awakening will indeed take place. It was there. I was certain of it. Maybe I just wasn’t looking hard enough... so I squint my eyes and waited…

With bated breath, I waited…

And waited,

And waited some more…

Here it comes now…

I feel it, It’s coming…

It’s coming, I’m sure of it…

It’s…

Punyeta wala naman!

Ba’yan! nagmukha lang akong tukmol…

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