I LIKE performing. I like it when I totally immerse myself in another vessel of consciousness onstage. I enjoy losing myself in a world that I previously imagined—with me as a major role player in such performance… I easily attach my soul to a crowd but I am detached from them physically—I prefer my life that way, most of the time. The attachment/detachment feed the intrigue and mystery—and, hopefully, some wisdom—that linger in my work. I like the audience to own my work—like I wrote those words for each of them, like I perform for them as individual energies. After the performance, I kind of just lose myself in the haze or I just gravitate back to my batcave. I want the audience to wander and wallow in whatever my work exude or project… It’s always painstaking to express myself or pour my heart out or speak my mind. I frustrate myself when I talk, I can spit out 100 words in 10 minutes—yet I don’t seem to cut my message across the way I wanted them to. I am frequently misunderstood or misread. So I find quiet fulfillment and joy in translating my thoughts and truths in written words or literature, a busy canvas, piano dirge or a clown persona behind a laughing mask, onstage. Bottomline is—humanity will understand us more, will accept the innermost parts of us, when we delve beyond the limits of spoken words or all those dangling conversations. We are within, not without. [For my upcoming shows, go to—BOOKINGS: Shows and Gigs]
Saturday, April 23, 2011
I LIKE performing. I like it when I totally immerse myself in another vessel of consciousness onstage. I enjoy losing myself in a world that I previously imagined—with me as a major role player in such performance… I easily attach my soul to a crowd but I am detached from them physically—I prefer my life that way, most of the time. The attachment/detachment feed the intrigue and mystery—and, hopefully, some wisdom—that linger in my work. I like the audience to own my work—like I wrote those words for each of them, like I perform for them as individual energies. After the performance, I kind of just lose myself in the haze or I just gravitate back to my batcave. I want the audience to wander and wallow in whatever my work exude or project… It’s always painstaking to express myself or pour my heart out or speak my mind. I frustrate myself when I talk, I can spit out 100 words in 10 minutes—yet I don’t seem to cut my message across the way I wanted them to. I am frequently misunderstood or misread. So I find quiet fulfillment and joy in translating my thoughts and truths in written words or literature, a busy canvas, piano dirge or a clown persona behind a laughing mask, onstage. Bottomline is—humanity will understand us more, will accept the innermost parts of us, when we delve beyond the limits of spoken words or all those dangling conversations. We are within, not without. [For my upcoming shows, go to—BOOKINGS: Shows and Gigs]
Saturday, April 16, 2011
RIDE With The WIND With Me. I'm sending an open invite to solo performers (singer-songwriters, pianists, violinists, guitarists etc) who might be interested to share a show or two with me in a number of cities and towns, starting soon. From late spring to fall, I will be reading choice poems and prose from my books-in-progress in cafes, art galleries and bookstores. The road gigs kick off in Charleston in South Carolina. Other towns/cities on the gig map: SC—Columbia, Cayce, Kiawah, Walterboro, Beaufort, Hilton Head, Sullivan’s Island, Isle of Palms, Summerville etc; North Carolina—Asheville, Chapel Hill, Durham, Winston-Salem, Raleigh etc. Plus Georgia, Baltimore/Maryland, Virginia. For details, email me (pasckie@yahoo.com) PHOTO: Chillin’ out at Portfolio Café on 4th Street in Long Beach, California, 2008. Me and my “Nomads of 4th Street” poet-buddies Daniel Romo and Michael James read at Portfolio a lot. Another perennial venue for the Nomads was Viento y Agua Café, located a few blocks away.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
AS A child, I witnessed how a river was wasted to serve as dump for a mining plant’s bowels. As a 14-year old reporter, I interviewed a broken man who allegedly murdered a store owner for a kilo of rice. Then I was assigned to cover killer floods and deadly typhoons—and civilians caught in the crossfire of the government’s Communist counter-insurgency war. Deaths, lots of death: the backdrop of my life’s love stories. Love, like a wounded dove, inches out of the dark of my nights, the cold of my days—and keeps on struggling to fly out of my heart. I kiss like it could be my last, hold like it’s the only warmth I ever knew, make love like she’s the only pleasure I could taste… I love like life is about to snuff out of my world: I keep it deep, so deeply embedded in my being. [--Pasckie Pascua]
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