Songs and Memories and Friendships

I STARTED my day reminiscing. Bittersweet memories 
as I listened to songs in my CD, songs that I wrote with friends when I was in my 20s to 30s. Very meaningful ones in my progression as a human being, like a chronicle of my journey before I crossed oceans to America... Due to copyright intricacies, I will have to work on legal issues first before I could properly market them though (via the internet). I can't download it on YouTube or Facebook either, but see me—I will hand you a copy. I hand out “friendly copies” for donations (to my community projects) each time there is a chance. Besides the songs that I wrote with my band, Duane's Poetry—I also wrote a lot of songs with my bestfriend Duwi when we were very young, like 13 or 14 years old. Then some more with other friends in so many places—songs that I left on cassette tapes, lead sheets, notebooks (with scribbled music ledgers and stuff), and memories of those who heard them.

     Meantime, when I was in New York, “Awit kay Clarita,” an ode/sonata behind kneading strings and piano solo break about a slain tribal amazon in the Cordilleras back home, was interpreted by an Alvin Ailey dancer/teacher, Elena Colmenares, in an art exhibition opening in Soho's Puffin Gallery. The master copy was co-arranged with my best buddy Rolly Melegrito, Pearlsha Abubakar and the late Mike Basilio (who engineered the recording). I rearranged “Pagano,” a statement vis a vis traditional/conventional religion and tribal faith, into a multi-percussion interplay and choral voices. “Mutya,” inspired by a Filipino poet Romulo Sandoval who died of cancer at 40, about the beauty of poetry in the backdrop of a cruel world, was sung by a Columbia Univ student as “gift” to the late Senator (and presidential hopeful) Raul Roco and his wife upon their visit in Manhattan in 2000. “Yakap” (“Embrace”), written with Pearlsha, was about a mother's endearing, undying love for her child.

     I learned that a very young group in Manila wants to record an old blues-rock broadside that I wrote with Rolly and Kai Conlu-Brondial, “Praise The Lord, I am Cool,” in reference to the Pope's visit in Manila that time. Then there's the old blues howler, “Mama, Don't Let Your Children Grow Up to be Politicians,” a piece that me and Rolly wrote for our little poetry/blues side-project, “Lightning Joe and The Bluesman.” The sad but closure-tinged “Looking for my Comrades” was my send-off song as I prepare to fly to New York City on my 38th birthday, it's about the surreal confusion of party/ideological-line ruin following the fall of the dictatorship, that we were still “fighting” after the so-called revolution. “May Habilin ang Uhay” (“The Rice Sheaves' Message”) was an eligy to the protesting farmers who were shot at and perished in front of the presidential palace in early `90s. “My Daughter is Missing” talks about a summarily-executed or “salvaged” young activist, a desaparecido...

     

Oh, that song, “Ode to the Beauty Queen,” written with Ray Nunez, with the lines, “Now that you have a most desirable body / Sure bet to boost tourism in any country / And as computers check your vital stat / Tabloids scrutinize your most private parts... / Go on fair muse, sell that toothpaste smile / Neon gods whistle as you strut down desolated isles / And what have you got inside that lovely swimsuit / Have you traded your stars to a sequined fruit... / There goes your stairway, stairway to heaven / All you have to do is get a perfect ten.” Oh yes, at that early age, although I always watched beauty pageants with my four sisters and mom and aunts, I never agreed that awesome shapes and beautiful faces define “beauty” in a woman. And my takes on love as a young man, “”Love is a Poison,” is warm song, written with Kai, based on The Little Prince and The Fox. Then a “harana” (serenade) that I'd like to rearrange and record one of these days, composed with Rolly, “Hindi Ito Panaginip” (“This Is Not a Dream,” that love is not idealized—but realized).

     To think that, these are just little fraction of the many songs that I wrote in the past... What about my poems, plays, unproduced screenplays? There are so many to catch up on, retrieve and resurrect, while my little brain keeps on chugging along everyday, every minute, every second—even in my night dreams. It's not over until it is over, you reckon?

ALL THESE WORDS, After All These Years

FOR some deeply personal reasons, I left almost all of my work back home in the Philippines when I flew to New York City on my 38th birthday in 1998. Poems, fiction, essays, newspaper/magazine articles and reviews/criticism and column pieces, TV scripts and sequence treatments, stage plays, grant project drafts, screenplays and storyboards, drawings and illustrations, ad copies and thoughts, art photography, paintings (acrylic and mixed media), publications that I edited/published, organizational brainstorms, comics and graphic novel sketchbooks, political platform germs, songs and lyrics, letters and correspondences, community program proposals designed for legislation, book ideas etc. Boxes and folders of manuscripts, notebooks, wads of bond papers. Mostly written in English although majority of my literary output were in Filipino/Tagalog language (a few in Spanish and Ilocano provincial dialect). I started writing by the time I stepped in First Grade and professionally writing as newspaper reporter at age 14. Then, it was non-stop. When I eventually decided to settle here in the US when I “discovered” Asheville (North Carolina) few years later, I never made an effort to retrieve my past work—I simply continued churning out more words and (creative) work.

       MY past bodies of work (before I "crashlanded" in America) were distributed among friends and ex-relationships, family house closets, file cabinets of organizations that I belonged, media offices, friends in the countryside, even random people that I met while working as journalist, community organizer, concert producer, traveling cultural worker/researcher and artist/musician. Those were the “unplugged/unwired” years. There were IBM computers, floppy discs and tape recorders and 16mm and 35mm movie cameras—but saving or stocking up work in several devices wasn't a general psyche. It's all hard copies and master tapes. Also, I wasn't very conscious about filing up my work or my mind was so busy creating more work and heeding 3 or 4 “day jobs” and loads of community and/or activism commitments so that a consistent, sustained file system didn't have room in my busy, erratic, gungho, cramped up head...

       A GOOD friend from my theater days in Manila, Joey B., mentioned that he kept a copy of my one-act play, “Maputla ang Ulap sa Laot” (“Clouds are Pale Out in the Sea”). I am sure it was about life in tiny fishing villages where I spent time as writer/researcher and grassroots communications teacher when I was in my early 20s or late-teens. A French friend maintains that I left in her care a crate of writings—handwritten and typed (on typewriter) or printed via those “ancient” noisy IBM machines. She reminded me that she has a copy of a collection of poems, “The Rainbow is Bleeding," plus an anthology of essays with an intriguing title, “Not Valid for Public Consumption, and other words that I shouldn't have said or written.” Some friends (and ex'es), who are scattered all over the globe, also informed me that I left them notebooks of doodles and/or verses, sheaves of handwritten words on loose bond papers and musty notebooks, prose on personalized cards, lead sheets on music pads, paintings (acrylic and ink), cassette tapes of demos, words and words on fancy scrapbooks etc etcetera. I also had this practice of writing a few words (poetry, prose) on whatever piece of paper that I could grab and then handing it to whoever was around for keepsake, like a gift. I am glad that some of those beautiful people kept some of those little yarns... I write everyday like it's breathing—I produce work like it's all I do, if I don't do it, I die. So from NYC/summer of 1998 to this very moment, you could imagine the volume of hard copies and megabytes of computer space juices and dirt that I already produced or accumulated—out of my crazy, crazy mind.

       I AM a poor fellow at age 54 with four grown-up kids treading their own paths. I am not sure if I'd be able to leave my kids something on the line of inheritance or trust, in the form of bank accounts and properties/assets—although I am still trying. Maybe a grandfather actually left me a cattle farm somewhere in the Pacific, LOL! Anyhow, all I got are my work. Work that hopefully will amount to many books, movies, projects, stuff and whatever they could be used for.

       MEANTIME, I just want to keep on writing and writing and writing--whether these get published or not. Years ago, I used to pursue most of these while sharing ideas with colleagues, friends and strangers—in small inner city cafes and barrio farm fields or oceansides, or workers picketlines, commuter bus, terminals. My writing process was always part of my steady, sustained interaction with people. Sadly, I don't have that “luxury” anymore, around my circumstances and situation in the US. We are inside this little gizmo called computers and fiddling around in social media circles. I wish it is easy these days to just sit down and discuss a screenplay's progression or a poem's birthing from a coffeecup without sounding rude, condescending, politically-incorrect, provocateur, or just talky and boring. Every word that comes out of our mouths is a target for a kind of in-depth scrutiny for its sense or sensitivity, although this reflex and response happen at a quicksilver pace. Confused. Attached yet detached; connected yet disconnected.

       I CAN always say that it was easier to write and create before because it was easier to be human and alive in those days, almost instinctive—no matter how physically unpleasing or mentally/emotionally harsh the times when I produced volumes of work. More importantly, it was easier to be recognized or validated and confirmed with whatever I wrote—the work is right there on their hands. These days, I can write 15 poems in 3 days, but once I saved that on my hard drive, it's almost forgotten since more words are going to inhabit and crowd my hard drive and thumb drives, anyway, in the next 12 hours--all funneled in the internet well. One post is a blink because I will be posting more in the next minute. But then many years ago, as I loosely and nonchalantly handed out my work to people, or left them somewhere, they kept and treasured them. Hence, my soul is saved, my spirit exists. No Apple app or the most expensive computer gadget could ever do that. The surest depository or undying bank of human thoughts is the human heart. It never forgets. That is the only way how to live forever as a writer--or as a human being. [--Pasckie Pascua, from “My Life as a Greyhound”]

Who is Watching Who?

EVERYBODY's being watched. Everybody's being monitored. But paranoia isn't going to mess up my dinner. No way... The Eagles sang: “You can check out anytime you like / But you can never leave.” That's how it goes in the Free World. That's how it goes in America. Swipe your credit card, pass by airport security, send out an email, text your lawyer etc—once the machine buzzes, you're counted, you're in. If you're not hiding shit, why worry? Everybody's going to be screened anyways—from the White House chief resident to the homeless dude who logged in at a public library in Juneau, Alaska. Wanna escape from Big Bro's piercing laser eyes? Get off the highway and walk, chuck the plastic card, change your name to Lookipadooki, wear an invisible hoodie, and move up to the Himalayas (where, by the way, Buddhist monks also google stuff. Wanna “friend” them?)

       Am I worried about my privacy? NO. I am worried about other irritants but not some ninja out to steal my hummus sandwich. Give me 1 million more FB “friends,” I'll relish it! Enjoy my words, share my poetry, meet my kids, try this cool recipe, sing along with me, look! the koolcat just brought in a baby dragon! FUN. Those who know me longer, knows that I am a reclusive bat—ask me questions about an ex, expect a rude response. There's limit to what we can share here, but that's a personal decision—what is “private” and what isn't. Know what to give away, know what to keep (at least for the time being). Common sense. It's all in a day's time out there.

       Being online is like hanging out at the park on a Saturday afternoon. Sharing stuff is like talking on the mic in front of a crowd. So is it possible to say: “My name is Pasckie Pascua, my passport name is George Alfredo Pascua, 53 years old next Tuesday, a father of 4, heterosexual, loves the Bee Gees, eats ramens, got the hots for women with hips. Oh BTW, I just hurt my pinkie in the bathroom at 4:13.04 AM, any advice how to ease the pain? Jeez, I realize I need to buy babedawg food. You know, I really hate my neighbor's ex mom in law because she looks like my ex of 65 years ago!

       Now listen, those infos are strictly—and I mean it—STRICTLY for my four chosen friends only. Weebo, Keebo, Feebo and Beebo... (mic feedback, brrrr!)... Damn, I am sorry for that feedback guys, this mic sucks! Sorry, I sound really awful this morning. Allergies, you know... See you in 15 seconds, bye!”

The Immigrant Dreamer, The Self-exiled Seeker

WHEN I see “foreign” hands quietly go through a little gig wherever—diner kitchen, apple orchard, snowy roadside, building rooftop, front lawn, city garage—for few dollars paid, I don't see bent backs or weary eyes, I see hearts and souls. America is the haven of plenty, the promised land—where greener pastures lay gently so freedom could frolic with proud trees, jubilant wind and tall buildings. This is where humanity converge, where a voice in the wilderness could resound beyond the seas, a giant stage where a mere whisper is heard by a throng, and a slight wave of a hand could move a mountain...

       But most immigrants sailed the turbulent oceans and flew the uneasy sky and left behind families, friends and the warm intimacy of their culture of birth—not to wonder over the immaculate grandeur of snowfall, or drown in the euphoric glee of Times Square, or marvel at the flawless magnificence of the Grand Canyon, or bungee jump from atop the mighty Statue of Liberty, or rock `n roll in an almost endless expanse of generous lawns of grass... 

       These wayfarers, pilgrims and voyagers carry a heavy load of dreams tucked in their shallow pockets that are not necessarily measured by dollars paid for hours rendered. That Dream may not exude the scent of apples, instead it could be the Dream of Apples, a dream so abstract and hazy yet so alive and insistent like the incessant rumble of monsoon rains on tin can roofs, or the howl of tempest in the eye of the storm—that never left them, these accompany them as they rest their bodies and pause their minds at the end of a day in the peaceful quiet of a transient room.

      The glorious joy that seep through their veins as they watch families share dinners or Saturdays at the park equal the fleeting happiness of seeing their loved ones stream along, in and out, on a computer screen, or the sweet smile that squeezes out of their eyes when the little child left at home opens a box of blessings sent from America, and then burst into a tearful, happy dance... 

      These adventuring souls not only bring with them a thick notebook of things to buy and places to visit, most of all—they drag with them a long history of pain and new stories of agony that is not easy to comfort or heal. Their loneliness is not the isolated discontent of winter cold or the excruciating alienation of bleeding hearts that can never be pacified by so many open doors ushered by so many generous smiles. Their souls will remain unwelcome, their hearts will stay beating a distant beat that only the sweet songs of summers somewhere so far, so far away, could shelter...

The Issue of Alcohol

IS THERE a city in America that doesn't peddle beer and alcohol, outright or in proxy, as major tourism come-on? Beers brought money to Asheville so if city income translates to better infrastructure, basic services, and employment opportunities, good. Good? Longtime mountain residents have the answer to that one so I digress...

       I do drink. But there are times in my life when I evaded alcoholism myself—binge drinking so I could wade around my dizzying concert production madness (playing, organizing), social drinking so I could fit in media circles accessively, and “date-drinking” or “chill out drinking” because almost all of the women that I dated in the Western world nurture certain degrees of alcohol dependence (some went to AA and back etc). I got excuses and alibis, you reckon...

       Meantime, alcohol, like any other non-basic consumption, is all economics and mind-altering intoxication (that muddles and confuses reflex and response) to me. (1) No matter how beers and vodka “loosen” me up, if I don't have the means (or extra budget) to obtain them, no dice, I won't exert any effort to get one, I'd rather get two packs of ramens. (2) Unlike famous writers and artists who somehow gain creative fire with alcohol/drug excess, three beers would eventually render me unable to write/work anymore, done. (3) My limit of three beers or two shots of vodka or whiskey would easily douse my sexual enthusiasm for the day, done.

       So although I do drink, there were many instances in my 54 years on earth that I didn't drink for years. Non-functional, functional, binge drinking, power drinking—it's all about the regularity of the dependency and total amount of intoxication consumed that define alcoholism to me. So whether one could drive a car like a sober SOB after 7 beers or one could still work around the house so easily or beat deadlines at the workplace after a bottle of jagermeister or 6-pack of Highland Gaelics, that's still a problem. Something's gotta give somehow, someone's gonna succumb one way or the other. Sadly, we only act or fix ourselves after the fact.

       The people in my life that I spent/spends time the longest are those who don't drink at all. My two bestfriends back home are dogmatically non-drinkers (they are Margiis, which I was/am), the only two women that I hang out with/live with in North Carolina these days don't drink at all, the longest relationship I had (nine years) was with someone who pukes on mere smell of beer. Thing is, I spend time with them around alcohol—bars, social functions, parties, and there are always beers and wine in their house/s. Someone with a bar in his/her house for living room “coolness” and still doesn't touch one glass (unless a visitor who drinks comes one time in 3 months to chill) is someone that I do admire. We cannot blind ourselves with the over-supply of alcohol in the Free World as America. Even “healthy” stores sell beers as long as its organic and handcrafted, still booze to me.

       Tribes in northern Philippines and Japanese fisherfolk take a shot of “tapuy” and “sake” (unadulterated rice wine) at 5 AM before heading to the farm and sea. Alcohol. They can function, they can't function. It's how they deal with their everyday lives that do matter in the end. Only, when shit happens—when arguments don't stop, when kids complain, when cops flag us down, when deadlines aren't met, when the next person beside us complain of our foul breathe and overzealousness and/or rudeness, when budget is slimmed down due to beers and wines—yes when shit happens, we start saying, yes indeed this drinking gotta stop or mellow down somehow. Dig? Okay, let's have a drink to that one.

Connecting The Dots: A Traveler's Guide

by Pasckie Pascua

TRAVEL has always been my spirit's wavelength. Most of my life's work, if not all, are ushered by an incessant kick to keep on rolling. Needless to say, I struggled to put to bed this particular Indie issue until I again hit the road—to Athens and Augusta in Georgia, and Greenville and Mauldin in South Carolina, and back to Asheville—to get my chakras attuned on deadline. But it's not all about chasing the proverbial Muse on the open range that keeps my wings flapping, it's just the inherent nomad in me that continually seeks release out there. Can't help it.

       Years before the books “The Great Railway Bazaar” by Paul Theroux and “Blue Highways” by William Least Heat-Moon had me at hello, I was already hiking trails and pitching tents up the Cordilleras in northern Philippines where I grew up and on deserted beaches in southern coastal villages where I had tours of duty as community organizer and news correspondent. This wanderlust vibe didn't find rest in America either... 
       Theroux's four-month journey across Asia, traveling through Europe, the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent and Southeast Asia, was negotiated in a train, and Least Heat-Moon traversed 13,000 miles in three months in his van, visiting mostly small towns untouched by fast food chains and interstate highways.  
       I guess, I am crazier...
       I mostly took the Greyhound coach, with occasional train rides and plane flights, interjecting trips on friends' generosities who drove me from one spot to the next. Yes, I prefer not to drive a vehicle—which confounds many who are aware of my traveling high. How I connect dots at a time when carpooling has been elevated into a lucrative business enterprise and “induced isolation” is now humankind's definition of privacy, individuality, and caution—is puzzling, to say the least. And if I say, “I can travel from city to city, state to state, with only $10,” I am immediately judged as arrogant...

CONNECTING dots as a traveler requires lots of patience, acceptance, openness—all within an exalting sense of community. Some unacceptable “rules” persist however.
       Don't be too choosy with food or drinks, whatever is offered by your hosts, try to experience them. If your diet says a dogmatic no-meat, GMO-zero or gluten-free then this sort of “ride with the wind” fervor isn't for you. Food exclusivity is imperative to our well-being but building a network by way of cultural openness and interpersonal dynamics help a lot. One thing that got me around was my nonchalant submission to any culinary blessing served by my hosts on the dinner table. Reject or refuse a lizard lasagna or guava puree or mango-flavored rice wine? Expect not to go pass an awkward reception...
       Another no-brainer: fit your body on any available space—worn out couch, back of chevy, front porch, barn shed, horse manger. Errant cockroaches and invasive spiders? Don't scream. Call Andrew Zimern, instead.
       Flakiness doesn't work as well. Promptness and quick “yes” or “no” do matter. If a friend or acquaintance says your ride will be at 4:21 PM in front of Starbucks on Main Street and 9th, deal with it, try not to negotiate an alternative plan. Be there. A slight “unpleasant” weather forecast or 15-minute rainshower should not drive cancellation on your part either. Deal with it.  
       However, be picky with travel companions. This is not something that need be idealized or romanticized as random reflex. You don't want to get flagged down with a “volatile substance” or “what's that smell?” thingy in the glove compartment. Also, you may consider pondering traveling with a super-intense soul who easily slides into a tangent on just about anything from Miley's phallic baubles to hummus tacos, Engels to vertical parking woes etc. Prefer laughter. This is a fun ride, not a seminar on new age spirituality or objectivist epistemology. 
        More than all, traveling doesn't always mean financial distress. If your travel planning says a few hundreds allotted on Holiday Inn, dinners on Red Lobster and Olive Garden, prime seats in a Black Keys concert, visits to uptown shops and boutiques—then, you are a tourist, not a traveler. Save the money for longer and more trips, than max-out credits on one-break a year jaunts. Travel for rediscovery, not frolic. It's all about networking, not sight-seeing.
       Camping, bonfires, makeshift grills, naked stars, rainfall, and the sublime discomfort of bug bites and frogs' din—all these stay in your memory, and passed on as bedtime stories to grandchildren. What is the point of traveling when you only duplicated the relative pleasures of your house? What is there to remember? I mean, even the withdrawal symptoms of zero internet-connect for 12 hours straight is worth personal triumph, right?
       More than all, don't start packing until you've already, methodically drew Sharpie arrows and notes on your gargantuan map. Prepared directions, local connects, campsite availabilities, even peace and order situations in a town or city that you'd fancy should all be prepared and printed hard-copies before you kick the ignition on. I am very anal about this—I never visited a place where I don't have at least one resident as a reliable contact. Being a journalist helps a lot, of course. And when I do stop in a certain city, I try to read in open mics and visit downtowns for future Traveling Bonfires event-organizing or simply a reading leg for my book/s.
       Nothing is instinctive in a travel plan. It's pre-planned. Randomness is over-hyped, free-spirited adventures are highly-overplayed. Don't be stupid, life isn't falling from the blue, blue sky out of a prayer. It's all written in a notebook. Hence, I'd rather stick to my primitive stubbornness. Connecting dots, irrelevant of my elongated recitation above, is pretty much like reading smoke signals. To be able to travel the way our ancestors did, seeking greener pastures and new life, finding wisdom than inviting wonder—we just need to be more patient and resilient about reading forgotten myths.
       After all, connecting dots is connecting humanity. You don't need a Platinum credit card and an SUV for that one.

[Like a Rolling Stone / Oct 15-Nov 15, 2014 column, The Indie, published in Asheville NC]

UPCOMING SHOWS (and other stuff)

[ ] Feb 5, Thursday, 8 PM. Featured poet, M.A.D. STUDIOS, 307 11th St, Augusta GA. Hosted by Catherine The Great.

[ ] Oct 14, Tuesday, 7 PM. Featured poet, Bossa, 634 Webster St NW, #2, Washington DC, 20011. Hosted by Jessica Philie.

[ ] Oct 11, Saturday, 7 PM. West End Reading Series, with Jeff Davis, Eric Steineger, Lockie Hunter, Melanie McGee Bianchi, and Robin Criscuolo DeButts. West End Bakery, 757 Haywood Rd, Asheville. (828) 252-9378. Hosted by Lockie Hunter.

[ ] Sept 28, Sunday. Featured poet, Park Road Books (4139 Park Road, Charlotte, NC 28209 / www.parkroadbooks.com, 704.525.9239). 

[ ] Sept 9, Tuesday, 7 PM. Poetrio. Malaprop’s Bookstore/Cafe, 55 Haywood St, Asheville, NC. (828) 254-6734. One of three featured poets.

PAST READINGS, 2014 (spring onwards)

[1] May 28, Saturday, 7 PM. Hendershot’s: 237 Prince Ave., Athens, GA 30606. (706) 353 3050. hendershotscoffee.com, with Kate Morrissey.

[2] May 30, Friday, 7:30 PM. Little River Coffee Bar: 188 West Main Street, Spartanburg, SC 29306. (864) 582-1227. littlerivercoffeebar.com (with guests poets Brett Klersfeld and Terry Christy Klersfeld, and musician Daniel Z).

[3] June 20, Friday, 8 PM. MadHat's Poetry, with Tina Barr, Melissa Crowe, and Matthew Olzmann. Black Mountain Museum + Arts Center, 56 Broadway St, Asheville, NC 28801. (828) 350-8484. Hosted by Jeff Davis.

[4] June 25, Wed, 8 PM: Mind Gravy. Open mic follows featured guests, music by The Juniors. The Drip Coffee, 729 Saluda Ave., Columbia, SC 29205. Tel # (803) 661-9545.

[5] July 7, Monday, 8 PM: Monday Night Poetry & Music at East Bay Meeting House, 160 East Bay St., Charleston SC. Tel # (843) 723 3446. Hosted by Jim Lundy.

[6] July 22, Tuesday, 7 PM: “Poems: Bones of the Spirit” presents Catherine Zickgraf of Augusta, Cedric Tillman of Charlotte, and Pasckie Pascua of Asheville. Sun Spirit Yoga, 735 Meeting St, West Columbia, South Carolina 29169. (803) 233-0055. Hosted by Al Black.

[7] July 20, Sunday, 5 PM: “Wordplay" (www.ashevillefm.org) radio show, featured guest. Hosted by Jeff Davis. 

[8] August 28, Thursday, 8 PM: M.A.D. STUDIOS, 307 11th St, Augusta, GA (706) 836 5683. https://www.facebook.com/MADopenmicaugusta) Hosted by Catherine Zickgraf.

[9] August 27, Wed, 9 PM. Featured poet, Pretty Pearl Lounge, 312 N Main St, Mauldin SC (near Greenville). Hosted by Moody Black.

[10] August 19, Tuesday, 8:00 PM. POETRY CABARET II: Spoken Word, Live Music, Burlesque. The Crow and Quill, 106 Lexington Ave., Asheville NC. POETS: Ted Pope, Emilio Maldonado, Caleb Beissert, Eric Steineger, Lockie Hunter, Leah Shapiro, Pasckie Pascua, Kevin Barger, Kevin Evans, Justin Evans, Michael Coyle. MUSICIANS: Charlie Rauh, Vendetta crème, Aaron Price. HOST: Tom Scheve.

<> PLUS, June 12, Thursday. Cooking demonstration, with medicinal herbs, with Chris Wagoner. VENUE: Mama Bird’s Granola and Kitchen, 909 E Broad St #400, Athens, GA 30601. 

<> Pasckie was also shared his thoughts on poetry at ASHEVILLE WORDFEST (May 2, 3 and 4, www.ashevillewordfest.com) at Lenoir-Rhyne University, Asheville NC. Host: Laura Hope-Gill.

PASCKIE PASCUA launched his new book, “Red is the Color of my Night,” and kicked off the first leg of a reading tour as the featured poet at the ALTAMONT POETRY SERIES on MAY 19 (Monday, 7:30 PM) at North Carolina Stage Company in downtown Asheville. NC Stage Co. is located at 15 Stage Lane, Asheville, NC 28801 (ncstage.org)828 239 0263. Hosts: Caleb Beissert, Jeff Davis.

BOOKING INQUIRY: Chris Wagoner at 706 207 7746, email lovedbythebuffalo.chris@gmail.com / Marta Osborne at 828 280-2309, email marta.osborne124@gmail.com