PILAR ELIZABETH POEARTiculate.

Jan 28

Ethnically Blue.

I speak strictly of a problem. The delineation of payroll/bank account (actor) juxtaposing the implications of scene. Scene being set to incite the critical thought process’ regarding emo-based perceptions of morality. Because, ultimately—no matter how the story seems to be told, it ultimately has little to do with the creators true notions of guilt. 

If the maker of a grossly earning film feels bad—what, exactly, is so-and-so doing to improve the situation?

It’s one thing to tell a good story, it’s a different kind of thing to sell that story. And how?

Is this “guilt” even intellect (property) the story tellers have rights to sell? Who’s story is it? Why do only certain versions of the story get heard? There is no one trying this case. So, instead, I’m talking about it.

This is a quick write response to Dimas FB comment regarding my beef with the CGI selection in the most recent boxed office hit—Avatar. Beef that the movie wiped out a host of “minority” actors. Granted, there were a few minor roles for “minority” talent, but the starring cast retains these all to familiar classifications: primarily—pale European stock, secondary—spice-like scatterings of earth-tones. But to fit this all into one Campbell’s condensed can or nutshell: my deepest beef stems from our indoctrinated, life-long exposure to these sincere “apologies” from our very real, very present and very powerful oppressors. Oppressing, these days, simply by the by-products of Empirical expansion; the signing of checks, from ancient amoebic bank accounts—casting of roles, by cuts, edits and deliberate implementation of technology, placement of people; props across stAges.

My beef is shaved off the bull raging from that big screen projector. Is it guilt for their big-bull hit nature which buys mother-ships, tanks, jets, hot Latina infantry copter pilots and rights to relocate the indigenous? One Big Bull’s hit, hot off the screen and fresh into the 3-D goggles streamlining the mind’s eye, after another. And, in the end—we all pay the price, which is roughly a twenty-spot, give or take a few for new specs.

I’m not talking about every pale-male. Only the select, and dysfunctional. It may have been a mistake, oops. It needs to be corrected.

Sep 24

“Let them have Healthcare.” — Pi.

Welcome to my glass house.

[video]

Jul 13

the new addition

a surprise really, seated there
amidst the thorns and blades

of grass blowing breezewise
one of many, really

new additions, planting roots
to grow, to thrive

to wither, and fight
or succumb

folding upon the self
crawling back into dust

y dusk

or, rising like this
armored lotus
replacement

exoskeletal undeniability beautiful; dangerous

dangerous

Apr 10

apropos.

a perfect cup of coffee
an equally apropos mug
push scents up & swirling
towards an infinite form
of horizon; these lines—we make up:
with eyes, make sense of all;
these angles… perspectives
pulsing… crossing: swing
like Tarzan
upon ropes of binding
particles from see
to shining sea

Mar 19

“The past waits for no body,
the past is but an image. One view,
from one stance, where we once stood.” — pilar elizabeth

“Your peace will come
when you choose peace.” — pilar elizabeth

Dec 16

los angeles, aubade you fair well

Thick molten snake’s coiling and crossing himself compounded across the southerly valleys; unraveling, thinning, misted coastal and mountain ranges as Luna reaches silvered sliver higher — still. Mother spreads herself black. Filial veins of light driving her. Not a living camera can capture the images, in justice.

Boy do they try.

 

Intelligent Design

God, I love days of feline fancy. One day without work and school is cancelled on account of a greater plan. My time spent hopping along the border of writing my final and whimsy; swimming lapses from laptop to showers head, stopping the bath to perfume my feet, shaving other places twice is nice. Apple lotion and dressing upon the slow crackling hearth because we can’t afford to clean our ducts and the crisp winter is breathing through our walls more efficiently than the generally dominant streaming days of light shuttered out.

Christmas tree lit because my family crashed across our living room floor, down comforters and body pillows tiding them toward Earths Happiest Place (or so “they” say it is) and I haven‘t unplugged (their night lights) nor quenched their fire (both) casting fire light shadows jitter buggin our adobe holiday cave. Using extra q-tips after baking chocolate chip cookies. Making a 5-course breakfast spread lavish for the special guests arranged fresh by revolving pots of coffee and silver-needle tea with wild-flower honey.

Holding all of this moment solid in mind. Forced moment strings of benevolent Nature, perfections of being, informing us through coincidental nurture that the universe is built and spins in our favor, despite our timely, linear, indoctrinated resistances.

Wrenched reminder that a kitty is built to preen and nap while dogs must gnaw and rebury their bones.

 Be the light, she says.

Oct 14

WHILE POURING MR.BUBBLES INTO A WARM BATH

I wish we didn’t need a heart to live he speaks… why?
Because I don’t ever want us to die -he says with sudden tears in his eyes.
How do we die? i’m not sure… i’m still trying to figure that one out.
Is it because we get sick? sometimes, or old… i think our thoughts just go somewhere else, is all.
like when someone goes and you can’t see them because they are away, but you still know them.

I don’t ever want you to go away…

When I am gone I will look for a way
To honor time well-spent together. I will build you a book of why
And, fill it with them
Eyes
And you. All
Utterly piercing moments will be etched out
In pains of glass not unlike the one I once sharpened against a trailer’s hitch out
Behind my Tia Lena’s house when I was 4 or 5 chasing 20 tiny spectral ponies while my mommy was away
For hours, like I am — these days. Only now I chase spectral sheets of green along with my blossoming desire for all that is creative in me to be put out in some shape or form… and then there is you and tiny babbles brook of Why?

There is a black hole in the eyes
Of those with the “gift of see” them
Gaping void’s… wedded crater’s with steam fogging up spectacles where eyes once lied. Pity them
US, driven to read the wor(l)d’s of others and maybe scrape some out of our own
Eyes
Until they are scar®ed away.

We find a rhythm in each passing day dance in cosmic rotations slammed to a halt by the whying
Divinely holy perception of the child. Within or without as we rise sleep or fall
The only thing I am certain of is that this beauty is all
For them.
The innocents. I see the pork and the spending, the temple, the fence and the race. Don’t ask why.
You are too old. Your time has come to dig your way out
Of in visible rubble. Gravity is Myth & Magic the truth is the invisible weight’s a cross—our backs—A way

To keep our bodies warm by fire nailed to feet

Blue skies and clouded veil lies—upon our perpetually streaming eye
CriesLyricsRainBabbleBrooks & Towers Fall
Generation to sonset—rise: a different face,
Same staged trick upon us—eyes
New scene, old thoughts. erased… They tell you to put them all
Away
The thoughts which drive us blind to veiled sight.
The thoughts which make us stand a part from them
Alone in sunny world of perpetual dark… look around my friend,
Child, you’re mine to see now, look out
At the colors as they fade to black and remember why

You cried as a tiny child missing the previous womb, eyes baptized by creations fluid sack of mothertears and you dreamt
Why?
Am I hurting, frail, weak and all alone? Why this darkness?
Give me a way out.
And you came, & you come
With formulated nouns scratching at darkness as it closes in on you—becoming a light, a star & a way

out.