The Philippines is a series of island in the China Sea. It has long been had the "island" mentality of waiting for things to wash up on its shores. It hasn't the natural resources or technology to support it's growing population. It depends heavily on tourism, OFW, and foreign dollars to drive its economy.

The Philippines has been named a leader in use of social media, averaging over 4 hours daily per capita, yet the Philippines sees very little in economic value from that involvement.

What if they could create content that could be a major export? The most interesting thing about the Philippines is the Pinoys themselves. I did a quick non- scientific look at documentary film production grants by country. In 2016, there were over $20 million in grants for documentaries in Africa awarded. The Philippines had 1 for around $20,000. There are many stories to be told here, but nobody is telling them.

My very basic concept is a small video/audio production company offering training in use of equipment and development of media content. Everything done there IS content for driving fundraising or programming to be streamed. A Fiscal Sponsor, such as Fractured Atlas would be retained as a fundraising funnel for US Tax Deductible Donations (even equipment donations) and Indigogo as a Crowd Funding vehicle (no fees, when partnered with Fractured Atlas).

Besides the burgeoning economic possibilities for Pinoy Internet TV Content for OFW and Pinoy expats around the world, content should be open to sharing the Filipino Culture through foreign eyes. For instance, a pinoy wouldn't think that the local Sari Sari Store would interest anyone. For us foreigners they are a unique quaint glimpse of a successful micro economy that disappeared from America upon the advent of the "supermarket".

How could the average Filipino make money from this? Ad royalties. For instance, for a content creator You Tube pays about $2000 for 1 million views. More if you create the other parts of the video (songwriter, artist, master owner etc.). In the US $2000 goes nowhere. In the Philippines, that $2000 is two years rent.

Yes, some of the students of this program could find good jobs with this training, but the idea is to give them skills to work independently with the foundation as support.

Arts Donations would be necessary for funding the facility, but $100,000 would go a long way here.

Content also would be offered by subscription via live streaming.

The Pinoy people are great mimics, if one program is created and is successful, others will follow and a new micro economy will develop a new export not owned by the 5 families of the Philippines.

#CreateBrandNewConceptChallenge.

I see my 10 year old self quite often, like some half lucid dream. I see my long, hesitant finger white on an unusual keyboard. I'm with John McKinney, classmate and model rocket buddy, in his father's study in Turpin Hills, an upper middle class suburb of Cincinnati.

It was 1968, the space race was in full swing and we were doing our part. Today was launch day. Mr. McKinney was our basketball coach, so John invited me to spend the night after our Saturday morning game and I came with afterwards.

Mrs. McKinney was a plump woman with a passionate smile and huge, loving heart. She met us at the door, handed out towel and shuffled our sweaty heads to the shower.

After cleaning up met up in the kitchen for a hearty lunch. She loved the male species and knew how to handle them with a kind patience and strong willed disciple. Her husband, a math and science professor at the University of Cincinnati, was a bright and dashing character. His attraction to his wife was unashamedly written in his eyes. I was embaressed by the storybook twinkle in his eyes. I look back now and I realize how seldom I have seen it.

Our Mission Control Center was abuzz with activity. A small patch of concrete in the backard, attracted any number of neighborhood kids that came from nowhere with cats and dogs in tow. Who had leaked our top secret launch I'll never know, even to this day! Well, the launch didn't go without it's difficulties. My Yuri Gagarin Bostok blew up on the launch. Kinda disappointing since I worked on that model a for weeks after school, developing near brain damage from the glue sniffing. Still, the neighborhood kids seemed thrilled by the explosion. One girl told me years later that she had her first orgasm that day. I' d be lying if I didn't say I wish I had that freak of girl's phone number some nights.

John's launch, however, was successful, traveling upwards at least 250 feet, leavng a nice trail of white smoke. But our inability to retrieve John's rocket and mine shattered on the lawn left us both a bit dejected, like receiving only Grandma's homemade sweater and a black, clip-on bow tie as Christmas presents.

That evening after dinner, while John's family watched television, we snuck into his Dad's study. John wanted to show me something. On desk was some odd equipment. John pressed some switches and lights came on. A strange whirling sound came from a metal box. He picked up a telephone receiver and dialed a number from a scratch of paper taped to the wall. Placing the receiver in a strange kind of cradle, it was apparently "communicating" with something. After some almost musical noises, some writing appeared on a small tv screen. It had a list like format. He pressed some keys on a typewriter keyboard and something moved on the screen. "Wanna play blackjack?", he asked. " Really? What is this?", I asked, moving up on the edge of my chair.

There it was. The future.

S p a c e s

One single letter moves Through endless volumes In this vast library

Under glass.

A centimeter-sized Cuneiform taking

Lifetimes to plot a

White linen page.

Undulating, vibrating, Ghostly and gaseous,

In state of 3 dimensions.

Volumes endlessly

Shifting up stairs,

Down elevators,

Carted, scanned, checked And jacket shelved.

One single letter floats.

It is, also, the age old question that haunts us all:

-y.

One single letter moves Through endless volumes In this vast library

Under glass.

A centimeter-sized Cuneiform taking

Lifetimes to plot a

White linen page.

Undulating, vibrating, Ghostly and gaseous,

In state of 3 dimensions.

Volumes endlessly

Shifting up stairs,

Down elevators,

Carted, scanned, checked And jacket shelved.

One single letter floats.

It is, also, the age old question that haunts us all:

-y.

10 years ago I used to do a very bad thing and it is time to fess up and take responsibility.

I used to go after work to a 24 hour internet cafe in Los Angeles. I had to wait a few hours for my train home, so I would bide my time there. There were an eclectic group of customers that would wander in and out during the late night hours (they definitely weren't church going Republicans, if you must know). Occasionally, the cops would come by and roust people outside for no apparent reason but to look like they were doing something. One time I took a cigarette break during one of these "shows of farce-uh, force". I stood a bit away, minding my own business when a backup cruiser pulled in. A female cop was driving with a caffeine jacked white cop in the passenger seat. He looks at me and I look him square in the eyes. He didn't like that. Now, I'm a 6'1" medium build white guy, but I dress down, kinda bummy, when traveling with cash in L.A. I have no criminal record, so I have nothing to be nervous about. The cop confronts me, "Where do I know you from?", trying to get a reaction from me. I say, " I don't know, I stopped going to gay bars years ago". For a second, I thought I might have gone too far, but his partner lost it, choking on her laugh, " Ah, he got you good!" I looked him in the eyes, until he released his glare, finished my cigarette and went back inside.

Now typically, when you check in for a computer there, all manner of screens are left open from previous customers, even email accounts. Here's where I come to my mea culpa. One night there happened to be an account open for a Craigslist escort! I sat there reading that ad and my devious mind went into play. Hmm. It was a week night, I think the rate was too high. So I edited one add to read $24.99 per hour discount if you "had a bright, red apple for your "naughty teacher". Another add, I titled "Farmer's Wife" and described her, 'with an ass as big as a barn" and suggested "let's make hay". I imagined the call taker thinking that their might be a full moon, because all the callers were nuts that night or a sudden rush of customers at 7/11 buying red apples.

I did this off and on for a month, but I think they figured out why the ads were being edited, for I stopped finding open email accounts.

I regret what I did now and if I get hit in the head with an apple or two, I'll understand that I probably deserve it. And to the girl I advertised as a "fat ass", I apologise, it wasn't that large, maybe only as big as a tractor.

Jhoe glides through high grass toward the sound of rushing waters, her bare feet balance on flat, jagged rocks then defly pulling cool water from the mountain stream.

(pangangarap na ito)

In what kind hand could she carry that light and wistful music without breaking tears of past regret, this young woman, my filipina?

(pangangarap na ito)

I can breathe only enough to take in the sinister pang of her acrylic sweet indirectness.

How indecisive the plunge into a muddled war to abdicate this enveloping, violent, malignant slide to reverence.

If I reach for her as an ambivalent stickman thrust onto a sheet of ice, am I destined to fall and laugh in anguish. Surely, as kindling to fire.

Someday I will grow thorns and branches like a wild scratching forest to compromise your meandering path!

Poetry is a dream dictated by letters.

Bluegrass Gospel Lyric

I wandered off early

From the land of my birth,

Leaving God-fearin' people,

Trully salt of the earth.

Traded comfort for sunshine

The horizon ahead.

Wherever I slept was

The size of my bed.

You see a face that is weathered,

These eyes have grown dim.

For too long a feather

Ridin' the wind.

Through breakin' of dawns to breakin' of bread,

I bestow a few stories

Of the lives that I've led.

Love Me More or

Please, love me less,

Degrees do not matter

For I have been blessed.

You offer shelter

I cannot ignore.

So love me less or

Please, Love Me More.

I stole through the cornfields

Like I's made of straw,

Leavin' no footprints,

On account of the law.

Church steeple to flophouse,

Purveyin' White Dove.

Both sinner and saint

All needing my love.

Once walked on fire

Under the spell of a wraith,

Built towering castles

On illusion of faith.

So long had I quarried

For too little stone,

Every arrogant standing

Ends eventually prone.

Love Me More or

Please, love me less,

Lay me down easy

In your sweet caress.

You offer shelter

I cannot ignore.

So, love me less or

Please, Love Me More.

Made way down a river

Where once Iroquois prowled,

Peregrine falcoln and Burrowing Owl.

Dark waters they pulled me

Along through the pall

With a red moon arisin'

Takin' stock of it all.

Tracked puma and cougar,

Hunted elk and red deer,

Followed a hunger

While swallowing fear.

Was it winter's approaching,

That goaded me to

Rising smoke from a canyon

And the wonder of you?

Love Me More or

Please, love me less

This body's tired

I must confess.

My journey has ended

Right here at your door.

So love me less or

Please, Love Me More.

Love me less or

Please, Love Me More.