WHEN WITS DIVERGE

Besides a hard-thought subject matter and title, I'm always miffed with one more ordeal each time I rest my two hands on the keyboard to start writing --- how to say what I'm thinking. Should it be in Filipino or English? Should it be in prose or poem? Should it be free-versed or structured? And most of the time, before I could even decide, all ideas just slowly leak off my fissured brain. Having to choose carefully sometimes defeats the purpose. 

Perhaps that was what stalled me from doing this thing less frequently back then. I have always thought of what others will think of what I do. But you know what they say, "Not one size fits all" or the simpler "You can't please everybody"? This for me is the perfect embodiment. I compromise form when I say ideas in straight lines, but I sacrifice comprehension when I conceal thoughts in poetic images. The minute I decide to choose how to say something at a certain point, that's also the minute I decide to let go of the possibility to be understood in some way. And that, I believe, is also where misinterpretation hails from. 

Coming up with one post daily for the past month has been both an appealing and appalling encounter. To be honest, I've never been subjected to a tug-of-war of comfort and discomfort at the same time. It's like letting your arm suffocate in a tourniquet, though you know this uncomfortable tightness will save the rest of your appendage. My essays were trash, and my poem-drafts were crap. But when I see even a single page view in my stats, there's a baffling sense of optimism that crops up within me to deem that there will always be someone who will listen, even just a single soul. I know I'm being heard --- and that's enough for me to carry on.

There's not one formula to doing what we want to achieve, so I suggest we all keep on trying. The fear of being misunderstood? Don't even bother. And do away with thinking and containing yourself to what other people will think because there's just so much to learn and discover. Whether you choose to be heard through a prose or a poem, it wouldn't even matter. Your very own message is all there is to it. And when it's heartfelt, everything else will ensue. #

photo credit: The Saunderton Split

WHAT LIGHT MEANS TO THE MOTH

And I knew it wasn't really easy.

The lights were out when I got home at 10 tonight. I just took a quick candlelight dinner with myself and went straight to my room to prepare for the last and worst one and a half hours of my day. Or should I say night. Using my phone's backlight as the only source of illumination, I've already written down a few sentences on my scratch paper, when my pupils suddenly stopped dilating. Brownout's over.

There's this one documentary from years back that never left my mind and which always reminded me how lucky I was as a kid, especially back in my high school days. "Gamu-gamo Sa Dilim" was the title of this I-Witness classic by Kara David, a documentary about young school children who travel for miles walking past mountains to get to their makeshift schoolhouse, and by the time they get home late at night to study, not even a single lamppost can help them see what they were reading or writing. But their determination to learn and reach for their dreams through this education served as the only light in finishing their race to life.

I had my laptop fully charged minutes ago but I decided to take that darkness-filled moment as an opportunity to experience perhaps what I may not voluntarily do had I had the choice. It wasn't really easy. And it just reminded me once more how grateful I should be for everything I have now, both bad and good. 

It's natural for us to always feel the least blessed when something bad happens. That, despite the fact that out of the 365 days of the year, I bet not even 30 days of it will be spent with such unfortunate events. And because we concentrate more on the negatives, we crumble altogether, feeling miserable, ruining the remaining 335 days of sunshine.

For ten years now that scene of the children in "Gamu-gamo" has been my leverage in reminding myself that things are not always there as default, like the simple lights that we take for granted. But I would not want to stop there, because besides being grateful for such, that light is supposed to be shared. And I sure am looking forward to it pretty soon. #

photo credit: matangapoy

11:11

Providential, they say; but who?

Some chap who happened

To gaze on a clock,

And saw one digit all aligned

Like valiant soldiers waiting

In the firing squad?

Wish. Discount the source.

Ignite lanterns come night

And let them flutter

To the sky, where soon

They are nothing but 

Indistinct flickers of wanting.

Sarcastic, to say with less empathy.

Pathetic, to denounce your "wisdom."

Perhaps the hanker was

Never as critical.

Or maybe just an amusement,

A comedy to give guise to tragedy.

Dream. Let the wish linger

A while longer in perception.

Kill time to witness it coming 

Once daily. Nine, ten, eleven.

Eleven eleven.

Who are we kidding? #

photo credit: burningman

ONLY SIX MONTHS TO LIVE

I have always been fascinated with the thought of dying young. When I hear of people leaving this earth in their 20's, I sometimes border on envy. Most people would say, "sayang," but for me, it's more of a "wow." Congratulations. Mission accomplished.

The very thought of death never really scared me. Well, besides my wish not to die with a gunshot or from a freak accident, death generally is something I know is natural and something that will come unexpectedly. I know I'm not holding on to anything in this world simply because they're all temporary. But to add morbidity to wanting to die quite young, I actually set a deadline for myself --- 24. Wait. I'm 24. So that means I've only got 6 months more. 

In my mind I've set the perfect life until my 24th year of existence: right after graduation, I'm going to earn 2 years of professional work experience, resign, take up a Masters degree outside my country, go back, and then... blank. So maybe that's where the "24" is coming from. I don't know where to pick up from where I'm leaving off. My deadline is an escape from the great unknown.

But fortunately (or unfortunately), the vision never came true. I've been working for almost four years now and flunked every application to study abroad (as if there has been that many). You know the feeling of knowing your end goals in life but not knowing the in-betweens from the now? That's where I'm exactly at. You may think I'm "malas," but ironically, it's when these plans got screwed up that I was opened up more to the beauty of life. 

Being 24 has been a turning point in my life. I've departed yet seen new places. I've separated yet met new people. I've unlearned yet was reminded. And because I know I'm 24 and in my mind got only six months to live, I've been opened to the reality that opportunities are but everywhere---I was just stupid to have stayed inside my barracks with all of my weapons for quite a few years, waiting for God-knows-what. I was quite confused then. But maybe now I'm ready.

Isn't it poignant that just when you've started, here seemingly comes the sudden end? But whether or not God will take that deadline seriously this year (and I'm pretty sure He won't because His timing will always be a bittersweet stunner), I'd still be grounding to that deadline to remind myself that I have better get moving now or it's going to be never. Come November, maybe I'll still wake up on my birthday like just any other day. But I'm not to bum around because if there's anything in this life, I want to get at least a death well-deserved. :) #

photo credit: teenink

UNREST

Run fast,
Walk tall.
Stand still,
Sit straight.
Spine on the rest,
Dissenting the unrest.

Miles are ran,
Alleys walked.
Stages stood at,
Chairs sat on.
Back against the rest,
Deviating my unrest.

Mind is of the matter.
Matters of the mind.
Talking to me,
Pathways are opened.
Talking through me,
Footprints are examined.

The mark of yesteryear
Is trickiest to cleanse.
Is it me from the inside?
Or all you from out?
I don't want to be
A product of my environment
It's tricky, Costello.
You should have known. #

photo credit: dirtisdirt

MATIISIN

You leave the house at 6am knowing you have to be somewhere early. As luck would have it, the ride you took was just the best so far. The aircon was broke, the driver stepping on the brakes like he's swallowed some brake fluid that morning, and pulled over to a gas station where the vehicle was misloaded by gas instead of diesel. You get to the metro and you see the line was unusually long, about 500 more people before you reach the ticket booth. And then you line up on another queue to get on the train. You reach the destination at 10am. You could have made it by 7:30am. "Ganun talaga," you tell yourself. No, my friend. You're just an emblem of pure, immaculate patience; that is, in the wrong context. 

Filipinos can be just too matiisin even to unbelievable heights. "'Pag maiksi ang kumot, matutong bumaluktot," this is what we were ultimately taught. We tend to make do with what we have despite the several options that we have. We stick to the conventional, to what we're used to, even if we know things could have turn out with better results had we chosen the alternatives. That's why we had 333 years of the Spaniards, 10 years of Americans, 20 years of Marcos, and 9 years of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. 

I have all the respect for people who know how to look at the brighter side of things, for people who can smile despite the burdens that they carry. But sometimes, we have to draw the line between our patient endurance and our ignorance. Is it just 'hope' we're clinging to? Or we just settle in the comfort zone sometimes brought about by our indolence? Three paragraphs can't answer but this definitely opens up the wide array of different cultures, both right and wrong, that we were taught over generations. 

Yet no matter how frustrated I get when I see my countrymen in this situation, I still cling to the hope that there's a part of the pie who sees problems as opportunities and who wouldn't settle for a broke-down FX ride. Or maybe it's just me. After all, I'm Filipino. I'm a Filipino who's plainly, stupidly, and luxuriously 'matiisin.' #

TREASURED TRASH

Several years ago I was doing a little tidy-up in our shared closet. Making sure I don't miss a single piece of trash, I was opening boxes that looked suspiciously candidates for the waste bin. I stumbled upon this little tin coin box in the shape of the Filipino jeep which can be opened on its roof. Suspicious, I thought. With gnashing teeth I struggled to open that tin box. At one sudden pull, the contents burst out and holy smokes! Scattered around me were little candy wrappers from God-knows-when. I shrieked to call my sister.

In general, we are beings of sentiments, and we love to keep things that remind us of these treasured feelings no matter how small, stupid, or plainly pointless. "Remembrance," as we fondly call them. When we were in, say high school, we used to love keeping this scrapbook that contains the weirdest memorabilia that it makes it hard to store the scrapbook itself. Empty wrappers, receipts, tissue papers, band-aids, boxes --- name it. And when we look back and go over this 'collection' from time to time, we take ourselves back to the very feeling we felt when we acquired them. And even if the memory hurts, it still ironically makes you smile. It's the ultimate concrete manifestation of our sentimiento de asukal. These may just be simple things, but they symbolize a greater part of our culture.

I myself am keeping boxes of letters that were given to me over time, from the formal Palanca to the crappiest little note where someone wrote me "Hoy!" on a post-it and just signed her name on it. Besides my fixation with written words, it just goes to prove I'm also a keepsake keeper. I totally see nothing wrong with this custom, except that I occasionally feel guilty for it occupies a significant amount of space in my life, both physically and emotionally. Nothing wrong in looking back on them, but sometimes, it's the process of looking back that stagnates us and holds us back in our decision to look forward to the hopes of the future. 

Maybe we should try a little letting go sometimes. It's hard, but the moment we stop keeping physical things to remind us of our sentiments, it's when we recognize that what's important is how these experiences changed us. And there's no need to keep physical evidences of such because we ourselves are already symbols of sentimiento de asukal accumulated over time. #

photo credit: behance

A VERSE WITH NO NAME

Lines that don't
start and vaguely end.

Words, which make
you think beyond words.

Rhymes, giving sound
to the often inferred.

Form, that dares
the craftsman than you.

Emotion, dispensed freely
like idle Tuesday afternoons.

I hate poems;
they run in circles

Defining gravity yet
defying the very sense.

Intensely hidden gist,
sugar and pepper coated.

Killing punctuation that
uncovers necessity in stages.

I hate poems;
I will create more. #


photo credit: toothgap

DEOXYRIBONUCLEIC ACID

The jeepney ride to Commonwealth this morning was another topic-compelling moment for me. I was taking out a few coins from my purse when I noticed this kid of about 5 or 6 standing from behind the driver's seat, facing the rest of the passengers. He was wearing neat clothes and a cap that perfectly fit his little head, and was waiting for someone to say "bayad po" so he could reach out his hand to get the coins and hand it to the driver, who I assumed was his dad. The fast forward button auto-pushed inside my head and I thought, years from now, will this little boy become exactly like his father, or will he be one to break off from a seemingly inevitable cycle?

Most often than not, we are defined by what most of our family members have become. If you've come from a line of doctors or lawyers, then you must have been expected to be one yourself. Most successful artists have come from a pedigree of artists as well. Pressure, expectation, or simply the lack of self-derived motivation must have urged you to string yourself to what your ancestry generally dictated for your generation. But I find it quite staggering how some people can break off from these dictates, people who seem to have found the secret protein to alter their own DNAs.

It was never easy. I always knew that I will not be an engineer, a scientist, a schoolteacher, or a lawyer like what most of both of my lineage generally patterned me to become. For over thirteen years I was trying to find that secret protein to alter my life structure. But though you know what you're up to and you have the firmness to stay out of the stereotype, sometimes it just doesn't work out right. In this light a certain understanding creeps up to me to believe that our DNA is not simply a protein that may define our physical and personal attributes--- it may mean more like a life-pattern, one that's not easily broken off over generations.

But if one thing gives me hope, it's that DNAs are anti-parallel. They have nucleotides that run side-by-side in opposite directions joined by ester bonds, giving a complementary structure just like a simple family--- our families. We can run into opposite directions yet maintain a bond that will hold us for the next million years. And because some DNAs are found quadruplex that branch out, I have reason to believe that though these blueprints could not be broken, they can probably be altered over time given the right push, the right modification process, and the right purpose. #

photo credit: drmomma

CITIZEN JOURNALISM

Eight years ago I was staring at my college application to UP really hard, wanting so much to write "AB Journalism" in the field Course 1 but ended up taking something totally different to avoid an uncalled-for tension between my parents. Today, kids who want to take up Journ probably wouldn't need to defend it that way as the rise of online media now heavily promotes and encourages 'citizen journalism.' Defined, citizen journalism derives from public citizens "playing an active role in the process of collecting, reporting, analyzing, and disseminating news and information." Facebook and Twitter have obviously been one of the best venues for this over the years, where millions of blogs, links, and status messages are shared daily over the net. 

A couple of weeks back, this has been the topic on Rock Ed Radio, my Thursday night radio fix on Jam 88.3. I'd love to share some points the two notable guests (Maria Ressa formerly of CNN Asia, and Roby Alampay of Interaksyon.com) raised during the two-hour discussion (thanks to storify.com for these feeds):

@robyalampay: I don't really use the term "citizen journalist." I'm more focused about the process of journalism.

@maria_ressa: Anyone who publishes is a journalist. A citizen journalist is someone who can publish.

@robyalampay: Whether you call yourself a citizen journalist or not, if you can publish, then you can be sued.

@robyalampay: I don't think Edu Manzano was being a citizen journalist when he tweeted that Grace Lee, President dated in Greenhills.

@robyalampay: We should be responsible as we can in protecting the integrity of that information.

@maria_ressa: Now, the people speak for themselves. The danger there is what standards do they use?

Quite obviously, there are a lot of things to discuss and to question on this topic, and even journalists themselves could not install police lines on the roles of 'citizen journalists' especially that they have all the avenues and that the availability of information has never been this fast and free.

I for one have been using blogs for years to create awareness and express my views --- but I could not consider myself a 'citizen journalist' despite draping these articles online for anybody to read. Facts are accurate, sources are cited, but the 'process' Roby is referring to may have been what I lack. And that for me simply differentiates the professionals with all those publish-hungry uploaders who feed useless and/or inaccurate information, not to mention habitual errors in structure and grammar, proudly claiming "Look, I'm a citizen journalist!"

I will forever be grateful to the online media for these kinds of tools where we can express ourselves more freely, compared to when, eight years ago, I was on a struggle to get published. But given these tools, let's remind ourselves that whether we want to call ourselves 'citizen journalists' or not, our role is not to gossip, but to educate. It is our responsibility therefore to feed our readers' minds the kind of education they deserve. And again, it's our sole accountability if we get sued. Heaven forbids. #

photo credit: jgold517