I am indebted to Ilia for leading me to this song...
This song somehow reassures me of a certain certainty which I myself am uncertain of. I still believe though in the beauty of that uncertainty which Wislawa Szymborska wrote about.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Ang paglalakad ay parang pagpasok sa Unibersidad
Ang paglalakad ay parang pagpasok sa Unibersidad. Magsisimula ka nang dahan-dahan hanggang makasabay ka na sa pagsulong ng paligid. Kagabi, natatakot pa akong maglakad kasi medyo gabi na pero wala naman akong choice kaya nagpatuloy akong maglakad hanggang sa bahay namin.
Mga tatlumpong minuto rin ng lakaran iyon. Suot ko ang red heels ko pero kiber. Naubusan kasi ako ng baryang pambayad sa tricycle at minalas pang maubusan ng load kaya di na ako nakapagpasundo. Kung sabagay, gusto ko naman talaga ang paglalakad.
Kaya naglakad nga ako.
Medyo may kadiliman sa paliko-likong kalsada ng Balara Filters. Manilaw-nilaw ang liwanag mula sa iilang poste ng ilaw. May mga sasakyang dumadaan na nagpapawi ng kaba ko. Ang totoo hindi naman ako masyadong kinabahan dahil alam kong ligtas ang lugar namin. Doon na yata ako lumaki. Nakasanayan ko na ang bawat liko ng Balara Filtration Plant. Doon ako naglalaro tuwing hapon noong bata pa ako.
Habang naglalakad ay may nakasabay akong batang lalaki, nilapitan ko at nakipagkwentuhan ako. Nalaman kong 15 taong gulang na pala siya. Siya si Erwin Garcia. Nakatira sa Blk 2, sa gawing ibaba ng street namin. Hindi na siya nag-aaral kasi tinamad na daw siya. Habang daan nagkukuwento siya at ako din. Sabi niya ang sipag ko raw kasi hindi pa rin ako tumitigil sa pag-aaral samantalang siya ay tinatamad na daw.
Sabi ko baka magbago ang isip niya. Mahalaga ang may tinapos, sabi ko. Napatango lang si Erwin, parang nag-iisip.
Sana napaisip ko siya. Sana sa kanyang pag-iisip ay mapagtanto niyang maigi pa rin ang pagbabalik-eskwela.
Hindi lang iyon ang iisang beses na nakipagkuwentuhan ako sa kasabay kong maglakad na estranghero. Noon din, nakipagkwentuhan ako sa isang babaeng nakipaghiwalay sa asawa niyang binubugbog siya. Sa pamamagitan ng kwento niya, napatunayan niya sa akin na kaya ng babaeng labanan ang domestic violence kung gugustuhin niya.At naniniwala naman ako doon. Kaya nating bumangon mula sa kaapihan, mapababae o mapalalaki man.
Gusto ko pang maglakad muli. Naiisp ko kagabi pag-uwi ang konsepto ng Walking University. Isa akong estudyante ng paglalakad. At masaya ako sa isiping iyon.
The 2 Beautiful Years of My Life
The title seems to propose that all the other years are not beautiful but actually, they too are but none is as beautiful as those 2 beautiful years. The others are wonderful, challenging, amazing, intellectually refreshing, spontaneous, free, but none is as beautiful.
My Elbi stories. They started in 2003. No, even earlier, in 2001, when I first stepped on Elbi's grounds during a high school field trip. When I saw the trees and grasses of Freedom Park, when the bus drove along Pili Drive, I uttered loudly, "I'll go for college here." My high school barkada retorted that my parents wouldn't agree on it. They knew that my parents wanted me to enroll in Diliman. I extended my two arms upward and say, "This is where I want to be in college." They all smiled, unconvinced.
When I filled out my application form, I did it in hiding. I didn't ask Mama to check the data, as I would usually ask her to do. Then after about six months, I got a letter from UP. I passed in my first campus choice. My parents were half-happy.
I landed in Elbi. My first class, it was Philosophy 1. Prof. Scheherezade Ruivivar, taught us the essence of contemplating life. What is falsity and what is truth? What is logical and what is absurd? What is life and how is it to die even as one breathes? She gave me my lowest ever grade in class because I confused October 7 with October 17. It was my first encounter with absurdity. And I wouldn't forget her for that.
In Elbi, I came upon many other professors and instructors, both old and young, learned and learning. I recall we had LTS lessons at the Bahay ng Pahingungod. Whenever I would go there, the jeepney I'm riding on would pass along D.L. Umali, the graden where a classmate claimed his parents made him, the Women's Dormitory, the Men's Dorm and finally the YMCA. Life then was scheduled perfectly at times but imperfect moments yielded more memories.
Like when I got absent from my Hum 1 class because of a morning fever. In the afternoon of that same day, I reported in my other classes. On my way towards one of my afternoon classes, I saw my Hum 1 instructor by the Hum steps, with a bluebook on his hand. By the time I reached the right side of the antique building, he was already walking towards me. He told me he had been looking for me inside Hum to give me my graded exam. He handed me the bluebook he was holding. He could have just waited for the next class session to give me my exam, but instead he looked for me. A touching sense of self-worth took over my fever. Teachers who care for students even beyond the classroom is an Elbi gift.
I met other professors who later on became very essential to my journey as a young adult. Their images, still vividly etched on my mind.
And more importantly, in Elbi I met friends. Friends or companions or accomplices. Whatever term fits, I met them there. And these friends, they stayed even after Elbi.
In Elbi, I learned and fell. I fell in love. Or did I? I don't know. I was too young to know. I was too young to even touch it. It flew. It was beautiful when it flew. It was painful, too.
I could not think any other better introduction but this:
Elbi was a dream come true. And when one's dream comes true, it carries with it the emergence of all that was beautiful. As if everything that happens trickles from that dream. It is exactly how I see my Elbi experience.
A lifetime might not be long enough for those two beautiful years to line themselves in the linearity of my biography. If someone would write my biography, I wouldn't want her to write in chronology for that would underrate how much mystery and wonder every year holds. I want her to write in circles so that it would seem that my life, even ended, still happens, each beauty replicated in other lives, in other stories.
How I wish I could replicate my stories.
My Elbi stories. They started in 2003. No, even earlier, in 2001, when I first stepped on Elbi's grounds during a high school field trip. When I saw the trees and grasses of Freedom Park, when the bus drove along Pili Drive, I uttered loudly, "I'll go for college here." My high school barkada retorted that my parents wouldn't agree on it. They knew that my parents wanted me to enroll in Diliman. I extended my two arms upward and say, "This is where I want to be in college." They all smiled, unconvinced.
When I filled out my application form, I did it in hiding. I didn't ask Mama to check the data, as I would usually ask her to do. Then after about six months, I got a letter from UP. I passed in my first campus choice. My parents were half-happy.
I landed in Elbi. My first class, it was Philosophy 1. Prof. Scheherezade Ruivivar, taught us the essence of contemplating life. What is falsity and what is truth? What is logical and what is absurd? What is life and how is it to die even as one breathes? She gave me my lowest ever grade in class because I confused October 7 with October 17. It was my first encounter with absurdity. And I wouldn't forget her for that.
In Elbi, I came upon many other professors and instructors, both old and young, learned and learning. I recall we had LTS lessons at the Bahay ng Pahingungod. Whenever I would go there, the jeepney I'm riding on would pass along D.L. Umali, the graden where a classmate claimed his parents made him, the Women's Dormitory, the Men's Dorm and finally the YMCA. Life then was scheduled perfectly at times but imperfect moments yielded more memories.
Like when I got absent from my Hum 1 class because of a morning fever. In the afternoon of that same day, I reported in my other classes. On my way towards one of my afternoon classes, I saw my Hum 1 instructor by the Hum steps, with a bluebook on his hand. By the time I reached the right side of the antique building, he was already walking towards me. He told me he had been looking for me inside Hum to give me my graded exam. He handed me the bluebook he was holding. He could have just waited for the next class session to give me my exam, but instead he looked for me. A touching sense of self-worth took over my fever. Teachers who care for students even beyond the classroom is an Elbi gift.
I met other professors who later on became very essential to my journey as a young adult. Their images, still vividly etched on my mind.
And more importantly, in Elbi I met friends. Friends or companions or accomplices. Whatever term fits, I met them there. And these friends, they stayed even after Elbi.
In Elbi, I learned and fell. I fell in love. Or did I? I don't know. I was too young to know. I was too young to even touch it. It flew. It was beautiful when it flew. It was painful, too.
Whenever I would get hurt in my games as a kid, Mama would give me apples. In college, Elbi gave me kapok fairies and macadamia nuts. A play would make me forget I almost failed a quiz. McDo would make me forget everything.
But I won't forget how beautiful Elbi was. It was like its Hot Spring-- hot and springing. It was alive. Elbi. Elbi is yellow and green and white and orange and red. In my mind, I could paint it with my eyes closed. But I could hardly put the image into paper.
For how can one really express something that is beautiful? If you paint it, the colors would not be in the same gradients as you experienced it. If you write about it, words would be lacking. This effort to write? This is nothing compared to the beauty that was Elbi.
For how can one really express something that is beautiful? If you paint it, the colors would not be in the same gradients as you experienced it. If you write about it, words would be lacking. This effort to write? This is nothing compared to the beauty that was Elbi.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Childhood places
This Eraserheads video was set in a place where I spent my days playing as a child.
I remember...
I used to run-walk on the same pavements.
In those rails, I hung from bar to bar. Yes, like a monkey! I reveled at the fact that my hands were strong enough to hold my then heavy weight.
Atop the terrace, I used to join my cousins as they went biking.
Baby Terrace's slopes served as the most daring slide in my then small world.
The swimming pool sequence reminds me of the days when Papa brought me to swimming for the first and I think, the last time. I can still recall that I was in a blue one-piece swimwear, sulking at the bland blue waters. I never learned how to swim.
Along the snaky road, I used to run, along with my childhood friends, Ricky, his brothers Bibang and Ichad, racing against tricycles! :)
Oh, and I used to dip my hands in the bottle fountain (which sadly isn't shown in the video)! There I would wait for the turtle to move, exasperated at its every movement. Only to realize that the movement was an illusion because later on I would know that the turtle is actually made of stone.
The whole setting is nostalgia. Take me back to those days!
I remember...
I used to run-walk on the same pavements.
In those rails, I hung from bar to bar. Yes, like a monkey! I reveled at the fact that my hands were strong enough to hold my then heavy weight.
Atop the terrace, I used to join my cousins as they went biking.
Baby Terrace's slopes served as the most daring slide in my then small world.
The swimming pool sequence reminds me of the days when Papa brought me to swimming for the first and I think, the last time. I can still recall that I was in a blue one-piece swimwear, sulking at the bland blue waters. I never learned how to swim.
Along the snaky road, I used to run, along with my childhood friends, Ricky, his brothers Bibang and Ichad, racing against tricycles! :)
Oh, and I used to dip my hands in the bottle fountain (which sadly isn't shown in the video)! There I would wait for the turtle to move, exasperated at its every movement. Only to realize that the movement was an illusion because later on I would know that the turtle is actually made of stone.
The whole setting is nostalgia. Take me back to those days!
Friday, March 4, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Nothing is more practical than finding God
Nothing is more practical
than finding God, that is,
than falling in love in a quite absolute way.
What you are in love with,
what seizes your imagination,
will affect everything.
It will decide
what will get you out of bed in the morning,
what you do with your evenings,
how you spend your weekends,
what you read, who you know,
what breaks your heart,
and what amazes you
with joy and gratitude.
Fall in love, stay in love,
and it will decide everything.
- Fr. Pedro Arrupe, S.J.
Find me, please.
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