Remembering The Smurfs

A random memory, of watching all those Smurfs episodes when I was very young. I was in kindergarten, I think, and my mom would tape the show while we were watching it on TV. Afterward, she'd send me off to bed--bedtime then was 7 pm. The following day, after school, I'd head straight to the TV and watch the tape of the previous evening's episode. That was how much I loved it.

The smurfs are little blue men (and one woman, Smurfette--of the diminutive suffix that feminists don't like) who live in a village of mushroom houses. They live under the tutelage of a wise old man, Papa Smurf. I don't know what's become of Mama Smurf. Their oppressor is a shabby, balding sorcerer named Gargamel, who owns a cat named Azreal. Gargamel keeps fantasizing about eating the smurfs, but never actually succeeds in holding onto them long enough to cook them. There's always a rescue even when some blue bodies are already immersed in a pot of water, sprinkled with herbs and all. The smurfs are named after their unique traits or abilities: E.g. Brainy Smurf, Greedy Smurf, Clumsy Smurf, Handy Smurf, and so on.

Eventually, I was introduced to the cartoons aimed at older kids: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Captain Planet, X-Men. Then of course, every Sunday, before my family and I would hear mass at Don Bosco Church in Makati, my dad would take me to the video rental store beside the church. There I would select a Betamax tape to watch for the week, a Disney movie, usually. I think I kept borrowing 101 Dalmatians. And The Labyrinth, an '80s film with David Bowie in it as the malevolent wizard who abducts the heroine's baby brother.

But The Smurfs will forever be the definitive show of my childhood. The backdrop appealed to me: The lush green village, the woods. The magic. Each story is a moral tale, teaching us about the pleasures and pains of co-existing with others, the risks and rewards of adventure, the reality of evil, the accomplishments of love. Each Smurf represented a facet of the childlike/childish person, which I think is why the series appealed so much to me then. Like these vulnerable yet intrepid little creatures, I wanted what I wanted, and would test the limits of what the world would yield to my will.

I don't know why I suddenly remembered The Smurfs tonight. I love it when I retrieve a cherished childhood memory. It reminds me of those old delights, back when my world was so different, and I was a completely different person with different concerns. My mom was an all-powerful being. My sister didn't exist yet. And my dad would come home in the evenings, in time for dinner, after spending his time at the office. I remember how I loved stories then; my parents--Dad, usually--would tell me tales each night. He included sound effects (of thunder, that is) in his rendition of the tale of Pinya, the girl who turned into a pineapple because she was too lazy to look for her mother's lost needle. Eventually, my hunger for stories gave my parents the idea to tape their voices. Soon, I was listening to Dad's or Mom's narration of "The Three Little Pigs" and "Little Red Riding Hood" in my walkman. I remember I even recorded the story of Goldilocks myself. I wish I knew where we kept those old cassette tapes, so I could hear my child's voice describing Goldilocks' wild curiosity inside the bears' house.

This reminds me of one of the things people debate about in philosophy, which is the enduring self. Philosophers love puzzles, and what could be more puzzling than my sense of me? The farther back in time I remember--perhaps adding things that weren't there, in the original experience--the less I think of these things as having happened to me. Who was that very young girl who so loved cartoons and fairy tales, who had an almost omnipotent sense of self, who walked around calling other kids "bata" and who'd (literally) look up to adults, who towered over me? She's lost, and now I'm the one who's telling her story.

I'm one of those grown-ups now. The Smurf-sized me would be surprised that being a big person doesn't mean that you're all-powerful after all.

I have moved!

Please go to Http://www.lanova1215.multiply.com

So much for Facebook

Thought I'd completely abandon my Multiply site in favor of Facebook, but lately FB begins to feel overwhelming for me again. It seems more like a social networking and news site than a place for posting long content. I need space for some of the things I write, which would seem to be drowned out by the dynamic, almost harried, atmosphere of FB.

So. I refurbished my Multiply site and may keep this around until a better idea occurs to me. I do hate my stuff being all over the place, but what can one do?

Don't get me wrong, though: FB is amazing. The problem is I never seem to get anything done when I log on there, and I haven't even started on the applications. Something about the entire thing calls to my compulsive nature. Also, I feel confined to snippets there: Snippets of opinions, insights, images, feelings. Colorful facets of a crystallized moment, bleeding into Internet space, only to fade almost as fast as they appeared. Nothing wrong with that, if you don't feel a longing for the unplumbed depths. (Pa-deep effect daw! Whatever. You know what I mean.)

So much for Facebook. I'm probably still an addict, but the initial "obsession" has started to taper off. Typical me, I think: ningas kugon. Heheh. * Shrugs *

A very long update

What a week it’s been: I was actually productive. I’ve only lately realized how poorly I managed my energies last year. This time I’ve started to develop some useful habits—like waking up around 5:30 am and leaving early to beat the traffic, and attacking my backlog with the determination of a worker ant.

My life’s theme these days seems to have something to do with ticking off items in to-do lists. I don’t know what explains this frantic energy. Perhaps it’s the constant awareness of what this year means for me, a kind of age-consciousness. But I think the bigger factor is having overcome a desolate period in my life, which had stretched over several years. I was just so closed, and the mood swings were truly frightening. Each time I was happy, I’d actually be afraid, knowing that the next black wave was already gathering in the horizon. (In the ninth elegy of the Duino Elegies, Rilke refers to happiness as “that too-hasty profit snatched from approaching loss.”) Yes, I was a sad creature. I can only shake my head at all that was lost, especially over the past year.

Now that it seems I’ve found me again, I feel like the tempted one in the poem Ordeal by Romanian writer Nina Cassian, in which the Fallen Angel tantalizes you with the loveliness of existence. This line is particularly apt: “... your shoulder blades will hurt from the imperative of wings.” Ah, to say yes to this angel! In the silence of my heart, I can already hear phantom wings beating overhead. As I go about my day, I hear this constant refrain: When? When will my time come?

* * * *

Writing is one of those things that give me unadulterated bliss. I guess this is one of my many “blessings,” which must be honored as such. I need to give it a central place, this art.

In line with this resolve, some weeks ago I sent my poems to Philippines Free Press. Then last week, my friends from the 47^th Dumaguete National Writers Workshop congratulated me in our e-group. That was how I found out that three of my poems—“Metamorphosis: A Vigil,” “Discourse,” and “28” were published in the February 28 issue of the said magazine, page 39 to be exact. I was so elated, I went to National Bookstore across Taft the next day, and bought three copies (one to keep, one to give to my dad in the States, and one to give to my mentor, Ma’am Marj—who by the way, had a hand in “Discourse” and “28”). I still can’t quite believe I’d been published in a national magazine, one with a prestigious literary section. I feel both humbled and proud, but above all, thoroughly, ecstatically, and orgasmically satisfied.

“Discourse” is the one people seem to like the most. I like to think it says so many things about not being able to say things. It’s not only about the perceived failure of some of our relations, but also about the failure of any medium, be it logic or art. We feel and know so much more than what we can communicate, or are “allowed” to communicate, by the conditions of our world and by the limitations of language itself. And yet, that we can meet at all, even blindly, is already miraculous. I love this poem (and I want to think of it as not really “my” poem, but that of the persona), because it’s about her sweet frustration. Thanks to everyone who loved it too!

But while I find poetry sublime, and am so grateful that I was able to learn this craft at all, what I really want to master is the art of fiction. I think the energies of poetry are introverted. It takes an altogether different sensibility to be a storyteller. An important change has occurred this year, which is propelling me toward what I ultimately want to do, a dream whose realization is neither poetry nor philosophy. I am still gathering my material from life. While there has been no writing yet, there is a new way of seeing. It’s like there’s this little person who leans back comfortably in some couch (which is red, somehow) in my brain, her fingers steepled, speculating about why certain things happen, what could’ve happened, and what will happen next. It would’ve been funny if it weren’t my life she’s speculating about, my relationships, my triumphs, my car crashes. But to be fair, there’s a new bravery that seems to come from her, a sardonic outlook, one that blesses the villain as much as the protagonist, the tragedy as much as the happy ending. I love this new girl.

I’m not sure why I hadn’t looked through her eyes until now. Perhaps a new organ has developed from the forge of something like pain, though that word fits the experience like a grain of sand represents the Sahara.

* * * *

For a long time, I’ve struggled with what I thought was my lack of fit in certain aspects of philosophy, that discourse I’ve chosen as a career. I know I’m a philosophy teacher, but am I a philosopher? Do I want to be? But lately, I’ve been taming my shadow, namely logic and argumentation. As a result, when I teach my philosophy classes now, there is a new subtlety in my reasoning, a new facility of expression, even a deeper reading of the texts, though I hope that doesn’t sound too presumptuous. Verbal sparring used to stress me out, but now I seem to enjoy it. Philosophy need not be a bloody battle so much as a pleasurable game. There’s an art to it, even though it may be highly cognitive. I guess the trick for me is to balance this aspect of my life with more aesthetic and physical pursuits, so I wouldn’t feel so “trapped” in philosophy. (Speaking of physical pursuits, there’s a class I’ve been taking daily now which will go on till March 20, and which has been incredibly enjoyable for me. What it is will be a surprise. All will be revealed in April, when the skills learned shall be appropriately demonstrated at certain, uhm, events. Walang manghuhula kahit alam ninyo na!)

In any case, going back to my philosophical renaissance, last Friday I was invited to the Rogationist Seminary College in Merville Park, Parañaque (see picture above), where I sat as a panelist during some seminarians’ defense of their thesis papers, eight of which were presented. For the first time in a long while, I came to an appreciation of what it is that we philosophers do. Perhaps the setting had a lot to do with it; and the energies of the people involved, in particular the students. That was exactly how thesis defenses ought to proceed. We’re a community of philosophers who recognize that the search for wisdom is a cooperative endeavor, and that the getting there is already pleasurable in itself. It was lovely, the playful exchange of ideas, whose speed was awesome but whose elegance lingered in the mind, like the pleasant aftertaste of good food. Some papers that stood out for me include the one about Donald Davidson’s philosophy of action, which considers the role of motivational dispositions (e.g. beliefs, emotional states, etc.) in our moral choices; the one about the animal rights movement and the treatment of animals in the Philippines; and finally, the one that valiantly defended Immanuel Kant’s highly abstract and virtually impracticable duty ethics.

Having been invited as a guest lecturer at the San Carlos Seminary in Makati last year, I’ve come to love such enclaves of the spirit. The students tend to be quite appreciative, dedicated, and respectful, so open to philosophy. It was a welcome change, as I’m so sick of the spoiled brats and self-proclaimed rebels I often encounter in my milieu. These seminarians should remind them of Socrates’ message, that humility is truly the beginning of wisdom.

* * * *

Today is International Women’s Day. While there are crucial privileges that come with being male, given the current setup of human society, I’m glad I’m female, and I’m thankful for the strong bonds I have with other women in my family and network of friends. While I was at the Rogationist College, I couldn’t help thinking that if I were male, I definitely would’ve considered going into the priesthood. Being a nun doesn’t seem to be an equivalent endeavor. Perhaps, if I had lived in pre-Christian Britain during the era of the Mother Goddess, I’d have been one of the priestesses of Avalon. I guess we must never forget that at least, She has survived in our myths, and in that in our own ways, we can keep Her alive in our rituals and narratives. In relation to this, Dr. Marj has sent me this quote from Marge Piercy’s poem, The Sabbath of Mutual Respect: “Habondia, Artemis, Cybele, Demeter, Ishtar, Aphrodite, Au Set, Hecate, Themis, Lilith, Thea, Gaia, Bridgit, The Great Grandmother of Us All, Yemanja, Cerridwen, Freya, Corn Maiden, Mawu, Amaterasu, Maires, Nut, Spider-Woman, Neith, Au Zit, Hathor, Inanna, Shin Moo, Diti, Arinna, Anath, Tiamat, Astoreth: the names flesh out our histories, our choices, our passions....”

Lately, I draw courage and integrity from Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. For a long time, due to my “inner Cartesian” (a phrase that tickles my friend Mike), I had always identified with Athena, and during long periods of forgetful passion, Aphrodite. But I think Artemis, of the full moon, of the wild creatures, of the defiant virginity, represents the best part of me.

Left: Apollo and Daphne by John William Waterhouse. Fittingly, a wood nymph under the auspices of Artemis, Daphne, also embodies my myth these days. Daphne escapes her pursuer Apollo by turning into a laurel tree. Similarly, what I need now is self-preservation. So many things are unfolding inside me, which I must permit no one to distract me from. In any case, I believe that any heterosexual woman must always nurture her inner Daphne, whether or not she’s in a relationship. Because we are socially conditioned to be the caregivers, we often forget to care about ourselves and our own pursuits. This doesn’t necessarily mean you must forsake romantic love, only that—even if there is much love in your life—it should never be the raison d’être of your existence.

Revolutionary

So many synchronistic events—or meaningful coincidences—seem to be happening lately. (I’d have said “blessings,” but the religious connotation might raise some eyebrows, hehe.) Maybe one way of explaining synchronicity, to use C.G. Jung’s term, is that the self-consciously rational ego is beginning to listen to the higher Self. And so there is a new way of seeing, into the unfolding of a larger story, where you’re a main character and not a detached observer. Does that make any sense?

In any case, I am glad about this precious new perspective. Perhaps now I can follow the bread crumbs out of the woods of hesitation and vague melancholy, emerging in a clearing where the stories are waiting—to be lived, imagined, worded. For the first time, I think I can see it, the possibility of writing fiction. (There, it’s out!) I’ve been putting certain things in place for this end. There’s a writers’ workshop that I’ve applied to, and if my short story gets accepted, I’d be going to another city in southern Philippines this May. (Knock on wood!) I also plan to enroll in next term’s fiction class in the MFA program. I had let things go over the last six months—ironically, right after the Dumaguete workshop—dropping my lit classes and focusing almost exclusively on philosophy.

There’s a partial explanation, which I’ll try to tell here.

I want(ed) to be a serious philosopher. There are so many projects you can do, in a place where you are given the means and resources to do it, among really smart and interesting people who also happen to be your good friends. I had made philosophy at La Salle my life. I still love it. But there is a greater passion in me that clashes with what appears to be an important premise of this discourse—i.e. abstraction—so that sometimes I would wonder if there were only two choices: (1) Change the terms of the discourse, or (2) Get out of it. As I don’t plan on leaving it, I guess I just have to do philosophy differently—or at least, differently from an imagined “mainstream.”

The Argument, I’ve learned to appreciate. Critical thinking, I’ve learned to balance with critical feeling. But I want nothing to do with abstraction. I want what is concrete: I want the poetry of Heidegger (post-Being and Time), of Nietzsche, of the literary existentialists. Abstraction is just one stream in philosophy, headed toward the murky lagoon of obfuscation and triviality. Follow instead a numinous, raging river toward the ocean, where the mind and the heart can be one.

Last year, while a part of me did enjoy it, another part felt trapped in the discourse of philosophy, where I’ve been in for more than a decade now. It’s only recently that I finally realized how I can change my direction. There were many signposts, but let me name six, in chronological order.

1. Last year, I discovered Alessandro Baricco. Ma’am Marj once suggested that I read his novel, Ocean Sea, after I had submitted to her an essay making use of that most infinite of metaphors—the sea. (Ah yes, me and the sea.) I was riveted to Baricco's novel. It said everything (and more) that I would have wanted to write about the sea and life and relationships and good and evil and love and hate and adventure and art and spirit and healing and God. I bought all his books, devoured them and realized: He is my kind of writer! I want to write like him! His craft embodies the sensibility I was so far only just trying to imagine. So I did some research on Baricco, and found that he was mentored by the Italian philosopher and existentialist, Gianni Vattimo—a philosopher of art and of time, and a scholar of Friedrich Nietzsche. Now, there are many philosophical novelists, but Baricco is it for me. He. Is. It.

2. On a particularly long and dark night, a comet streaked across the sky—beautiful, short-lived, and sad. But it illumined the dark path ahead of me, so that I now know now where I need to go. While its beauty had ravished me, its real power was in its tragic and necessary disappearance. Its absence became me.

3. Then the Book Angel brought me another gem: Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love, her memoir of her spiritual journey. I hadn’t realized that it was an international bestseller, or that its author was listed by Time as one of 2008’s 100 most influential people. Having ripped through the book, I can see why. She tells the story of her harrowing divorce, the tumultuous affair that followed, and her travels across three countries—Italy, India, and Indonesia—in order to find herself again. Her writing style is so accessible, and her attitude so positive and inspiring. There were so many quotable passages for me, about overcoming depression, learning to be alone, finding the courage to go for what you really want, showing true compassion for others, and above all, listening to God. This is what I loved best about the book: Its imperturbable spiritual center. Everything spoke to me, as though she were a doppelganger who was recounting—from the perspective of a survivor—the things that I myself am only just going through. Of course, I’m not going through a divorce or anything like that, but like Liz Gilbert, I’ve made so many wrong turns in the karmic labyrinth of love. Far too many.

Left: Elizabeth Gilbert. In any case, as I told my good friend M.R., the author so inspired me that I finally realized what I want and need to do for the rest of my life. For some reason, since I turned 28, I’ve been propelled into a crisis, feeling the weight not just of my literal age but the burden of my own expectations of myself. Many of my peers were moving on to The Next Stage. Commit to something, make a commitment, be committed (to an institution?!). So many things had needed to happen, and fast, which I think is what 2008 was all about. I learned so many things, but mostly how not to do things, how not to be careless with your own heart.

I am still in crisis (of the Saturn Return, Ma’am Marj had once said to me, “You do know that it runs for seven years, right?”). But for the first time, I can see what’s ahead of me. Three words: Travel, writing, and love, but love in the most general sense. While I’ve done a lot of traveling just last year, I’m not sure if I had truly appreciated the places I had seen. I carried so much baggage with me. Now I’ve been unloading it, as quickly as I can manage, which is still a gradual process. All I know is that I need to go out there, literally, and actually be there, figuratively, so that I can have something to write about and so that I can expand the boundaries of my love.

4. Some relationships with important women in my life were rejuvenated. M.R., for example, has listened to me articulate and process my crisis over the course of many dinners at Mall of Asia, and many moments of looking out at Manila Bay. We've been best friends since high school, but have grown even closer now. I've been quoting Gilbert's book to her via SMS, and two weeks ago I finally got her her own copy. (So far she says she's enjoying the book.)

Meanwhile, I found an old college friend, Jolina Mallari, in Facebook. She was my classmate before I changed majors from Political Science to Philosophy (and before she shifted from Economics to Psychology). We used to hang out all the time, attending debut parties and going on out-of-town trips with our friends from the DLSU Aikido Club. (Yes, I used to practice aikido!) Eventually, we gravitated to a larger world out of that barkada when I became the Editor in Chief of The LaSallian and she became the Student Council president. We had such a memorable conversation over dinner at Greenbelt some weeks back. Being an intensely religious person, she talked about her relationship with God and the man He has chosen for her. I told her I was very happy for her. We also talked about our respective careers and money and Moving Forward in One's Life, etc. I think she's a few steps ahead of me, but then again, each one of us has a different journey. Way to go, Jols! Below: With Jolina.

Finally and most importantly, I opened up to my mom. The story of our relationship is too personal to reveal here. Suffice it to say that last year, I've been a prodigal daughter of sorts. But I'm back, and I hope that some of the things I've been doing now can make up for how much I hurt her last year. I love you, Mom.

5. I also realized who my life guru was. It’s a sacred story that is still unfolding, and I am praying for a favorable outcome. But I am very certain about it, because, after all, it is something I’ve always known. It’s not a huge secret, either, as her name appears many times throughout my writings. Sometimes I fancifully think that she is the Viviane to my Morgaine, though I still have so much to do to even be remotely worthy of Avalon. (Who knows? Maybe ultimately, I’m really more of a Gwenwyfar, distracted by Lancelet, then eaten up by depression, exiling herself in a cloister. Then again, the lost girl may be one part of me, but she’s not the leading role anymore. Or at least, I hope so.)

6. Finally, I recently saw a film that two great ladies recommended to me. It’s up for the Oscars, but I don’t think it’s been released in the Philippines yet. Revolutionary Road, starring Leonardo DiCaprio (as Frank Wheeler) and Kate Winslet (as April Wheeler), is based on the novel by Richard Yates. It’s about a couple living in 1950s American suburbia, who married before they figured out what they really wanted. Now, they have the trappings of what society defines as the good life: A big house, children, and a high-paying job for Frank. But Frank detests his dreary office job and April feels stifled and restless at home. Emotionally disconnected, they go through the motions of marriage and family life. Things turn around when April gets the idea of moving to the family to Paris, where she could support them by getting a secretarial job and Frank could finally figure out what he really wants to do. They are ecstatic for awhile because of this plan, until Frank changes his mind when he gets promoted at work and April accidentally gets pregnant with their third baby. Below: DiCaprio and Winslet in Revolutionary Road.

I loved the way the story dramatized the dilemma between staying in your comfort zone and going after what you really want. When what’s at stake is Your Whole Life, it’s not so easy to take risks. But you have to. The alternative is misery and death—for what is a meaningless, empty life but death itself?

One of my favorite scenes in the movie is when April tries to convince her husband to follow their dream, by appealing to the truth they had known all along: “Tell me the truth, Frank. Remember that? We used to live by it. And you know what’s so good about the truth? Everyone knows what it is however long they’ve lived without it. No one forgets the truth, Frank. They just get better at lying.”

I guess we really know what we want. The ego may not always be aware of it, but the higher Self knows. Fighting the destiny you have freely made for yourself will only cause so much suffering. I have gone through so much suffering just to get here. At last, I think I have finally decided to break with the past and go forward.

And that is truly revolutionary.

Elasticity

Today, I realized that the old contours of my life have snapped back into place, with the almost-comforting elasticity of a rubber band, after all the stretching of last year. With a dazed recognition, I pushed open the door to the aloneness in my consciousness. Carefully, I swept away the dust of nostalgia, pushed out the ghost of another presence. It’s important to organize things, to cleanse even the memory of the body.

Back to me.

Then I realized, as I began to relearn the old ways of aloneness, how limiting it feels sometimes. With my mild claustrophobia, I need always to be at the edge—on the aisle seat, for example, or beside the sea. When I used to live in a condominium by myself, I wouldn’t even close the bathroom door while I was in the shower. After trooping up and down Taft Avenue looking for the perfect place to rent last year, I had finally settled on a condo unit for its huge glass windows and view of Manila Bay. That’s how I want to live my life: With an eye toward sky or sea, that which is infinitely beyond me.

But the rubber band has been released, has snapped back into a tight, inscrutable circle. It feels... anti-climactic, like a wrong turn in the plot. I shall have to rewrite the story then, commence the outward movement, but in another direction this time.

* * * *

A catalog of things to care for or care about, which I noticed today:

At the office, Koala and Tarsier were preoccupied with their virtual dogs at Facebook. They invited me to try it, and I said, worried about a phantom pet that hasn’t yet experienced my abandonment, “Oh, I don’t know. What if I end up not having enough time for him? Then he’d be sad.” I was genuinely concerned about this.

Driving back to Pasay after a ludicrously expensive dental procedure, I passed by a middle-aged woman weaving around the cars during a red light, trying to sell ropes of sampaguita. She had a noticeable limp. She’d earn in 50 years, maybe not even then, the amount that was extorted from me today while I was on the dental chair.

On the flyover from Edsa to Tramo Street, I passed by a woman of indeterminate age, dancing in place, nude, soot all over her body. I said a quick prayer for this person.

And over dinner tonight, Mom and I heard the new mother next door singing no recognizable song (as she does nightly) to her baby. Every so often, from the assorted domestic noises coming from that house, including the marital quarrels that were more riveting than a radio show, a thin cry would emerge, as it did tonight. “Hear that?” Mom said. “The baby is learning to respond to her!”

So much needs to be loved.

But because so much needs to love.

Let life stretch me then, as far as my elastic heart can take.

Au revoir, Tristesse

“They [Zen Buddhists] say that an oak tree is brought into creation by two forces at the same time. Obviously, there is the acorn from which it all begins, the seed which holds all the promise and potential, which grows into the tree. Everybody can see that. But only a few can recognize that there is another force operating here as well—the future tree itself, which wants so badly to exist that it pulls the acorn into being, drawing the seedling forth with longing out of the void, guiding the evolution from nothingness to maturity. In this respect, say the Zens, it is the oak tree that creates the very acorn from which it was born.”—Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia

Lately, I’ve been going to Mall of Asia just to gaze at Manila Bay, or the portion of it visible from the seawall at the back of the mall. Of course, I’ve been a fan of this place since it first opened two years ago. I’ve always loved standing before a body of water, especially the sea. When I was a kid, our parents would take me and my sister to the tabing-dagat near the Cultural Center in Manila. When I would get lung infections, which was often, my mother the doctor would prescribe a trip to the tabing-dagat where the breeze could cure me. In retrospect, I think the culprit may have been all the dust in Pasay City and especially in our tiny house. Thus, I’ve come to think of the edge of the sea—where sand or rock meets the lashing foam—as my great outdoors, or at least, the closest I could get to it in my smoke-choked urban life.

Right: Woman at the Window by Salvador Dalí. This image is on the bookmark Ma'am Marj had given me, along with this note, "For those days of looking out to sea!" Now as an adult, I’d been sick lately, and have been making a pilgrimage to my trusty place of peace almost everyday over the past several weeks. During the worst of my illness, which is emotional and psychic rather than physical, I would think that as long as I could see the water, I shall be all right. I’d sit in a café beside the bay, my journal open before me, awash in the terrifying orange sunset. Or sometimes I’d just sit on the ledge among lovers or groups of friends, just inhaling the breeze and watching people, curious about these strangers’ stories. On one occasion while I was waiting for a friend, she suddenly appeared by my side and interrupted my reverie with a warm hug. “Kitang-kita kita agad!”, she exclaimed. “Yeah, kasi ako lang siguro ang nag-iisa dito,” I replied, rolling my eyes.

But mine was a solitude in the wake of an angel’s visit, not the dreaded one from a demon, which used to assail me frequently at around this time last year. It’s a time that can just as well be called “The Great Before,” a time of unconsciousness about the extent of my depression. Then something happened that shook me out of that dead time. It seems that sometimes, the heart would seek the rain obsessively: Better the life-threatening typhoon than the life-threatening drought. Of love, Kahlil Gibran wrote, “And when he speaks to you believe in him,/ Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.”

Now the storm is over, and everything is different.

For one thing, I can write again. For a time, I had let it all go; perhaps I needed to—not just my words, but everything that had anchored me to this earth. I had wanted to be one with the storm, and I was. Now that it is spent, and I have dealt with the worst of the wreckage, I am sensing the force of what needs to exist, what wants to shoot out from the damp soil and bloom.

* * * *

One evening, a decision finally coalesced, and I drove to the tabing-dagat intending to perform a ritual. It was night then, and drizzling a bit. I stood before the sea, the greasy light of the street lamps illumining the concrete strip of restaurants. Scattered laughter and distracting music wafted to me, but did not puncture my bubble of peace—not even when a group of teenagers approached my space and hoisted themselves on the ledge. I walked away, until I came to a spot where I could reasonably talk to God.

Left: The amazing book by Elizabeth Gilbert, where I got the idea for this ritual. More than a decade ago, I used to be very religious. I think maybe I’ve always been a spiritual person, even though my religious beliefs have evolved and vanished at some point, at the height of my attraction to (atheistic) existentialism. I don’t think one can be in philosophy and remain uncritical or unreflective about the religion one is born into, choiceless. But this doesn’t mean that matters of the spirit will not haunt you. (Like the word “God,” I think of “spirit” as a manner of speaking that doesn’t refer to a substance.) This longing for spirit haunts the writings of the existentialist writers, for example when Jean-Paul Sartre describes the intensely human experience of abandonment, or when Friedrich Nietzsche refers to the cyclical mystery of the eternal recurrence. In us resides the Godly, not necessarily inside churches or through priests, those these may or may not enhance the experience of the divine, depending on where the individual is on his or her journey.

One of the consequences of my soul’s storm was a recuperation of certain vital relationships—with God, whom I hadn’t prayed to in a very long time; with my mother; with some old friends; with some mentors. And yes, with my Self. I had distanced myself from them last year, choosing to live in what Martin Buber would call the manufactured heart beside the other heart. These places inside me were equally real; it’s just that the other space would have died in the harsh sun of the world’s truth. Nonetheless, it was no less true, because I made it so, but now its time is over. I am whole again: that compartment has merged with the other chambers. Evidence of this mending is I can write again. Oh, how I can write again!

So, I was back in the arms of God, enveloped by the infinite sea-space of his heart, which could absorb everything that was weighing me down. I started praying:

God, please take from me my immense sadness. I don’t want it anymore. I’ve lived with it for as long as I can remember. Please take from me all the hurt and anger and disappointment, frustration, jealously, attachment. Most of all, please take the paralyzing nostalgia. I offer up my sadness to you, for safe-keeping, because I cannot take it with me where I need to go. And I want to go, God. I am sick of this place of heartbreak. I have had enough. I no longer want to be here! I am ready to move on! I want to move on. So please take what used to be my world, what I wouldn’t let go of, everything that is preventing me from becoming what I need to become. I trust that in Your infinite power, You can do all the worrying and regretting and longing and mourning for me. I cannot do any of it anymore. I am leaving all of this now, with Your blessing, in Your keeping. Thank You. Amen.

A synchronistic poem that says everything

Risk
By Anaïs Nin

And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.

Rilke, again

I immensely enjoyed my graduate class in Phenomenology and Existentialism today. This term I'm trying a new "structure." In previous courses, I'd lecture now and then, and assign a topic for each student to present. This term, however, due to the nature of the subject matter--nothing less than (human) existence--I thought we could just sit in a big circle and discuss the philosophical texts in a quasi-literary way. So far, our discussions have been great! We just exchange insights and observations based on the readings for the week.

This week, we read some forerunners of existentialism in literature, i.e. Fyodor Dostoevsky ("The Grand Inquisitor"), Franz Kafka ("The Imperial Message"), and Rainer Maria Rilke (the second and ninth elegies of "The Duino Elegies"). I especially liked going back to Rilke. It's been a couple of years since I was first enamored by his poetry and his message about the fleetingness of everything, what we called the "onceness" of things. Here's an excerpt from the second elegy, translated from the German by Stephen Mitchell:

But we, when moved by deep feeling, evaporate; we
breathe ourselves out and away; from moment to moment
our emotion grows fainter, like a perfume. Though someone may tell us:
"Yes, you've entered my bloodstream, the room, the whole springtime
is filled with you..."--what does it matter? he can't contain us,
we vanish inside him and around him. And those who are beautiful,
oh who can retain them? Appearance ceaselessly rises
in their face, and is gone....

And from the ninth elegy (on the question of "why then have to be human," when we could just as well have been a laurel):

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here
apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way
keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.
Once for each thing. Just once; no more. And we too,
just once. And never again. But to have been
this once, completely, even if only once:
to have been at one with the earth, seems beyond undoing.

Our class talked about the sadness that seems to accompany our sense of time passing. I drew their attention to the fact that this cycle of poems is an elegy, which addresses a profound loss. A laurel would not be conscious of its impending death, and so, even though it is temporal, would not be tragic. But for us, when we are reflective enough, we feel the poignant onceness of each thing: A kiss, a heartbreak, a birth, a poem. These will never come again, because each event represents a unique configuration of self, other, place, and time. We are evanescent, like air freshener: "... from moment to moment/ our emotion grows fainter, like a perfume...."

Why this nostalgia over a fact of life? Why do we seem to desire permanence, love's grand dream? Why can't we let go without the knee-jerk sadness?

So I've been resurrecting some of my old writings...

... and just realized how bulky everything is, from my previous blogs. Maybe four years' worth of writing, I imported from blogger. Now I don't know why I even bothered! :-p

I wanted to write again after a dry spell of several months. Writing-wise, it's like somebody had stuffed cotton into my mouth: even in my head, the thoughts were muffled. But lately, I've been hearing the call of ideas again, even though I'm so out of practice in wording them. So I guess I may post some new stuff here, even though this whole thing feels so clunky right now.

* * * *

I feel I am almost hopeless with regard to my creative output. After having attended a (i.e. the) national writers' workshop last year, I was only able to produce two or three poems. I didn't even have the courage to show them to Ma'am M.

I do know that the art of writing requires so much discipline. What I've realized recently is that--for me anyway--good writing comes from disciplined living as well. That means living toward the soul's direction. I'm sorry to say that I was lost in the woods. Now, when I think about starting again, I get this image of me with my head down, perhaps standing before the mists of another Avalon, a place in my mind where I used to write from. A centered place; a place of belonging. My home. Can a prodigal daughter still part the mists, and go back home?

(Below: Morgaine prepares to part the mists, with Viviane behind her, in Mists of Avalon)


What will she do if she can't? Where will she go?

* * * *

On a lighter note, I recently saw The Curious Case of Benjamin Button at Greenbelt, with the bears. I had heard good stuff about it, and wasn’t disappointed. It’s based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, about a man who is born old and then progresses through his life steadily growing younger. He is almost the same age as his “soul mate” in the movie. They finally become lovers in their late 30s, when their physical ages coincide—after that point, she grows older and he grows younger.

(Below: Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett in The Curious Case of Benjamin Button)


Time passing is an intensely human experience. The ultimate enemy of love is not people, but time. Would that I could keep my love within a bubble that melted those relentless timepieces. But I myself am in time, and the only place where love can be preserved is memory.

Do watch this movie. It teaches you that it takes the perspective of a lifetime to appreciate the preciousness of everything.