Or On Saving Loved Ones
Worse than you yourself dying would be the dying of your loved ones. Most of us suffer great anxiety over this matter. This morning while I was sitting in my usual spot in the garden, chanting on my beads, my daughter's death passed my mind. I wondered whether I can handle the loss. On other times, when a thought like this would disturb me, I would say to myself repeatedly that it won't happen yet, sooner or later but not yet. That morning, I realized how futile and helpless such positive thinking was. Death will come anytime--either to me, my daughter, my wife, friends, anyone.
It will hit us beyond our imagination, beyond any pain we have ever experienced. It will hit the dying and those surrounding him with suffering. But no matter how inevitable this occurrence is, (and we know, but we deny it) we try with all our might to rebel against dying. But what can we really do? About death...nothing; but at the time of death, there is one thing you can do to help yourself or the ones you love to ease them or yourself from much suffering and bewilderment when you and they are leaving your and their body/ies.
Remember God. Take shelter in God. Surrender all your mind's and body's struggles to control, to make the pain go away, to counteract the fear of the unknown. I do not pray that my parents, my brothers, my wife and daughter to live forever, rather I pray that I'll be at least there when they are splitting from their material shell, for I to at least sing to them the Names of Krishna, or read to them a passage from Bhagavad Gita assuring them that there is no need to fear death, for death will come only to the body, but not to the self...that no one can help them, not medicines, not their bank accounts or their PH. D.s no one not even the love of the persons who care for them, but God alone Who is the true shelter.
I believe that our forgetfulness of our body's demise makes it possible for us to enjoy the world and forget what really matters. In every wake and burial, people would say he (referring to the dead) could have done something more...or she could have done something other than working like a mule...etc.
A friend told me he's "sorta" trapped in a life he wanted to "taste" first before surrendering to God. And I wish for him Lord's mercy, which in my case was in a form of my crippling disease of anxiety. Like Queen Kunti, a great devotee of God, who prayed for more suffering to constantly make her take shelter in Krishna, I accept my case as God's bite of comfort. He promised in the Gita that all those who surrender unto Him will go to Him, without fail. Another favorite example would be from the pastime of Jesus Christ and the good thief, who asked Lord Jesus to give him shelter after he leaves his body. Our mood of surrender should resemble this thief's, who felt he is unworthy, lower than a straw in the street. In such a state of mind we can chant the Holy Names of the Lord constantly, and secure for us and our loved ones God's protection in the time of death. If you don't believe in God, lie to them, but be honest with what you can't do. Don't give them the false promise that you can give them shelter. Haribol Krishna!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Mind-work of the Most Fallen # 1
Or On A Death of a Young body
O
I.
This news came to me late yesterday afternoon, telling of a high schoolmate’s death by brain tumor. She was roughly thirty, probably having the best of her life in the nearby Australian continent. I just said “Ay, sus.”
It would have had a mellower effect should this news be told fifty years in the future. Deaths hit us most when it happens early; striking us always with chest-wrenching awe. This was one of those instances when a certain “clarity” falls over you like epiphany. Like a wiper running through moist windshield. And it was raining, gloomy, when this officemate related the news while struggling to open her umbrella, and we were tired as it was past 5, and it just added to the effect. It called forth a communal black phenomena. It’s as if something is not right, or dying young is a mistake. How can we explain it—it’s hard to explain. Hard in a sense that we are suddenly left hanging when we were always ahead of the “dead”, dying somewhere in her old age—or the natural manner of how death is supposed to be...and that is when her life is, must be, “through.”
I was saying something like “...we can never really plan certain things...” but the person to whom I was saying this, just left me point blank, back to her office to probably get another thing to cover herself with from the rain. What I was saying was: It’s really not for us to plan things. We don’t know anything in the end. And the end is simply the end of everything we can do, overcome or comprehend. I probably asked about how the parents were doing, and Precy’s answer was a bland raised shoulder, and a similarly gray stare at nothing.
It was my turn to brave the late afternoon “ambon” and sloshed down the street to the tricycle terminal.
I was in the padyak, singing Govindam Adi Purusham, when I repeated to myself that I may be lucky to Know. No, I am lucky to Know—what really transpired in this “heavy” incident. Cecile, the kind, as Precy poignantly remembered the dead in the middle of her news, is not in that box her family is taking home from the airport, she’s somewhere else in this drizzle. Her relatives are only taking home sadness, and the icon of their misery. And I thanked Radha and Govinda endlessly, by softly chanting their names as the padyak passed through silvery tenements, and night’s coming, that when this sadness comes to me sooner or later, I have a shelter.
A tiger kills and comforts with its mouth. It carries its cub to safety by seemingly “biting” it; similarly it hunts by pressing its teeth on the neck of its prey. The significance of this image is this: To the devotee, the “bite” of God is protection, to the non-devotee, it is death.
It does not mean that Death does not come to the devotee. Death comes to all. But as the devotee knows God’s names, God’s address, God’s nature, he knows Where to go and Who to approach. I guess these are the only means by which we can endure the experience of dying.
II.
With one bleak moment all of the happy memories of this place we call world is wiped out. Some of us calls this getting older or becoming wiser...but to those who are true, simply calls this misery. We wanted to live and be happy, instead what we get is sadness and death. We want to get rich and be comfortable, instead what we get are money problems and fatigue.
When I am in this tone people ask me, so what should we do? And I say, “know who you are” as our greatest teachers preach. If I am blind of what I am, I am only trying to enjoy the lightlessness in my eyes which obviously will not make me happy. There are a lot of things beyond just trying to live “happy” world-wise. Most people we know, dub themselves ”seekers.” They seek high and low for a little taste of bliss. And so it is our fate in this world. But isn’t it just logical, before looking for something, to know first to whom our object of search will be for? Is it for your mind, your body or for you, the soul within these bodies?
Once you know which “mouth” to feed, then you start seeking, for now you know what food you must sow and reap. Let us not waste time by trying to solve these mysteries with ourselves. Let us humbly accept our weaknesses and end mentally speculating what the universe is, what life is. The first step to a sensible life is to accept that we do not know, and from that sought a Guide, who knows.
But a guide should be bona fide. And a bona fide guide is one who has accepted a guide also, who also accepted a guide, so on and so forth, tracing back to God Himself. This is called disciplic succession, a teaching that comes down to us from the Supreme Source. This is the only way, teaching should be.
For example I can only reach where you are if you will give me your name, your address and certain information about yourself. Otherwise, no matter how hard I try to speculate who you are, what you are, I will never be able to reach you. The same with God. It is true that God and His servants walked this world, to give us these information. Jesus was one of the most known in the western world. But because of our unpurified hearts it was hard for us to recognize Him and His devotees. When Krishna appeared in this world He was defamed by envious persons as an ordinary man. And Jesus was even crucified.
It is simply true that those pure at heart should feel blessed, “for they will see God.” And our hearts will be purified only if it comes in contact with a purifier. God said in the Bhagavad Gita, that I am the Supreme Purifier, and because He is non-different from His Names, we should chant HARE KRISHNA HARE KRISHNA KRISHNA KRISHNA HARE HARE/ HARE RAMA HARE RAMA RAMA RAMA HARE HARE in our beads or through kirtan to be purified. This is the only way for this yuga or age:
Harer Nama Harer Nama Harer Namaiva kevalam kalua nasty eva nasty eva gathir anyata
“Chant the the Holy Names (of God), chant the Holy Names, chant the Holy Names, in this age of quarrel and confusion, there is no other way, there is no other way, there is no other way!”
--00--
Radha blessed me with this reminder on the very day of her Appearance. So I pray to Her, as I pray to my Spiritual Master, that She accept me as Her loving servant, that I may then be qualified to approach Her beloved Krishna, and be re-united with Him in loving devotion. Haribol!
September 8, 2008.
O
I.
This news came to me late yesterday afternoon, telling of a high schoolmate’s death by brain tumor. She was roughly thirty, probably having the best of her life in the nearby Australian continent. I just said “Ay, sus.”
It would have had a mellower effect should this news be told fifty years in the future. Deaths hit us most when it happens early; striking us always with chest-wrenching awe. This was one of those instances when a certain “clarity” falls over you like epiphany. Like a wiper running through moist windshield. And it was raining, gloomy, when this officemate related the news while struggling to open her umbrella, and we were tired as it was past 5, and it just added to the effect. It called forth a communal black phenomena. It’s as if something is not right, or dying young is a mistake. How can we explain it—it’s hard to explain. Hard in a sense that we are suddenly left hanging when we were always ahead of the “dead”, dying somewhere in her old age—or the natural manner of how death is supposed to be...and that is when her life is, must be, “through.”
I was saying something like “...we can never really plan certain things...” but the person to whom I was saying this, just left me point blank, back to her office to probably get another thing to cover herself with from the rain. What I was saying was: It’s really not for us to plan things. We don’t know anything in the end. And the end is simply the end of everything we can do, overcome or comprehend. I probably asked about how the parents were doing, and Precy’s answer was a bland raised shoulder, and a similarly gray stare at nothing.
It was my turn to brave the late afternoon “ambon” and sloshed down the street to the tricycle terminal.
I was in the padyak, singing Govindam Adi Purusham, when I repeated to myself that I may be lucky to Know. No, I am lucky to Know—what really transpired in this “heavy” incident. Cecile, the kind, as Precy poignantly remembered the dead in the middle of her news, is not in that box her family is taking home from the airport, she’s somewhere else in this drizzle. Her relatives are only taking home sadness, and the icon of their misery. And I thanked Radha and Govinda endlessly, by softly chanting their names as the padyak passed through silvery tenements, and night’s coming, that when this sadness comes to me sooner or later, I have a shelter.
A tiger kills and comforts with its mouth. It carries its cub to safety by seemingly “biting” it; similarly it hunts by pressing its teeth on the neck of its prey. The significance of this image is this: To the devotee, the “bite” of God is protection, to the non-devotee, it is death.
It does not mean that Death does not come to the devotee. Death comes to all. But as the devotee knows God’s names, God’s address, God’s nature, he knows Where to go and Who to approach. I guess these are the only means by which we can endure the experience of dying.
II.
With one bleak moment all of the happy memories of this place we call world is wiped out. Some of us calls this getting older or becoming wiser...but to those who are true, simply calls this misery. We wanted to live and be happy, instead what we get is sadness and death. We want to get rich and be comfortable, instead what we get are money problems and fatigue.
When I am in this tone people ask me, so what should we do? And I say, “know who you are” as our greatest teachers preach. If I am blind of what I am, I am only trying to enjoy the lightlessness in my eyes which obviously will not make me happy. There are a lot of things beyond just trying to live “happy” world-wise. Most people we know, dub themselves ”seekers.” They seek high and low for a little taste of bliss. And so it is our fate in this world. But isn’t it just logical, before looking for something, to know first to whom our object of search will be for? Is it for your mind, your body or for you, the soul within these bodies?
Once you know which “mouth” to feed, then you start seeking, for now you know what food you must sow and reap. Let us not waste time by trying to solve these mysteries with ourselves. Let us humbly accept our weaknesses and end mentally speculating what the universe is, what life is. The first step to a sensible life is to accept that we do not know, and from that sought a Guide, who knows.
But a guide should be bona fide. And a bona fide guide is one who has accepted a guide also, who also accepted a guide, so on and so forth, tracing back to God Himself. This is called disciplic succession, a teaching that comes down to us from the Supreme Source. This is the only way, teaching should be.
For example I can only reach where you are if you will give me your name, your address and certain information about yourself. Otherwise, no matter how hard I try to speculate who you are, what you are, I will never be able to reach you. The same with God. It is true that God and His servants walked this world, to give us these information. Jesus was one of the most known in the western world. But because of our unpurified hearts it was hard for us to recognize Him and His devotees. When Krishna appeared in this world He was defamed by envious persons as an ordinary man. And Jesus was even crucified.
It is simply true that those pure at heart should feel blessed, “for they will see God.” And our hearts will be purified only if it comes in contact with a purifier. God said in the Bhagavad Gita, that I am the Supreme Purifier, and because He is non-different from His Names, we should chant HARE KRISHNA HARE KRISHNA KRISHNA KRISHNA HARE HARE/ HARE RAMA HARE RAMA RAMA RAMA HARE HARE in our beads or through kirtan to be purified. This is the only way for this yuga or age:
Harer Nama Harer Nama Harer Namaiva kevalam kalua nasty eva nasty eva gathir anyata
“Chant the the Holy Names (of God), chant the Holy Names, chant the Holy Names, in this age of quarrel and confusion, there is no other way, there is no other way, there is no other way!”
--00--
Radha blessed me with this reminder on the very day of her Appearance. So I pray to Her, as I pray to my Spiritual Master, that She accept me as Her loving servant, that I may then be qualified to approach Her beloved Krishna, and be re-united with Him in loving devotion. Haribol!
September 8, 2008.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
The Night When I Was A Living Dead
One of the things I'd learned from college that actually won over forgetfulness was that if you find it annoyingly hard to sleep at night, someone must be thinking of you. No, I didn't get this from a prof or from a reserved book at the Main Lib, but from a freshman blockmate Cecille. She used to experience it too or so she recounted, and end up calling up the person whom she thought was toying with her memory, and told them to knock it off.
True or not, I wondered, above the usual brewing of a nasty panic attack, who could be thinking of me at that unholy hour of 2 am; and in my mind I saw a gaping emptiness of a corridor. I almost made a crater on our bed from tossing and kicking, and trying to burry my legs to the soft, cold silken blankets which on usual nights lulls me to snoring oblivion, but not tonight.
Everyone on my bed was asleep, and even outside nothing could be heard. The worst part of sleepless nights is that it lets you dose off a little and then jolt you with an inexplicable terror, making you ten cups of caffeine awake again. Some people cry over insomnia, some do the weirdest stuff like taking a crap or jerking off, but for me there's only one thing left to be done. After trying to ignore the fact that one day I will have to do so, tonight maybe the day of surrender. From my little pouch bag I rummaged over coins, keys and my MP3 player for a little pill box. My emergency pill box. My miniature panic room-sanctuary. And there I succumbed to the chemical process.
It's not E for crying out loud, but rallying to be psychotic drugs-free is as important to me as having quit smoking just by simply wanting to. Taking the pill is just taking the pill, it's the higher statement which Im sore about. That I've given over to fear again, and so on and so forth.
In the morning I naturally felt worse; the consolation however was that I'm actually here in the office writing this, in spite of the terror and the floating feeling. I have to google hydroxyzine to find out how long the side effects wear off. Don't mind me.
True or not, I wondered, above the usual brewing of a nasty panic attack, who could be thinking of me at that unholy hour of 2 am; and in my mind I saw a gaping emptiness of a corridor. I almost made a crater on our bed from tossing and kicking, and trying to burry my legs to the soft, cold silken blankets which on usual nights lulls me to snoring oblivion, but not tonight.
Everyone on my bed was asleep, and even outside nothing could be heard. The worst part of sleepless nights is that it lets you dose off a little and then jolt you with an inexplicable terror, making you ten cups of caffeine awake again. Some people cry over insomnia, some do the weirdest stuff like taking a crap or jerking off, but for me there's only one thing left to be done. After trying to ignore the fact that one day I will have to do so, tonight maybe the day of surrender. From my little pouch bag I rummaged over coins, keys and my MP3 player for a little pill box. My emergency pill box. My miniature panic room-sanctuary. And there I succumbed to the chemical process.
It's not E for crying out loud, but rallying to be psychotic drugs-free is as important to me as having quit smoking just by simply wanting to. Taking the pill is just taking the pill, it's the higher statement which Im sore about. That I've given over to fear again, and so on and so forth.
In the morning I naturally felt worse; the consolation however was that I'm actually here in the office writing this, in spite of the terror and the floating feeling. I have to google hydroxyzine to find out how long the side effects wear off. Don't mind me.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
At The Urinal
A love that is a little higher than loving one self would be loving the world.
Nothing is more easy. The world prizes love for the immortal, for the absolute, for the always; base, gross emotions are reserved for animals. But with the coming of certain thoughts of our own mortality, of our not being here forever of our not belonging here, I don't know if it was cheap sentimentality or a legitimate call from the source of all wisdom, that I felt a certain sorrow for all the insignificant things in this world.
It was sudden, while I was at the public urinal, recovering from my regular dose of anxiety attack: this pain, that this disease has so ruined my life, this will not be forever; I am going to miss this. And I felt a tingle run through my arms, as I hear senseless noises from outside, and see things without weight. The brutality of eternal eyes opening up shuts off my mundane senses, and ended the warmth streaming from my body.
Nothing is more easy. The world prizes love for the immortal, for the absolute, for the always; base, gross emotions are reserved for animals. But with the coming of certain thoughts of our own mortality, of our not being here forever of our not belonging here, I don't know if it was cheap sentimentality or a legitimate call from the source of all wisdom, that I felt a certain sorrow for all the insignificant things in this world.
It was sudden, while I was at the public urinal, recovering from my regular dose of anxiety attack: this pain, that this disease has so ruined my life, this will not be forever; I am going to miss this. And I felt a tingle run through my arms, as I hear senseless noises from outside, and see things without weight. The brutality of eternal eyes opening up shuts off my mundane senses, and ended the warmth streaming from my body.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Drawing Nearer To A Time When Everything Is Good
Inspired by the film Quills
I had this thought that our time line, based on goodness and badness, has a shape of a triangle. At the beginning of time everything was good, then slowly it climbs up into a slope as time progresses. It reaches a certain point--a time wherein there was a lot of bad things in the world--then it slopes down again, back to its original level of absolute goodness.
I have to explain what I mean by goodness, as well as badness here. A time of an abundance of badness is when there's a lot of things that can be considered bad at a certain time. And a time of goodness is when very few things in what people think, do or feel can be considered wrong.
There was a time when the first men, in order to fill the world with human beings, mate with their kin without hesitation, and even the Judean God said that, it was good (The multiplication I mean). Also, in the bible it wasn't only once that a tolerated incest occurred uncriticized. Almost exactly the opposite of this, there was a time when by mere words laced with suggestions of things properly restrained in private could cause such an outrage and even bonfires or rolling heads. And we can witness in our own time that this is no longer true or that the reactions to such actions are less passionate as in the past. I can cite a catalogue of other examples illustrating this point if I put my mind to it, but here are some which came without effort: we started as cavemen with very skimpy clothing, then somewhere in the time of manners, as if in a hysteria of shame covered almost every inch of our bodies, particularly that of the female species, but now, it's as if we only wear clothes to bare what's supposed to be hidden (particularly with the female species). In most cultures in the past, the women are the stronger gender in terms of religion and in some cases even in matters of state, but somewhere in time it became a bad idea, and the men dominated this arena, and everyone was comfortable and considered it as the only good way of doing these things. But now, not only is it good for women to do anything that men can do, but it's slowly becoming not bad for women to leave the care of their families, their traditionally good function, for their careers, which is now becoming firmly rooted not only as their right, but a renewed tradition.
This may sound like one lazy generalization, for not all of us may have necessarily experienced the same sloping up or down of this triangular time line simultaneously, depending upon kindred factors like beliefs, culture, religion, geography or economy, but it doesn't mean that this did not happen to other cultures significantly distinct from us. This happening earlier or later, doesn’t matter.
What matters is everything is slowly becoming good nowadays, regardless of what it means. It sounds like a twisted approach to a false paradise. Will incest be tolerated again, as of women empowerment? Or would killing a thief or a plunderer or an adulterer , without incurring bad karma, as stated in the Vedas, inspire people to do so? Will everything be good in the future, and the only thing that will be actually considered bad would be calling something as un-good?
I had this thought that our time line, based on goodness and badness, has a shape of a triangle. At the beginning of time everything was good, then slowly it climbs up into a slope as time progresses. It reaches a certain point--a time wherein there was a lot of bad things in the world--then it slopes down again, back to its original level of absolute goodness.
I have to explain what I mean by goodness, as well as badness here. A time of an abundance of badness is when there's a lot of things that can be considered bad at a certain time. And a time of goodness is when very few things in what people think, do or feel can be considered wrong.
There was a time when the first men, in order to fill the world with human beings, mate with their kin without hesitation, and even the Judean God said that, it was good (The multiplication I mean). Also, in the bible it wasn't only once that a tolerated incest occurred uncriticized. Almost exactly the opposite of this, there was a time when by mere words laced with suggestions of things properly restrained in private could cause such an outrage and even bonfires or rolling heads. And we can witness in our own time that this is no longer true or that the reactions to such actions are less passionate as in the past. I can cite a catalogue of other examples illustrating this point if I put my mind to it, but here are some which came without effort: we started as cavemen with very skimpy clothing, then somewhere in the time of manners, as if in a hysteria of shame covered almost every inch of our bodies, particularly that of the female species, but now, it's as if we only wear clothes to bare what's supposed to be hidden (particularly with the female species). In most cultures in the past, the women are the stronger gender in terms of religion and in some cases even in matters of state, but somewhere in time it became a bad idea, and the men dominated this arena, and everyone was comfortable and considered it as the only good way of doing these things. But now, not only is it good for women to do anything that men can do, but it's slowly becoming not bad for women to leave the care of their families, their traditionally good function, for their careers, which is now becoming firmly rooted not only as their right, but a renewed tradition.
This may sound like one lazy generalization, for not all of us may have necessarily experienced the same sloping up or down of this triangular time line simultaneously, depending upon kindred factors like beliefs, culture, religion, geography or economy, but it doesn't mean that this did not happen to other cultures significantly distinct from us. This happening earlier or later, doesn’t matter.
What matters is everything is slowly becoming good nowadays, regardless of what it means. It sounds like a twisted approach to a false paradise. Will incest be tolerated again, as of women empowerment? Or would killing a thief or a plunderer or an adulterer , without incurring bad karma, as stated in the Vedas, inspire people to do so? Will everything be good in the future, and the only thing that will be actually considered bad would be calling something as un-good?
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Higgly Town Fears
She would block her tiny body against the TV screen whenever I raise the remote to that direction, as if that would prevent the channel from changing--my daughter loves Higgly Town Heroes, that much. So most of the time, I get to watch it with her. I even know the songs, and actually notice if the episode is a re-run. There's only one tiny thing I notice about the show that causes me to feel one tiny misgiving. There's this part in every Higgly Town episode where a problem will crop up, which is apparently "too big" a job for the Higgly Town kids, and so they need some help from the Higgly Town Hero featured for that show. Anyway, that's not where I saw something. It's that part where Twinkle would think of a very "lofty" idea to solve a problem, before giving up and eventually ask for help from the adults, because Fran, the squirrel character, and also their baby-sitter, would always bring it down with a condescending "Great idea there, Twinkle, but..."
I know kids should be taught logic and that the moon is not made of green cheese, but what's the big idea with "I hate to rain on your parade, Twinkle, but there are no such things as flying elephants and ant engineers..." This may sound cringy, but What became of make-believe? What became of dreams of being a swan or a princess in a sugar-coated kingdom? Should my daughter skip all of these and think like a realist, already? (Come to think of it, a talking squirrel, advising about reality, is a contradiction. Or was that the point I failed to see?) Recently, though, I had observed a noticeable cutting down with the "come on that's not possible" attitude. And the squirrel is actually "riding" with Twinkle, like inventing her own "fantastic" reasons like "the flying elephants are oiling their wings" instead of a cold, hard, "flying elephants don't exist." The Disney people probably just wanted to teach our kids about the balance of reality and fantasy, and that's okay, even if-- not counting books-- they are themselves, the store house of the biggest, and greatest fantasies in the universe. I only probably want my daughter to have a satisfyingly long suspension of disbelief, before she grows up and "naturally" think of these.
But then when she finally lets me have the control of the channels, and I arrive at these pictures of death and crumbling structures, of brutality and a world slowly coming to an end, I think about the border between fantasy and reality again, and this time my fear is no longer itty-bitty. Where can we put flying elephants and princesses on marshmallow carriages in the midst of this evil? And our children--how far out in Higgly Town or wherever dreamland their minds are, before being finally breached by the real?
I know kids should be taught logic and that the moon is not made of green cheese, but what's the big idea with "I hate to rain on your parade, Twinkle, but there are no such things as flying elephants and ant engineers..." This may sound cringy, but What became of make-believe? What became of dreams of being a swan or a princess in a sugar-coated kingdom? Should my daughter skip all of these and think like a realist, already? (Come to think of it, a talking squirrel, advising about reality, is a contradiction. Or was that the point I failed to see?) Recently, though, I had observed a noticeable cutting down with the "come on that's not possible" attitude. And the squirrel is actually "riding" with Twinkle, like inventing her own "fantastic" reasons like "the flying elephants are oiling their wings" instead of a cold, hard, "flying elephants don't exist." The Disney people probably just wanted to teach our kids about the balance of reality and fantasy, and that's okay, even if-- not counting books-- they are themselves, the store house of the biggest, and greatest fantasies in the universe. I only probably want my daughter to have a satisfyingly long suspension of disbelief, before she grows up and "naturally" think of these.
But then when she finally lets me have the control of the channels, and I arrive at these pictures of death and crumbling structures, of brutality and a world slowly coming to an end, I think about the border between fantasy and reality again, and this time my fear is no longer itty-bitty. Where can we put flying elephants and princesses on marshmallow carriages in the midst of this evil? And our children--how far out in Higgly Town or wherever dreamland their minds are, before being finally breached by the real?
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Life, Death and Pinoy Big Brother
You find yourself in this artificial and temporary world. Everything seem nice and tolerable...a pool and comfortable beds, food. The chic furniture, the people, blow you away. Soon enough you forget that this is temporary, you get used to it, and adapt and accept. You make friends, you make enemies, and fall in love promising forever and ever, and actually feel a pseudo-happiness, and forget that this will end sooner or later.
And so you continue to sleep and be woken up by some joke expressed in music, and do what the big booming voice tells you. And if he’s pleased you get a reward, a promise of a vacation in a paradise or some heavenly place, now or when the time comes when you have to leave.
Some, who despite the “beautiful world” inside, still wanted to leave before their time, too homesick or just plain sick with the monotony, either do things that would piss the big voice off or simply decide and call it quits. They just simply stop “acting” the artificial life and just become plain annoying. Usually, when they leave they are never heard of again, banished, unforgiven by the host of self-righteous fans.
For to these zealots, you are a pet, a tamagochi that they need to take care of every night, nurturing your survival with SMS votes. You can’t just give up and get away with it.
And when you leave, your house mates cry as if they’ll never see you again, as if this is the only world. As if they’ll be forever stuck in that place. But you, who is about to leave, who can describe your expression? You who is finally allowing, after a period of calculated denial, the truth back in to your consciousness.
And when you are outside you will be met by your loved-ones, unconditioned by the world where you had come from, they seem to be wiser, for they’ve always known the truth.
And as you are debriefed before admitted back to the absolute, your whole life inside the “house” will flash in front of you in a big screen, as if to rub your foolishness in.
And so you continue to sleep and be woken up by some joke expressed in music, and do what the big booming voice tells you. And if he’s pleased you get a reward, a promise of a vacation in a paradise or some heavenly place, now or when the time comes when you have to leave.
Some, who despite the “beautiful world” inside, still wanted to leave before their time, too homesick or just plain sick with the monotony, either do things that would piss the big voice off or simply decide and call it quits. They just simply stop “acting” the artificial life and just become plain annoying. Usually, when they leave they are never heard of again, banished, unforgiven by the host of self-righteous fans.
For to these zealots, you are a pet, a tamagochi that they need to take care of every night, nurturing your survival with SMS votes. You can’t just give up and get away with it.
And when you leave, your house mates cry as if they’ll never see you again, as if this is the only world. As if they’ll be forever stuck in that place. But you, who is about to leave, who can describe your expression? You who is finally allowing, after a period of calculated denial, the truth back in to your consciousness.
And when you are outside you will be met by your loved-ones, unconditioned by the world where you had come from, they seem to be wiser, for they’ve always known the truth.
And as you are debriefed before admitted back to the absolute, your whole life inside the “house” will flash in front of you in a big screen, as if to rub your foolishness in.
Monday, December 15, 2008
As Lola Laid Dying
Lola may die tonight, repeated the ambient voice over in my head, as I looked down at her shriveled form--almost no longer human, disconnected from any memory, almost impossible to create as a possible idea or an imagined image of her, none, nulled. The bulge and outline of her skull, as if itself alive, pressed against her face, wanting to tear away from its body. But she was still technically alive. Only in a comaesque sleep, and breathing with much effort. Her hollow mouth, all teeth gone with every son or daughter she bore, gapes and shuts like a tired socket. Her tongue receding to that dark place in her body. She even had that look behind the glass. The family she could no longer see--which she hadn't seen for a long time anyway--gathered around her, as if suddenly, in contest for her attention. But she was just there like part of the bed and the crumpled sheet, her face an embossed design on her pillow.
I have seen a lot of dead things. Fishes mostly and dogs. And I could not trace any difference from those things and with what I was seeing then. A thought passed me, that as the soul perfects itself, the body deteriorates. I can only imagine the darkness she was seeing behind her cataract-blinded eyes. As she was almost dead in the waking world, I can feel that she was, as if given a second childhood, bouncing, running or even gliding in that dream-state, in that delirium, in that buffer between the living and the dead.
My childhood was made up of pretty sick, superstitious, and terrifying stories of moments like this. It was mentioned that she had called for a name belonging to a dead person. Which only meant they were beckoning her already. Which only meant she was walking that path lined with flowers and a bright light at the end. Around her house/chapel filled with saints and misalettes, interwoven with laminated pictures of the dead and the living, in gray and in color, I had felt the room was crowded, yet my skin felt flushed with a certain chill. I'm a sucker for horror stories, but I felt the fear in this one was more of awe rather than just fear for pain or even death. The awesome mystery of death. Death, the misunderstood. Notions about dying came to me...everything I had read or seen. Reincarnation, the afterlife, heaven and hell, merging with the void, but none of these had calmed me down. I just felt so lonely and pitiful, that I was sure I would breakdown. Not that Im too crazy about Lola. But I guess my sorrow was for myself too. For one day I will also go through this solemn brutality; this tearing away of the non-degradable from the degradable. This part wherein you wouldn't know where to go: you are too set up for leaving life but your are too afraid to embrace death. And I guess that's what will transform us. Okay I guess I have wet myself enough.
I have many approximations of what we will "see" in death, one of these is the classic falling into a bottomless vortex. But I wish from here to the moon and back, that what I'd be seeing there would be all the best moments in my entire life and all the worst fixed into best moments, played out before me in eternal repeat mode. Amen.
I have seen a lot of dead things. Fishes mostly and dogs. And I could not trace any difference from those things and with what I was seeing then. A thought passed me, that as the soul perfects itself, the body deteriorates. I can only imagine the darkness she was seeing behind her cataract-blinded eyes. As she was almost dead in the waking world, I can feel that she was, as if given a second childhood, bouncing, running or even gliding in that dream-state, in that delirium, in that buffer between the living and the dead.
My childhood was made up of pretty sick, superstitious, and terrifying stories of moments like this. It was mentioned that she had called for a name belonging to a dead person. Which only meant they were beckoning her already. Which only meant she was walking that path lined with flowers and a bright light at the end. Around her house/chapel filled with saints and misalettes, interwoven with laminated pictures of the dead and the living, in gray and in color, I had felt the room was crowded, yet my skin felt flushed with a certain chill. I'm a sucker for horror stories, but I felt the fear in this one was more of awe rather than just fear for pain or even death. The awesome mystery of death. Death, the misunderstood. Notions about dying came to me...everything I had read or seen. Reincarnation, the afterlife, heaven and hell, merging with the void, but none of these had calmed me down. I just felt so lonely and pitiful, that I was sure I would breakdown. Not that Im too crazy about Lola. But I guess my sorrow was for myself too. For one day I will also go through this solemn brutality; this tearing away of the non-degradable from the degradable. This part wherein you wouldn't know where to go: you are too set up for leaving life but your are too afraid to embrace death. And I guess that's what will transform us. Okay I guess I have wet myself enough.
I have many approximations of what we will "see" in death, one of these is the classic falling into a bottomless vortex. But I wish from here to the moon and back, that what I'd be seeing there would be all the best moments in my entire life and all the worst fixed into best moments, played out before me in eternal repeat mode. Amen.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
A Day In A Life Of Us
Apr 29, '08 4:58 AM
For the nth time I am convincing myself not to quit. It started when I was brushing my teeth and suddenly, as if brought by the blurriness of my reflection, I have asked, what's the use? Maybe the usual-ity of the alarm clock has gotten in my nerves again, or I'm finally noticing my hatred for the number 8, and my insane craving for the numbers 12 and 5!
Now I am here, in front of my desk and my computer, whose monitor is tagged with the word "mayor's" (maybe Id like to have one on my forehead also), and the noises in the office has started to die out: ah, break time. But I'm here, for what's the use of having a break. Little nice ladies, several of them now, and counting, have "invited" me to a cup of coffee or a piece of sandwhich...and I said, I get shaky with coffee and a sandwhich at this point might ruin my wolf-like appetite later when I have my supper. I need to be hungry, for I may be too tired to eat, and instead be eaten by the couch. Eventually they just disappear and I'm left with myself, and the sound of these keyboards clicking like teeth of a restless sleeper...hah, poetry, poetry, anyway, what's the use of thinking whether I'd quit my job? For the nth time.
Who loves their day jobs anyway? Come on, man, a day job is synonymous with words like "corrosive" "abusive" "stressful" "fatal" and "easy." Why don't I try a "night" job then? Something more exciting like security work? Or relaxing like a dishwasher? Or rewarding like a drug pusher? Ok I'm feeling a lot better now. 5 minutes to my favorite afternoon number. Five minutes more and I'm back home, in my soft couch, and the only thing that could bother me would be to decide what channel I'd be switching into after my show ends. Wow, this is the life!
For the nth time I am convincing myself not to quit. It started when I was brushing my teeth and suddenly, as if brought by the blurriness of my reflection, I have asked, what's the use? Maybe the usual-ity of the alarm clock has gotten in my nerves again, or I'm finally noticing my hatred for the number 8, and my insane craving for the numbers 12 and 5!
Now I am here, in front of my desk and my computer, whose monitor is tagged with the word "mayor's" (maybe Id like to have one on my forehead also), and the noises in the office has started to die out: ah, break time. But I'm here, for what's the use of having a break. Little nice ladies, several of them now, and counting, have "invited" me to a cup of coffee or a piece of sandwhich...and I said, I get shaky with coffee and a sandwhich at this point might ruin my wolf-like appetite later when I have my supper. I need to be hungry, for I may be too tired to eat, and instead be eaten by the couch. Eventually they just disappear and I'm left with myself, and the sound of these keyboards clicking like teeth of a restless sleeper...hah, poetry, poetry, anyway, what's the use of thinking whether I'd quit my job? For the nth time.
Who loves their day jobs anyway? Come on, man, a day job is synonymous with words like "corrosive" "abusive" "stressful" "fatal" and "easy." Why don't I try a "night" job then? Something more exciting like security work? Or relaxing like a dishwasher? Or rewarding like a drug pusher? Ok I'm feeling a lot better now. 5 minutes to my favorite afternoon number. Five minutes more and I'm back home, in my soft couch, and the only thing that could bother me would be to decide what channel I'd be switching into after my show ends. Wow, this is the life!
Friday, November 21, 2008
Achievement
ACHIEVEMENT
Apr 24, '08 5:08 AM
It would have been a heated argument if I weren't that tired and drolling for sleep, when me and my good friend B on the same barandilla near the same Karangahan Blvd., but a little late in the night, talked and came to the point of talking about silly things again. That night it was about achievement and envy--or achievement-envy, whatever. I guess this was a relapse brought by, I don't know, certain feelings of un-appreciation.
Related Digression: Last night was Tabaco City night at Magayon Festival in Legazpi, Krear Bathala performed their, I guess, best work yet, KAHADEAN. Somewhere in the 7 minute song, a certain disgruntled Provincial official in the audience, texted the organizers to cut us out. The organizers "mercifully" waited for us to finish our second song before they did, and resumed the song and dance variety show...yehey! So there.
Back to achievement. Issue: Profile pictures showing high-rise buildings, snow, scenic spots, desert, white sand, a foreign person, etc. in a place other than the Philippines, has developed to a form of showing-off achievement. Warning: this will sound bitter. Okay, I told B that there is this trend in most friend network sites of showing off achievement using the context of the "abroad." B told me, so what? So what?, I would have asked (with matching spitting look), my blood rising. Can't you smell the garbage (I didn't say this, as I was tired and aching for bed, and a heated argument may make me not want to go to bed). But I might have had, for I was able to confess that I hate them-- yet I envy them. And it was B's turn to swing at me with a spitting look--you envy them? Maybe just a bit, but that's not the point. The point is achievement. I may be bitter, but achievement is the point. So we moved along to discussing what achievement is. Blah, blah, blah, we had arrived at this conclusion or more like an amicable settlement: achievement is relative to what you are (all that cliche), so even if there are people who upon waking up wants to make money they have achieved something worthwhile regardless of how much as long as they have been the best money-grabber or businessman at that moment. This also goes from the lowly eskinita tong-it grand champion to the greatest artist of the land. At least we have agreed that cars, mansions and saudi gold bling-blings are not the gauge for success. And because I cannot tolerate my own yawning anymore, I told him this is useless because I am not even affected by the photos anymore, and suggested to him to go someplace else, like Le Club Silencio or something where insomniacs can bathe each other in philosophical spit.
Apr 24, '08 5:08 AM
It would have been a heated argument if I weren't that tired and drolling for sleep, when me and my good friend B on the same barandilla near the same Karangahan Blvd., but a little late in the night, talked and came to the point of talking about silly things again. That night it was about achievement and envy--or achievement-envy, whatever. I guess this was a relapse brought by, I don't know, certain feelings of un-appreciation.
Related Digression: Last night was Tabaco City night at Magayon Festival in Legazpi, Krear Bathala performed their, I guess, best work yet, KAHADEAN. Somewhere in the 7 minute song, a certain disgruntled Provincial official in the audience, texted the organizers to cut us out. The organizers "mercifully" waited for us to finish our second song before they did, and resumed the song and dance variety show...yehey! So there.
Back to achievement. Issue: Profile pictures showing high-rise buildings, snow, scenic spots, desert, white sand, a foreign person, etc. in a place other than the Philippines, has developed to a form of showing-off achievement. Warning: this will sound bitter. Okay, I told B that there is this trend in most friend network sites of showing off achievement using the context of the "abroad." B told me, so what? So what?, I would have asked (with matching spitting look), my blood rising. Can't you smell the garbage (I didn't say this, as I was tired and aching for bed, and a heated argument may make me not want to go to bed). But I might have had, for I was able to confess that I hate them-- yet I envy them. And it was B's turn to swing at me with a spitting look--you envy them? Maybe just a bit, but that's not the point. The point is achievement. I may be bitter, but achievement is the point. So we moved along to discussing what achievement is. Blah, blah, blah, we had arrived at this conclusion or more like an amicable settlement: achievement is relative to what you are (all that cliche), so even if there are people who upon waking up wants to make money they have achieved something worthwhile regardless of how much as long as they have been the best money-grabber or businessman at that moment. This also goes from the lowly eskinita tong-it grand champion to the greatest artist of the land. At least we have agreed that cars, mansions and saudi gold bling-blings are not the gauge for success. And because I cannot tolerate my own yawning anymore, I told him this is useless because I am not even affected by the photos anymore, and suggested to him to go someplace else, like Le Club Silencio or something where insomniacs can bathe each other in philosophical spit.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Justice
April 24, 2008
For a few days now, that word has been constantly in my mouth. Justice. There has to be justice in the end. I was drinking with my old friend B. one night when I mouthed it. I had my first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere; he was already drunk from waiting at a bar where he was supposed to have his first solo performance, because the supposed organizer had his first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere.
It was a Saturday night in a lonely town where if you have nothing much to do, like having sex with your girlfriend or writing an obra maestra or something, it's better to drink. So we did. The philosophizings started early. I wasn't having a buzz yet when that word came out of my mouth: Justice. There has to be justice in the end. We were staring at some big sub-urban houses from a far, partly hidden by the inability of the lampposts to shed light on everything. Our drunken words were just abbreviations of what we had gone through. He even counted the years we had been friends. He told me 1994; I told him it was the summer we first learned wordstar. Blah, blah, blah. I can't remember where the word justice arrived, but I can see now that it was a highlight. A roman numeral in an outline. My words were roughly like: for all we have suffered there must be a reward or something, even not here. I don't know if I had mentioned Van Gogh as an analogy. I might have, as I usually do. What I am sure is it was about suffering. B. asked me if he could kiss me in the lips, and it rained, so we had to go inside, and I laughed so hard I thought I'd die. That was a good one I told him. Inter cut to other tangible scenes: B. vividly (by my request) told me his first experience with a girl. Blah, blah, blah we both had a hard on. I congratulated him, but because he was way over 20 the time he was devirginized I consoled him: mine was with a hoar, sob (no offense to our brothers and sisters in the pleasure industry).
A few days later, we got to talk again. Red dusk at the side of Karangahan Boulevard, we were sitting on a barandilla, and the word came out again. I learned from him that his present occupation was with what Beauty is. I told him mine was Justice. He was slowly puffing at his cigarette, I was waving his smoke away. Many years ago, when we were young I was the smoker and he was the waver. I'm afraid of dying of stroke or a heart attack so I quit my most beloved pastime. I'm afraid of many things. Many things I can't do because I'm afraid. Like smoking a joint might cause me a nervous breakdown. All these sufferings and the others I have already endured. Abstinence from the things I love, e.g. fatty food and getting lost. Justice. There has to be a reward in the end. Like when I have stood for hours in the sunken garden every Sunday till my vision turned white, in a charoled pair of boots and a stupid mass-produced cap, and my face a catch pan for our sergeant's spit I knew I was doing it for the love of my parents, for graduation and a piece of parchment. I just hope this is something like this. I hope each remarkable hurt whether it be a pinch or a genuine shattering of heart is being audited and someday be reimbursed or something. When my turn in the band practice came, I went in, and B. just puffed on. He was in no hurry to spend his time alone.
For a few days now, that word has been constantly in my mouth. Justice. There has to be justice in the end. I was drinking with my old friend B. one night when I mouthed it. I had my first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere; he was already drunk from waiting at a bar where he was supposed to have his first solo performance, because the supposed organizer had his first flat tire ever in the middle of nowhere.
It was a Saturday night in a lonely town where if you have nothing much to do, like having sex with your girlfriend or writing an obra maestra or something, it's better to drink. So we did. The philosophizings started early. I wasn't having a buzz yet when that word came out of my mouth: Justice. There has to be justice in the end. We were staring at some big sub-urban houses from a far, partly hidden by the inability of the lampposts to shed light on everything. Our drunken words were just abbreviations of what we had gone through. He even counted the years we had been friends. He told me 1994; I told him it was the summer we first learned wordstar. Blah, blah, blah. I can't remember where the word justice arrived, but I can see now that it was a highlight. A roman numeral in an outline. My words were roughly like: for all we have suffered there must be a reward or something, even not here. I don't know if I had mentioned Van Gogh as an analogy. I might have, as I usually do. What I am sure is it was about suffering. B. asked me if he could kiss me in the lips, and it rained, so we had to go inside, and I laughed so hard I thought I'd die. That was a good one I told him. Inter cut to other tangible scenes: B. vividly (by my request) told me his first experience with a girl. Blah, blah, blah we both had a hard on. I congratulated him, but because he was way over 20 the time he was devirginized I consoled him: mine was with a hoar, sob (no offense to our brothers and sisters in the pleasure industry).
A few days later, we got to talk again. Red dusk at the side of Karangahan Boulevard, we were sitting on a barandilla, and the word came out again. I learned from him that his present occupation was with what Beauty is. I told him mine was Justice. He was slowly puffing at his cigarette, I was waving his smoke away. Many years ago, when we were young I was the smoker and he was the waver. I'm afraid of dying of stroke or a heart attack so I quit my most beloved pastime. I'm afraid of many things. Many things I can't do because I'm afraid. Like smoking a joint might cause me a nervous breakdown. All these sufferings and the others I have already endured. Abstinence from the things I love, e.g. fatty food and getting lost. Justice. There has to be a reward in the end. Like when I have stood for hours in the sunken garden every Sunday till my vision turned white, in a charoled pair of boots and a stupid mass-produced cap, and my face a catch pan for our sergeant's spit I knew I was doing it for the love of my parents, for graduation and a piece of parchment. I just hope this is something like this. I hope each remarkable hurt whether it be a pinch or a genuine shattering of heart is being audited and someday be reimbursed or something. When my turn in the band practice came, I went in, and B. just puffed on. He was in no hurry to spend his time alone.
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