Bare Essentials

What does it mean to live? Does it follow that self-defined goals be pursued relentlessly and with passion?
Does it mean coming to terms with the fulfillment of one's dreams and allocating all energies one has in one's very soul to seek it without stopping even for breath?

These past few days was a mixture of bane and boon. Many of our countrymen suffered from the wrath of a disastrous storm. Our country has been dating tropical typhoons since time immemorial, but the one that just passed us by isn't one of those one wishes for a day-off from work or school (though everybody I know was really happy about the "break" we had, myself included).

I went to Bagong Silang for lack of anything interesting during this extended vacation. Powerlines were out and as of the time of this writing are still out, due to the fact that some "creative" individuals pilfered the transformer and cable lines in teh aftermath of the storm.-Filipinos in our glory and in our shame!!

It was total blackout, no water supply for days, the area succumbing to lethargy and boredom. I, myself, find the freedom too boring, with nothing to do but whimper at the lack of power (and anything intersting to do -like watch DVDs, surf the net, chat, etc.) and curse the darkness (though I know it could of curse get even at me by choking me with madness in its solitude).

It was really bare essentials. But it made me think of my own selfish pre-occupation with my itch to be entertained and relaxed (I after all deserve a break from my tedious life of "noble" aspirations of reforming the and educating the young). I was forced to think about my own predicament and the imposition of this limitation. I was naked. Stripped of my toys, my proud sense of busy-ness and my own sense of self worth.

I wonder how the people in the Bicol region reacted (they suffered a lot during the storm) and felt devastated by the typhoon. I wondered at night with nothing but stars and a lonely moon to accompany me in the solitary house. It was just an orchestra of candles and the symphony of crickets chirping their lullabies at night. I was by myself and I thought of my own sense of enormity at the colossal vastness of the night sky.

I took a pen and scribbled down all these musings lest I ignore them at the sudden reappearance of power in the village an go on with the foolishness I have been living with since I was born.

Where do I find it?

Alas amidst all my attempts to postpone posting something new and worthwhile, I find myself posting again. What is so similar is there lurks behind my motive to sanitize this post again, which brings me to the fact that as someone who needs to post, I had to create a knack for finding redemptive value in every idea i spot and decide to decorate.

Posting blogs takes time and commitment. I have not made any attempt to hide my convictions about many things, in most cases i speak of them openly. At times i feel superficial at trying to be good, but on the other hand I find the need to use this art to help build rather than constantly lament the hypocrisy of my world and the cosmos. I find it hard to be a wounded healer in this instance. Thus in posting blogs I always try to see if I am writing honestly or am i just serving some propaganda; though in reality every attempt to say something is a propaganda. I might as well go for the light and despite the rottenness I may feel from day to day, I have a drive to right this little world i live with. I cannot forever blame institutions, curse my genes or cry like a pampered rich kid ( because I am not one).

I am a victim, i am marginalized, i am oppressed. What do I care if i am one of those or if i have scars of an unhappy childhood. I am a Christian and I wish to follow Christ in the way He tried to bring hope for others. I am not Him of course, but I will do what I can not to leave my world unchanged. I do not need to sound, talk nor breathe religious; i don't need to don garbs of piety just to be noticed and admired. I would have received my prize then or much less have forfeited its very purpose. I am imperfect that is for sure, but I will not sink down to corruption. I will stand for what is right even if others shun me, I will help without asking in return (unless of course there is a pre arranged contract :P) and be the best in what I could do. I will let my ego be crushed on purpose, I will not be short sighted. I will be relentlessly proud of nothing but my own hollowness and need of grace.

So where do i find my muse? Invoke her or perhaps just shove her down the drain and start from what I have been taught? To live for truth, honor and purpose with contribution. If the world around me seeks to glory in its decay and point a finger at it with anger and a sense of betrayal, I cannot forever take the same path. I need to do something. Boy, am i suffering from block again. Let's see..so this is all for now...until the Muse re appears again.

Commuting Back

Life comes in bits and bytes, in train tickets and in shreds of scratch papers. Most of the ones posted in novels (with reference to a few profoundly honest ones) are fabricated pastiches of fake images and occasional truths with gleams of syrupy sentimientality. In all its truth life is a mess, only seen with structure because our human minds prefer to see order and disple the chaos of our daily humdrums.

From "The Stranger" I saw a world quite different from the fakes we manufacture. I do not have the boldness to confrotn the world as Camus sees it or perhaps I do not possess the particulars that shaped his vision of life, but I am led to think and act on ebvery moment with pensive recall. At times, I dare not make decisions out of cowardice perhaps or simply out of boredom. While I have lots of questions about issues raised by this bold Frenchman, I have as much comments to what he also expounded on: meaninglessness, creating your own meaning and even agnosticism.

I do not find his agnosticism attractive nor his despair compelling though I will not renounce the place of despair in human life. I see it as everyday presents it...in cycles of commuting and reporting for work. Perhaps there is more to life's melodrama more than the poets and visionaries have presented it.

When I Look at the Stars

Switchfoot came out with a new hit single of the same title as this post. It speaks of the person's loss of hope in the things around him and in himself. It is a clear and realistic assessment of the world we live in-with all its failures in all the forms we have so trusted for so long- institutions, people we trust and depend, life as experienced supposedly by a life free from fear and oppression.

Indeed life can be full of mess, of unexpected interruptions and many failed dreams. We may believe temporarily pop psychologists and cultural gurus telling us it isnt our fault, but its the ignorance our conditions have foisted upon us or maybe its our genetic predispositions or something external to us. The artists in the song indeed says it correctly that even if dont blame ourselves the outcomes are still the same. There seems to be some form of chaos, disorder, sickness, sadness in our lives that no substitute can quaff.

When we look at the stars speaks of not focusing on ourselves and extremely meeting its persistent clamor for attention. Its looking at the bigger picture and man's place in the cosmos; its an attempt to view the Transcendent source of it all in our lives. It is about believing in things that were dismissed by our rationally driven and sylllogistically twisted mentality- its about the realm of Other Worldliness as something parallel to our lives or coexisting side by side.

It is about looking at the stars out there.