The Momentary Escape
Its ten minutes before nine o’clock in the evening. The sweet aroma of Papa’s coffee concoction lingers in the air. The monotonous rumble of the electric fan overpowers the rackety noise of the outside world. The dimmed lights constrict the otherwise wide space of the room. A perfect environment to study. And a perfect time to write.
Write I must.
Why am I here? A plethora of schoolwork is in front of me. Problems on Transportation and Leases must be dealt. Deadlines for written analyses about sex, gender, and a zombie doctor creep nearer by the hour. Not to mention the amount of assigned readings on Contractual Laws due on Wednesday. The more I linger, the more burden I put upon my frail body. Again, why am I here?
Simply, I love writing.
So long have I not retreated to the places of constant dreaminess: Dipolog; Bais. My soul has grown weary caused by the metropolitan fatigue prevalent in Dumaguete. Yes, I have gone to Cebu many times in the past months for a short ‘vacation.’ But, although it cannot be stated that it was no fun, the idea of going from one city to another faster-paced counterpart imbues more stress. O how I longed to go back to my dear Dipolog and Bais. A place where worldly complications seem distant. An abode to where I always find solitude.
But, alas, it cannot be. My future has strangled the flexibility of my present. Although I wished, I cannot come to my beloved homes. Thus, I had to accept the facts and improvise. Thus, I found the beauty of writing.
Writing relaxes me. Writing eases the heaviness in my body and lightens the dreary soul. When I write, I come into a state of meditation where every string of words seems to cleanse the being within me. Unlike others, a session of scribbling puts my mind at a tranquil peace.
My mind, heart and body are not at work. They are at rest. Rather, an inner persona takes the place of the external being. With that, I am contented.
I do not care about external opinions about my writing style. I take no great heed of praises and criticisms. I do not write to impress, rather, I write to express. I do accept the judgments made upon my style of prose and always take note of them but I would prefer an observation upon the idea. After all, this is a non-curricula narrative.
But, in the end, the requisites of formal education prevail. I cannot cower behind the comfort of the narrative all the time. As what Paulo Coelho said, “A warrior of light knows that he has duties and responsibilities.” I must go on with the evening as a veteran student bearing the disease of societal pressures.
At least, at this hour, I am at peace. And with that, I am thankful to God.
The Summary for Faith, Love, Time, and Dr. Lazaro
We were tasked to do a study on one of Gregorio Brillantes’ masterpieces. A friend of mine asked for my help in making the summary for our video presentation. Thus, I made this:
A night of Chopin was prematurely halted by an urgent phone call. Duty calls for Dr. Lazaro. The seasoned medical practitioner casually prepared for yet another long night of aiding a patient he already deemed hopeless. This time, it was an infant stricken with Tetanus. Carelessness, he thought.
Having already dismissed his driver for the day, Dr. Lazaro brought along his son, Ben, to accompany him in the journey. Ben had come home for the summer, having stayed at Manila for his schooling. Throughout the most part of the journey, the conversation was monotonous. It was the usual talk between a father and his child which was: the latter’s future.
The two soon arrived at a gas station where Esteban, the sick infant’s father, was waiting for their arrival. They then proceeded to Esteban’s hut which was still a walk and a river-cross away. Esteban had apologized for the discomfort the doctor had to endure.
When they arrived at the small, lamp-lit hut, they were met with melancholy. The lolo was waiting outside, muttering under his breath. The lola was kneeling under the gaze of the family altar. The mother sat beside her dying child.
Dr. Lazaro immediately performed his examination on the suffering body. Although he had little faith on the obviously fatal case, the physician instinct in him pushed him to try. Alas, there was simply no time left. The child would die in the arms of her loving mother.
The old doctor pushed himself up and expressed his resignation. He stood and was about walk out of the room when he saw Ben. The young lad had taken some water and performed a baptism for the infant. In the time of hopelessness, he made an act of love.
The journey back home was filled with queries. The revelation of the son’s desire to be a servant of God seemed to amuse the father. Dr. Lazaro, in that short moment, began to think about his faithful past before the demise of the other son.That car ride became the source of careful meditation for the wizened healer. But, in the end, it was all a mere momentous glance. And with that, came nothing.
On my views of the Wikang Tagalog
A lot of instances have come to light wherein my apparent difficulty of the spoken and written use of the Philippine National Language has been observed by the more well-versed. I may presume that many of them may find it ridiculous to know a person who knows much about a foreign language is actually really not as competent with his allegedly “native” tongue.
Let me get this clear. Tagalog is not my native tongue. I see it as a foreign language the same as with the English Language. My native tongue is the Bisaya or Cebuano.
“But Tagalog has been instigated unto us by the Educational System, you took part of that more than ten years now.” You may say that. I accept that that is true. Before anything else, let me imbibe where these all started:
*When I was still very young, I found it unfair as to the fact that Tagalog was chosen as the National Language. There was also the fact that there is prevalence of discrimination by our Tagalog-speaking counterparts towards the Bisayas. Tagalog is being forced into our mouths, and yet, they did not grant my mother language even the privilege of an elective subject. There is much injustice here.
I took it to a whole new level when I thought that Lapu-lapu (Cebuano) was more heroic than Rizal (Tagalog). But I have rescinded that allegation a long time ago.
Thus, it became a sort of rebellion in my part. A social deviation to fight the norms of the society. I took the Tagalog lessons and studied it for the sake of passing. After every evaluation, I forgot what I learned with the exception of a few, very elementary lessons. That was how I got through elementary and high school. Learn. Forget. Learn. Forget.
That was why I never actually had the opportunity to write with much gusto as I have with the English language.
Now, I regretted it. I have come to a degree in my life where I have encountered many Tagalog-speaking individuals. Although these individuals understood me, I found it embarrassing to communicate with them through the use of my extremely-crooked Tagalog. I then realized that when I closed my mind in respect to that language, I had actually removed myself of a bundle of opportunities to meet and mingle with other people and to appreciate the culture and arts of the Tagalog natives.
Kaya ngayon, gusto ko nang mag-aaral ng mabuti sa wikang Tagalog. Ngunit, ipagpatuloy ko ang aking laban para sa karapatan ng wikang Cebuano. Marami na akong ginagawa para maging mas “learned” sa Pilipino:
1. Nagbabasa ng libro ni Bob Ong.
2. Nag-susulat ng mga status gamit ang Tagalog.
3. Nanonood na sa mga pelikulang Tagalog.
I know that I have much to do before I can consider myself as competent enough. I plan to write my first ever acceptable Filipino essay (acceptable in a way that it is at par with my English narratives). I will prevail. So help me God.
P.S. As to why I love the English language is an entirely different story and I may talk about it in the future. Now, I’m already sleep-deprived and although my mind wills, my body opposes.
Northern Gust
Northern Gust
by: JR Salaveria
O glorious breeze
Caress me not
You jest the fair lady’s lover;
Thy light embrace
On summer’s warmth
Thou art felt;
But O subtle wind
Though I find solace
You come not for thee alone;
A foolish thought to think
For a foolish man to keep
Nature’s gift that could never ever be his;
Explanation of the previous post:
One individual commented that I used “boy” too much in the narrative. Actually, I was trying to practice what a mentor called as “freewriting” wherein you write whatever is on your head at that time. This was an exercise to decrease the possibility of having the “mental block.” Thus I wrote freely and purely.
As to why I chose that topic: I guess that’s the only thing I was thinking of the whole Christmas break. After writing that, it felt better.
Hi. I have a story. It may not be your style. It may not be to your preference. I don’t care. All I care right now is that I will have the chance to narrate my story to anyone who listens to me. To someone who cares enough to read through the whole article.
Anyways, while reading this, you may listen to this song I found via 9gag. I am listening to it while writing this and I hope that this song may put you in the mood that I am in right now.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHkvan-NFnM
The story starts with an ordinary boy. Nothing special. This boy studied in a local university hoping to attain an education that enables him to live well and enjoy life in the future. One day, he noticed something, or rather, someone although that someone has been there for the whole semester. You see, this boy was more of an introvert and seldom takes notice of external things not directly affecting him. Thus, noticing another person without any clear relationship whatsoever was really a feat.
That moment was etched into the mind of the boy. Until now, he could not forget it. He remembers the second she caught his attention. It helped that he was playing his favorite sport at that time. “Damn”, he thought, “I don’t even know her name.” Being an introvert that he is, he never got the courage to ask for her name from anyone. And so began his quest to find out the name of the lady.
Next class. Roll call. Success. The teacher ended each session by calling out the names of each student for their attendance record. And with that, he knew the name of the one who caught his eye, but, it still seemed lacking. Unlike other times, he wished to know more in the hopes of creating an acquaintance.
It was not without great difficulty. This required every courage and bravery of the desperate being. But destiny shone on him for they both volunteered for the same committee. And so their friendships grew. Not much, but still, it grew. The ignorant boy noticed that there was a yearning inside him but he rebuked it for it was not his nature. A foolish idea.
The boy couldn’t believe it. That after everything that happened, after every moment that passed, it seemed that the universe conspired with him for once in his life. So he did what he thought was impossible, he told the girl.. through text.. for he knew that there was never a chance that he could muster enough will to tell it to her personally.
Then he tried to show it externally. Unfortunately, the boy was an overthinker. Before doing anything, he had to think about the act and all possible reactions. This brought doubt in his being. Doubt not in the meaning that he was not sure if he really liked the girl but doubt in the meaning that he was not sure of himself. He was not sure if he was viable for her. He was not sure if he was enough. Thus he became cautious with his actions towards her.
An internal struggle ensued inside him. Two sides bickered on what he should do. Opportunities opened up but, alas, no actions were done. At times, he was tongue-tied. At other times, his whole body froze. “This should not be. This cannot be. This will not be.” He told himself. And so he planned to become the man he wanted to be for her. He planned it for a specific day. He thought about it thoroughly making sure that everything was to be perfect for imperfection was not an option for him at that time. He wanted the best for her.
And the universe stopped conspiring with him and began conspiring AGAINST him. Before the day would come, the girl told him “all we can ever be is friends.”
The boy… The boy… The boy… No words can explain what happened to the boy.
Opportunity lost yet again.
He would have wanted to tell her that he was going to change. He was going to erase all doubts. That because of her, his soul, for the first time in his life, wanted to be someone much, much, better. The present life seemed not good anymore. He was going to do all this for that one individual.
So now, at this time, the boy is there. Beating and cursing himself for not doing anything. How could he not? The most beautiful thing that went through his life has passed and all he could do was stare and smile a little. It was a pursuit of happiness but it was futile.
And so the story ends.
.
..
….
..
.
But until now, the boy is praying that it has not ended but merely went to another chapter.
Declaration of vicissitude
I’m guilty. It has been long since I updated this blog.
My original intention when I made this Tumblr account was to have a window in which I can air out my opinions on current events such as, and mostly about, politics and the Philippine government. With this site, I thought I could vent out all my ideas and explanations with little hesitation or none at all.
But alas, it cannot be. I am a perfectionist. I cannot be wrong. Wrong in the sense that I have provided facts that are actually fallacies to back-up my erroneous statements. With little knowledge on current political situations (I try to learn the controversial topics as much as I can but due to the fact that it is really “controversial”, one can rarely pinpoint an exact source in which there is no bias or preference), providing a strong and clear stand is too difficult and time-consuming a college student such as myself.
It is not that I do not try. As of this time of writing, I had made multiple drafts concerning different topics such as that of the De Lima – Arroyo Situation, the Hacienda Luisita Case, and the Spratlys Controversy. But, as what I have already put out, I doubted whether these narratives are of proper basis. It seems that these writings couldn’t pass what one of my photography-aficionado cousin fondly calls as “Quality Control.” Thus, I resolve not to publish the post and let it rot in the dark, cavernous cellar of my Tumblr account, the Drafts.
With this aside, I began to fall into the trend in which I so greatly tried to prevent. To post unoriginal quotes, pictures, and stories. I do not have anything against those who do this practice but I would never have thought of opening my account if I knew beforehand that this was what I would be doing now. I have Facebook for that. My original intention was wasted and I lost all the enthusiasm.
What now? Now, I begin a new chapter. Rather than focusing on the “hot” topics on the news, I will now take into more consideration my own contemplations and suppositions based upon personal experiences. Life has become a tad more interesting for me nowadays. New shifts in several aspects of my life brought forth insights I wish to publish in this page. Hopefully, my enthusiasm will never again falter.
