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July 23, 2010
Ever since I started writing as a student section editor of “The Varsitarian”, I was a part of “Witness”, the same name I gave this column. During those times, I only wrote twice a month, every other week. Apparently it was simple, yet in fact it was not. The leg work behind every article or poetry I scribbled was so archaic and tedious that I chuckled every time I reminisced. It all started a week before deadline. To begin with, we clacked our pieces on a huge IBM typing machines that embedded tiny embossed letters through a long black ribbon. In our school office located at one of the oldest buildings in the Philippines, we sounded like a flock of wood peckers pecking our way through. After the section editor and general editor stamped their marks of approval, we waited.
The words on those sheets of paper were literally cut and pasted on a huge sheet of paper for a picture taking. Before that,we have to proof read the articles and see that we agree with the lay out. When a newspaper sized negative finally comes out, we resume our work proof reading the negatives. And then the papers roll through huge machines finally spitting out the product of our sweat. It was sweet to witness the fruits of our labor until we discovered that many students use the student newspaper only as makeshift rain hats on stormy days. And then we started all over.
Many years later, I still write, longer than I did, more than I used to. No more paper hats on a stormy day and no more proof readings of huge negatives. As a columnist, I enjoy the freedom of a space to be creative as I am zany, critical as I am crazy and poetic as I am corny. Since years and experience have passed through my head, I have been blessed with people who allowed me to spill my gall in various forms and medium. I have written about culture, politics, languages, society, economics, dead people, corruption, salvation and all shapes of malediction and benediction. What I have not written much are certain angles of my mind, the silent ones, and the whispers I have told myself and kept in webs of dirt.
With this offering, I am slightly deviating from my normal screams.As a friend told me, I need to gradually release the little bags of surprises concealed inthe other half of my anonymity.
“Life is not complex. We are complex. Life is simple, and the simple thing is the right thing.”
– Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
Irish poet and playwright
More than ten years ago, I gave myself a gift. “Passages Journal” (a personal notebook with quotes on growth, change and understanding) is an empty-binded book without dates, lines or calendars. Instead, on every page are small gems of wisdom, the author of the quote and the life span of that person. My job was to sit down, shut up and share their thoughts through my own life. From another angle, I need to ruminate on their thoughts and see where they could fit mine.
The quote above was my first page. On December 21, 1999, I wrote:
We are as complex as a portrait at close range. The closer we get, the more we see the crevices, the cracks, the absence of color. We are complex – because of our perception, the phantasms we form, the phantoms we play with. Man was happy with the basics until he realized that the basics were not enough. Was it growth or was it decadence? Was it a step forward or a stumbling spree? He wanted to reach the Sourced, delve in the Cause, and wallow in Creation. And he paid the price. For in his yearning to understand, he unwillingly imposed confusion. In his dreams and ambition, he discovered a nightmare.
Life is simple. Like an alphabet, it starts with an “L” and end with “E”. Then we invented the infinite measurement tool of numbers – measuring everything from the microscopic to the galactic. Life changed. Suddenly, quality as it is, became quantity, which never is. The once static state of being exploded into an unending chaotic stage of becoming. A chasm formed, the huge space of restlessness transversed through the influx of time and growth.The simple thing feels like the right thing.
That which detracts from that simplicity is a blessed burden we opted to have claimed for our own. And in so doing, we probably played the role of usurers instead of creators. After all, there is only one Creator, only one provider of life, the only Source of real simplicity.
And this is perchance the reason why the simple thing in life is the right thing. Ten years later, not much has changed within the ripples of my mind. I still say and write the same things in different expressions through alternative medium. It is the essence of a reflection – the continuous echoing of thoughts from one time in life to another, progressively polishing our perceptions so that they could be transformed into grounded beliefs and then become convictions. Thoughts are like sediments that are planted and buried in our memories as our life situation changes and as we grow. Reflections are like scavengers that unearth the old gems we have kept to give their light another chance to glow.
The written word can never be replaced by any form of technology. We know that all forms of gizmos, in varying degrees, have passed through assorted phases of obsolescence. Despite all these, the paper has always been there, jaundiced with age, yet surviving the turbulent changes of our evolution. Life in its complex simplicity will always yearn to be imprinted in human history, the collective memory of which will sustain future generations in their new endeavors for meaning and significance. A reflection is the process needed to allow the wheels imprint its path.
When we start quoting our own words, when we look back and find that we have taught ourselves the future during a past segment of our life, when we scratch our heads and simply accept the beauty of a momentary inspiration, then perhaps we could have discovered the real Author behind the gems of our mind. Permanence and consistency are not dominant traits of this fickle humanity. They are properties of Divinity, attributes of a God, our God.
It is when we can focus on the stillness amidst the confusion of change that our reflections will have brought forth the fruits of its blessings. I still have so many blank pages to fill. If this is one genre that piques your attention, please let me know. I will continue sharing the intimate pages of my journal. If it is boring, let me know too. I will start writing about the bullets of corruption back home. If it is useful, please pass it around. If it is not, forget it as soon as you can.