the little girl knows her bedtime by the utterance
of words from the other side of the wall, when her mother
faces the duet congregation and gestures about
noah and the ark; when she passes tongue
over numbers and psalms,
then her father becomes the quiet
sacrifices voices for the words of god
before their goodnight
there from her side, she thinks how early
it is still, the time god chooses to preach
and though the walls are thin
the holy words are muffled
as if in a dream
while when scripture wanes the prayers
are picked up, or when there are longer
pauses between passages, she stops
thinking perhaps it is finally for sleep
but the pages so thin like flammable
moth wings, preserved,
serve no fairy tale
and it is only when her heart
is content; when her eyes are sore
that she makes her own sign
of the cross, no matter
finished, their prayers
Something completely experimental (more so than others, anyway); a nearly sad attempt to revive a poem I’d written around two years ago and almost forgotten, had not a few sheets of yellow pad been found.
Also, how the writing has waned; therefore thinking about excuses for stories again, or perhaps something more tight, more compact.
Last year, February 25 marked, for myself and a couple of friends, not just a non-working holiday to commemorate the first EDSA Revolution, but a long weekend trip to Cebu.
Tomorrow, February 25, 2012, I will most likely spend the Saturday at home. As it turns out, the movie a friend and I wanted to see won’t be out until May, and in any case the car will be unavailable tomorrow. But this isn’t just the realization that this year’s EDSA I anniversary will be a chill Saturday, but the confession that to even think about the EDSA I anniversary is a site of struggle for many people in my generation.
The “Relativity” of Time and Space
By “my generation”, I mean people who, early-perched as the world is on the beginnings of 2012, find themselves in their early twenties, in their first jobs; some are perhaps traveling the world for the first time, or learning what it’s like to truly run out of money when one has too much month at the end of one’s salary. I mean men and women who missed EDSA I by a smidgen of one to three years. It’s a margin not far enough to go through elementary and high school without teachers showing us what was then considered good-quality videos commemorating the First Quarter Storm or the iconic, heads-crowding-the-way-out-of-the-plane scene leading to a man lying dead on a tarmac: audio-visual orchestras reaching their climax in a sea of yellow ribbons and people standing up to military tanks. Still, ours is a margin of distance that isn’t quite near enough the actual chain of events for us to have a firsthand experience of what Martial Law was really like.
For someone of my generation to remember EDSA I is to come face-to-face with an area of struggle. In my experience, I missed EDSA I by two years, can remember only what history books tell me of the first Aquino administration, and witnessed what it was like to stand with schoolmates under gray skies as Cory Aquino’s coffin passed us by. The last, evidenced here by a photograph, presents best that irony of attending a sorrowful event, being overwhelmed by it, and yet being able to take pictures with such smiles, such silent insistence that this is a memory also of fun and spending time with friends.
At the Anda Circle, on the day of Former President Cory Aquino’s funeral
Just last year, I had the chance to interview Mr. Val Rodriguez[1], Former President Aquino’s official photographer, and he told me stories of how she had always treated her staff like family. But more importantly, he asked me kindly how old I was, the same way a grandfather who is prone to forgetting would ask a grandchild the same question–in order to contextualize his story better to someone whose knowledge of the former President may be nothing but hearsay.
But I’m not here to defend why not everyone my age would be able to say anything (substantial or otherwise) about EDSA I except perhaps to fulfill an academic requirement. Neither am I here to attempt to prove that not all of us are stricken with apathy when it comes to the same matter.
Rather, this is a realistic admission that what separates us from the actual event is precisely also the same that would link us to the past. It is something which is simple, but not simplistic; something that touches on realistic (rather than skeptical) questions, and just a few minutes of listening.
Things We Don’t Know
My thoughts behind this post can be found in a noisy college cafeteria, where heat and noise and food-smoke and student-sweat mingle enough to raise a voice from the grave because hey, this smells like teen spirit. I’m sitting at a table with a blockmate and a professor[2] we both respect, and for one reason or another we end up talking about history; a President here and there, the US of A link, and eventually, the Marcos Regime.
And there we were, my blockmate and I, and we felt candid enough, believed ourselves critical and “unbiased, looking-only-for-the-truth” enough, to ask him, “But sir, despite all the things that Marcos did, isn’t it admirable, what he did for the country’s economy?”
My teacher does not lash out on us for being so innocent. He does not bombard us with questions to test how serious we are in our statement. Instead, he keeps his hold on the bottle of juice before him, elbow of the same hand on the table and his other forearm kissing the surface of the wood. I know it seems weird to describe it as such, but he makes what I can only describe as a sad, but wise sound of assent: one that, if it must be typed, would probably be spelled something like, “Mm.” And then he proceeds to say, in the same tone of wise resignation peppered with a deep sadness devoid of resentment:
“Hindi niyo kasi naiintindihan kung paano mabuhay noon; yung hindi mo alam kung bukas, buhay ka pa.” (Because you do not know what it is like to live each day in fear, not knowing whether today will be your last)
As always, the medium of print does not, will not ever, give justice to the way such heavy words were said. I could wax poetic here about this old man and how I know him to laugh even when he is serious; how he can strike colorful language borne out of fear from students when he says Get a Sheet of Paper, We’re having a Quiz. But I don’t want to because I don’t believe I can do justice to the way he had accepted the distance between my generation and EDSA I, and all the ways it could color our vision.
Here and Now
During the last few days, a call to different activities c/o of the youth in order to commemorate the 26th anniversary of EDSA I has been advertised by one of the country’s big networks (three guesses who–at nararapat lang naman dahil tatlo lang naman ang lokal na networks na talagang binibigyang papansin; marahil tama lang ding sabihin na ang sagot ay hindi iyong network na may mini-serye kung saan bumibida si David Archuleta, at hindi rin ito ang network kung saan nanggaling ang susunod na video). I’ve no doubt that schools in various places in the country continue to hammer into their students’ heads what an important event EDSA I was and is. Even now, countless teachers are perhaps inspiring students to write essays, make multimedia presentations, or stage plays featuring key figures in the event.
Still…I don’t know. But I feel that even though these are all well and good (particularly for those who are much younger than I am), I think my generation also forgets that remembering something can be as simple as looking around and realizing that we don’t ask enough about it. I myself am guilty of this.
One time, I remember being in the car with my father. Again I’m not sure how, but the conversation turned to Martial Law, and my father began talking about a priest he knew in those old days. The guy was one of the number of people who disappeared without warning. If I remember the story correctly, even search parties after the Marcos Regime had not been able to locate him, and truth be told, I don’t think my father thinks of him often, except on rare, random moments when the same spell of silence that fell on my professor in that stuffy cafeteria falls on him and he remembers that he hasn’t seen or heard from the guy in forever…and that for all he knows, he’s been long dead.
This generation–my generation–missed EDSA I by what can perhaps be described by the entire concept of Time and Space as only mere seconds. But my generation also forgets that precisely because of this context we are surrounded by people who experienced the events leading up to it: mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and professors and parents of friends and oh, you understand what I mean.
Let’s make PowerPoint presentations and attend network-affiliated events yes, well and good, but let’s not forget that this anniversary is also a story, and if only we’d take just five minutes of our time to ask about it from the actual people around us who experienced it firsthand, or to look up stories on the Internet, or to recall just how much our elementary teachers scolded us for not paying enough attention to an event they themselves witnessed–then I think that makes for a better, more heartfelt way to remember something we never knew. It’s a little unfair, I know. It’s not our fault we missed out. But to not concede to the politics of remembering and its subsequent importance would be a greater fault, I think. And this one enough to shame us.
Remembrance vs. (Non-)Recurrence
Oh, don’t get me wrong. A couple years back I hated the just-under-the-surface insistence that yet another EDSA should take place. If anything, instead of a belief in peaceful resistance or freedom of speech I think the great “Power of EDSA” paradigm is a sign of fickle democracy than anything. And to think that any revolution has now reached a conclusion would be more than mediocre.
So why do I think we should still remember EDSA I?
Because people disappeared. And they died. And those who lived through it all, they lived for a great part, in fear. Today, I go to the mall and eat out with friends and come home as late as two in the morning and if ever I have to follow a curfew, it’s a parental rather than government rule.
Because today my fears have to do with my so-called career path, my eyesight, and my finances. Valid concerns, all, but I’d be damn stupid if I didn’t admit that compared to the fear of not knowing if by tomorrow I’ll have disappeared in order to be tortured or killed, these fears are absolutely nothing.
The yellow ribbon I had tied on my arm on the day of Former President Aquino’s funeral, now practically obscured by beads and whatnot
A few minutes of remembering, of listening to stories. Compared to the hours I spend leisurely going through Facebook and Tumblr and WordPress and YouTube and typing away on Microsoft Word or getting lost in a novel–really, it’s a small price to pay.
—
[1] In case it is not clear, this links to an article composed not by myself but by Chiko Ruiz, with James Mananghaya, for the Philippine Star
[2] Roses are red / Violets are blue / Max Pulan is awesome, but his classes will kill you
starts where you would not, usually, and this lets you know that beforehand you had thought nothing much of the compound word. Now that you think about it, was it ever so difficult? To shrink away, shuddering, from the thought of being pricked? But not only that, but to fear something sharp and cold (the terror of which comes really from the fact that it is so small), that is not content to do you harm, but also leaves a mark on you, from the inside out
(Because the truth is that one small dot on the surface means a scarring, deep, into the whole).
My troublesome (and still slightly swollen) right eye. I insist that you insist on being charmed.
‘There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes,’ the doctor tells you, after the thin film of bright yellow light has scanned your eyes and he has folded your eyelids back. ‘There is some swelling,’ he admits and he enumerates the culprits, which, more properly termed, are the details of your lifestyle:
the preservatives in your contact lens solution;
the traces of powder from your face;
and the fact, therefore, that your eyesight has been very bad for quite a long, long time, and that though you are not as blemished (pimply teenager that you were), you need still a touch of concealer and (thank God for the development of your skin into some kind of stability at this time, your early twenties), a light dusting of powder.
The latter you have no problems with, cosmetics are disposable; it is only the contacts solution that would merit real sacrifice, for you cannot wear your slim, compact little eyes, for the next two weeks.
You are told this is natural, as the preservatives are necessary. On the whole, he says, these do not affect your whole body but do your eyes; it is not in the brand but the need behind the preservatives to keep the solution sterile.
That is not what bothers you. After all, you are only morbidly fascinated.
His voice echoes in your mind: There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes.
You imagine now, holes like scars in your cornea every time you lean forward to look at your face in the mirror. You have been wearing contact lenses since you were about twelve or thirteen, and before that you used to play a game when you were much younger, touching the whites of your eyes in your brother’s full-length mirror.
But the thought of pinpricks is new, makes you think what would happen were something to actually prick the human eye, something small, something sharp, something quotidian, and therefore sinister because innocent enough. There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes There are very fine pinpricks in your eyes.
And the only other comfort (aside from the knowledge that now you have Flourometholone to battle it out, one drop each, three times a day, for the next two weeks, leaving a strange taste at the back of your throat—natural, this is all natural) is this – go on, you can read as much as you can, only one other echo does exist in your mind’s eye hears all of this with the anticipation of your new glasses tomorrow.
Imagining life with glasses that are as up-to-date as my contact lenses.
Truth be told, perhaps you were too embarrassed to ask, but your mother who wrote you before you could utter language asked for you, if you could still go on from one word to the other, left to write, up and down.
And to your relief, the doctor replies,
‘There is no limit to the amount of activity of the eye.’
And deeper, more persistent still:
There are very fine pin pricks in your eyes
There are very fine pin pricks in your eyes
But you did not have the courage to ask, if they were as fine and thin and sheer and bright, as the film of light the doctor used to examine your eyes.
—
Pinprick: according to The Merriam-Webster Dictionary (copyright 1997), n. 1: a small puncture made by or as if by a pin. 2: a petty irritation or annoyance.
Otherwise: this Other, as mine, without the wise (copyright 2012), n. 3: another body-betrayal. The truth is he didn’t know the finer details of the diagnosis: the stress of wearing the lenses all day long to work from home, reading at a distance that measures from your corneas to the laptop screen; a peso per word, a puncture per letter, and one more thing to be earned for every space between words on the document you were working on, three weeks before all of this.
I don’t know what it’s like for anyone else, but in my head there’s a distinct line between movies I watched as a little girl and movies I watched as a pimply teenager or as a so-called kolehiyala. The movies I watched when I was a kid is invariably divided into a million other categories, but mainly whether or not I watched it my family with our trusty VHS player, or with them in a theater.
The movies I watched with my family in the theater were the usual: anything Disney, from Aladdin to Pocahontas to TheLion King. At home, we watched movies that were somewhere in the middle (and that’s a large “middle”considering my age gap with the rest of the family); that is, something live action without anything too, well, torrid. In between, I have memories of watching landmark Filipino films: Maalaala Mo Kaya: The Movie, Madrasta, and of course, Dahil Mahal Na Mahal Kita.
But Ramona and Beezus is a category all on its own. As a grade schooler, I remember reading Beverly Cleary, but because my memory sucks a certain manner, it’s either I read too many of her books to remember too many details clearly, or I only ever read a few and remember the handful of details that survived puberty, university, and whatever working experience I have recently*. I won’t wax poetic here and say it was the desire for a younger sibling (female, preferably) that made me love the Ramona and Beezus dynamic. All I know is that I love it: the way Ramona’s imagination runs wild, and the way Beezus’ explanations of the world only trigger said imagination to run on unicorn power, propelling said younger sister to great heights of trouble.
With the illustration art I remember so well
Saving the day for Aunt Beatrice (Ginnifer Goodwin in the 2010 movie)
A Crown of…Burs (Couldn’t help the Wheel of Time reference, now could I)
Cue the reason for a post that attempts to explain why I’d go through such pains to understand why I just had to watch the Ramona and Beezus movie on Star Movies a couple of nights ago (and relatively near the beginning, too). For one thing, this movie has an impressive cast (for my part I like Selena Gomez, nevermind her boyfriend): Josh Duhamel, Sandra Oh, and Ginnifer Goodwin(!).
And for another, the movie makes the pessimistic adult in you smile, if not because you know it proposes an improbable solution to a complicated problem (but what else are children’s movies for?), but because it presents something familiar, and nudges at all the childish insecurities you may have had to go through: not understanding why parents fight; the disbelief upon discovery that no one will listen to you, after all; the feeling that nobody wants you, and that your little adventures don’t matter to anyone else.
IMDb will inform you that the movie “Follows the misadventures of young grade schooler Ramona Quimby from Beverly Cleary’s popular children’s book series,” while Wikipedia will let you know that the plot draws more fromtwo particular books: Ramona Forever and Ramona’s World.
I will simply tell you that it is a movie about a little girl who believes she can do something to help her parents during a time of financial crisis, and through a series of failed attempts to make money so that they won’t have to sell their house, discovers that her big sister doesn’t hate her after all, and that even the most complex problems can be solved.
But you already knew that–or at least, guessed that the movie would end so well.
The question I was asking, though, is why people (myself included) fall for such movies. Maybe the answer is so obvious that it will seem a waste of Internet time and blog space that I even wrote about it, but in life (as in blogging), I realize that some things are so accepted that their eloquence is soon forgotten, until they need to be spelled out again:
It is because we like to imagine, or believe, or be reminded that some things in life can still be made simple–not in every moment, and certainly not always when the situation is too hurtful or just too difficult to accept–but it happens. Finances are worrying; friends can be unhelpfully strange (or strangely unhelpful); teachers aren’t always supportive, family sometimes even less so.
Then again there’s a movie on TV with a big problem simplified to a neat plot line, with some proportions exaggerated for slapstick comedy effect and a sweetheart soundtrack…and the distinct memory that once you were a child, and a book about Ramona and her older sister Beezus was enough to make you happy. Make you smile.
—
*For the record, the one clear thing I remember about a Ramona and Beezus book I read had Beezus in a panic about where Ramona could be; and then horror of all horrors she remembers that she had once told Ramona that if one were to draw a straight line from one point, to cover the entire world, one would end up at the exact same spot one started. Oh, no! Could Ramona have decided to try this out on her own to see if Beezus was correct?
Pinagharap natin ang ating mga paa upang malaman
kung natumbok na ba natin ang mga parehong daan at
nasugatan na sa mga lubak at bubog ng mga nauna na sa
atin. Tulad ng ikinatakot ko, binasa ng balat ko ang mga sugat
sa talampakan mo, habang napagtanto mo na makinis pa
ang mga pahina ng mga paa ko.
Sinubok mong abutin ang kamay ko, upang ipaalam sa akin
na ang pagod ay hinuhubog din nang kusa, ngunit hindi ko naman
inasam na malaman mo ang mga pagsubok na binitiwan ng aking mga
kamay, sa pagkakaalam ko na ang bawat patalim na hinaplos ng iyong
mga daliri sa pansamantalang pagkakapit, ay minahal mo rin
nang buong puso, sa pagharap mo sa kinabukasan mo.
Kahit na ninanais na kumapit din at makaraos nang buhay,
ay hindi rin naman kita masundan. Ang tindig ng iyong katawan,
ang pagbabalik-tanaw na kumukulay sa iyong mga mata’y ibang
kuwentong ‘di ko kayang sundan. Itinaas ko na lamang ang isa
pang paa, ngunit sa muling pag-iisip ay naramdamang gusto kong
haplusin ang iyong mukha, upang malaman kung may mga kagat
ang iyong labi: mga paalala na natakot ka rin at nagmahal at
buhay pa sa anino ng mga nakaraang ‘di man sa akin ngunit
ganunpama’y mga kuwentong nasa puso ko rin at nagtatanong,
‘Sa daan bang ito nahuhulog ang loob mo?’
Ngunit hindi ka pa rin pumayag na ayaw kong magpaaabot. Tila
hindi mo nakita ang kamay kong ninais basahin ang iyong
mukha at pilit mong inabot ang buhok ko, maaaring sa kagustuhang
maalala ang kagaspangan nito—marka ng mga sandaling naipon
na hindi ko ginustong malaman mo pa, ngayon o sa hinaharap man.
Pataas nang pataas ang naging paglalakbay ng ating mga pagtingin,
buhat ng ating mga kamay at paa (sana’y paakyat man lamang sa
kinaumagahan!). Tila habambuhay na ninais natin dalawang abutin
ang pagkakaintindi sa mga daang hindi naman tatahakin ngunit kilala
natin: sapagkat naapakan mo sa pagmamadali mo sa pinangakong paraiso
o baka nama’y ninais kong mapanaginipan dahil lamang narinig ng aking
pagkabata sa iba. Sa ganitong pagkahubog tayo natagpuan, ng lahat
ng ating minamahal, nang wala man lamang nabasa o naintindihan
mula sa isa’t-isa. Sa ganitong paraan tayo nilundagan ng kapanahunan, na
inisip lamang ang ating mga pinagdaanan bilang mga katanungang dapat
lamang pansamantala’y mahalin, tulad ng pagmamahal sa nakalipas
na mga iba’t-ibang larong pambata, at pagkatapos ng pawis at tawa’y
marapat din nama’y ating iyakan, tawanan, at sa huli’y kalimutan.
—
This, with the knowledge of course, that the metaphor of dance does not always play well with that of a game. Make what excuses (connections?) you will.
Don’t ask me how–because my first literary encounter with this snarky intellectual (who would probably snort at being called such) is buried within the recesses of my memory–but I’ve always considered the name Lourd de Veyra as one inherently related to comedy, as though a post-modern dictionary that defines comedy and its related forms without the name of this Lourd must be, well, nothing less than a joke with a flat punchline.
But that’s an exaggeration of how much I’ve always connected comedy with him, when this is really supposed to be about my first foray into Lourd de Veyra’s essays. Sure, I’ve been to SPOT.ph (who hasn’t?), but if you hammered me now with questions about why I didn’t visit This is a Crazy Planets more often (Shame on you! Where have you been? Where else would you get a healthy amount of wit if not for the fountain of the Lourd?), I’d simply give you a withering look, particularly because I don’t care to count how many times I have read his blog.
This is a Crazy Mess
Myrza Sison, editor-in-chief of SPOT.ph, describes the collection of Lourd’s essays as such in the foreword to The Best of ‘This is a Crazy Planets’: A Collection of Essays from His Hit SPOT.ph Blog:
“With each piece he turns out week after week, he takes the reader on a crazy ride in search of meaning in an intrinsically meaningless world, making us thing: What do all the strange things happening around us mean? And what do they say about us and who we are? Because, who are we, anyway? Lourd is adamant about helping us find our identity, because we always seem to be losing our way. In a porma-obsessed world where contemporary demi-gods proclaim the joys of artifice on a billboardian scale; or on a more metaphysical level, where we are wont to accept things without qualm or question, Lourd pushes for authenticity and shuns affectation…”
Contents: for praise (and criticism)
And so on and so forth; if I could, I’d quote more than just that part of a paragraph from the foreword, but that would be pointless and well, pretty much illegal, yes? The foreword is part of the joy (and wit and insanity and tongue-twisting, language-effing) ride that is this collection of essays, but it’s only the tip of what I want to say.
This is me now, the girl who can tell you how and why Lourd is funny on television as well as on paper (that “Come hither and spar with me” look, his gang of potbellied, shirtless extras on his segment “Word of the Lourd,” his ability to quote literary critics while bemoaning the voice and thought process of Kris Aquino in one fell swoop), but not so much how he has become a staple in my mind as far as local television goes.
The Surprise Attack
To me, what I find impressive in his writing is not so much his control of language. Pero sandali lang; dito ko na rin dapat ipasok na hindi sapat na sabihin kong magaling siya sumulat sa Ingles. Dito ko na rin kailangan aminin na magaling siya magsulat sa Filipino hindi lamang sapagkat malalim ang nagawa niyang sabihin at tama ang paggamit o ika nga ang grammar niya (Dear Lourd, you had me at the right use of “ng” and “nang”). Sa totoo lang, nakakamangha siya magsulat sa Filipino sapagkat nagagawa niyang magsulat nang kung paano rin siya magsalita, at alam naman nating mahirap gawin ‘yon.
But to go back to a point I almost lost: it’s easy to think that language–when it is dressed in witty satire and speaking of everything from the lack of common sense in even having signs that say BAWAL TUMAE DITO and NO COUNTERFLOW to the celebrity statuses of Aling Dionisia and Jinky Pacquiao to sex scandals as discussed by the Senate–takes only one particular side. Lourd de Veyra’s writing about low IQ and low EQ bus drivers? He’s taking a stand against those very bus drivers and the management behind those bus lines. Lourd de Veyra points out to us that Kris is pointing the limelight on her brother’s receding hairline? He’s criticizing her and the media’s priorities. Lourd is complaining about people who call Boracay “Bora” and guys who sacrifice rice to get abs? He’s targeting the elite class.
But that isn’t so. If no proof has ever been presented before this (though that, too, is unlikely), let it now be known that his writing is true evidence that language is as much cause for understanding as it is for overlooking and misreading something. And that’s where the power of Lourd’s writing lies: in hitting its target without seeming to, but hitting it just the same, bullseye pa.
The best example for me so far? The essay entitled “Attack, Jejemons, Attack!” The first part of it suggests that the author has the same general opinion on people who eliminate vowels and are addicted to the letters H, Z, and X, even if it means elongating a word, whether on SMS or those strange, televised chatroom-slash-music channels.
of the Jejemons
But this is Lourd de Veyra, and just when you think he’s the swanky scholar who upholds the laws of grammar and structure with an iron hand–perhaps tongue, he turns everything around starting with a couple of sentences midway:
“One description of the jejemon is that he/she inhabits the dark and dank environs of Friendster and Multiply. This smacks of wrongheaded snobbery, As if being on Facebook and Twitter represents a quantum leap in intellectual development.”
Ah, the turning point. I’m a big fan of these, lately. The author then proceeds to remind us that language is a perennial development. Sounding almost Derrida-like (Gasp! Now I must ask myself whether that is what drew me to present this essay as a prime example), the swanky intellectual now reminds readers that the Filipino tongue of today is a bastard child (me now: but of course, a beautiful one at that), particularly of Spanish, English, and a heady mixture of what we can still (hopefully) call native.
So there you have it; I went from thinking I was finally reading an essay that would properly put into words what I felt for jejemons, when I was smacked with the cold facts: perhaps it is true that jeje-speak demeans language. And certainly this is not to ignore the fact that whether in English, Filipino, or any other language, proper grammar matters. But this was also to point out that behind every sneer and association of jeje-talk with people who supposedly hang out all day in dingy Internet cafes or wear those god-awful rainbow-striped, mushroom-puffed caps, people are really demeaning social class.
The morbid fascination of reading jeje-texts
In the words of the author himself: “But wait–what if it’s not really language we’re talking about?…What if what we’re really sneering about is their lifestyle–their tastes in music, clothes, food, movies, television shows, reading materials, etc.?…(IMPORTANT: Every time we make jokes about how jologs someone’s school is, we are not insulting the poor student’s intellectual abilities but their parents’ financial capacity).”
So the double-edged sword: forgetting how “backwards” can easily become “progressive,” and that modes pf production are always a factor.
A Few Misses
Not that reading Lourd de Veyra doesn’t hit a few snags. There’s the ironic twist that, if Kris Aquino is everywhere mouthing an irrelevant discourse on reflex alone, then an endless foray into this phenomenon only adds to the layer of discourse.
Equal parts heavy and unbearable
There’s also the problem of the Tunay na Lalake, and the assertion that such a man wouldn’t skip carbs to maintain that six pack. Make no mistake, this is not to argue the aesthetic appeal of those things, but simply to point out that it seems unfair–to both sexes–to uphold one kind of lifestyle above another. Certainly there are habits that spell out Vanity (the capital letter a definite necessity), but to assume that the habit of exercise disqualifies someone from the ranks of being a “real man”–that smells of reduction, that it does.
There is, too the problem of vulgarity. Oh no, not of the author’s own crude language in expressing something, but the defense of Rico J. Puno when he publicly jokes around about impregnating women. But of course, which one of us have never cracked a green joke? But more publicity means more accountability, and to risk that readers will accept lewd jokes on live, nationwide television is part of the norm, is questionable–no matter the way in which any legendary singer can pull it off.
Then again, there are those who would agree, and then cap it off by saying, “Who cares about Rico J. Puno, anyway?” “Or worst, “I don’t even know who that is,” which then prompts a very Lourd-like answer, which then asks, why don’t you know him, particularly to Filipino readers. You were born long after his fame star began to fall? Big deal; you’ve heard of The Beatles, reminisce about the Spice Girls, and swoon at the mention of Old Blue Eyes, but you don’t know anything about Rico J. Puno. This isn’t a demand to go forth and research on everything Filipino, as much as it is the attempt to encourage curiosity.
Finger-Pointing
But to reassert the power of Lourd de Veyra’s blog entries (particularly as collected in this book): this is one kind of danger. Not only that it does not hold back when criticizing the society behind filthy public restrooms or the lackluster public transportation system or even the elitist view on the development of language, but that it sticks the middle finger up precisely to those who think that they uphold the best that society has to offer, good English, non-Hayden Kho fragrance and all:
Precisely because this kind of writing challenges those who are in power. And if you can access Lourd de Veyra’s blog, understand most of what he writes (even to comment on these entries)…heck, if you can even buy his book, then you’re in power.
And underneath all the kafkaesque language, nostalgia about the good ol’ days of Filipino action movies, and insistence that not everyone looks good on an EDSA billboard, if you aren’t doing anything to initiate change, well then Lourd de Veyra has two, very powerful words for you (a couple more, if you’d like them in the vernacular); one starts with an F, and the other, well…it’s all about you.
involve the new senses and how they adapt to cheap thrills necessary for staying still in one place. Here, for example, the cup of warmth just enough of an excuse to stay in the temporary ground. Between the lines, the situation reads, Good thing you brought a book.
You cannot, as of yet, relax; there is no taking in the situation yet because the last time you took in the sights and smells and sounds which felt like silence (so used are you of the notes that they resemble the waterfall, unheard, by Tereza and Tomas), you knew–or made yourself believe you knew what you were doing.
Now, looking back at yourself waiting, and attempting to read in the waiting, who were you back then? Fresh into the new, scared and trying to tell tales about the people around you (but this is now):
The two women trying to study Spanish to your right; the table to your other side which seems an informal introduction of a Korean business man to Filipino food, care of his Filipino companions, the lot of them past middle age; the two men two tables from you there, like you, to simply pass the time with the ability to make small talk sound like shop.
An hour and fifteen minutes before this observation, you felt hollow, as you do now, but you keep telling yourself, Go!, You keep telling yourself: desire.
—
Waiting: according to The Merriam-Webster Dictionary (copyright 1997), vb. 1: to remain inactive in readiness of expectation.
Otherwise: this Other, as mine, without the wise (copyright 2012), vb. 2: to insist in anticipation, to let the cracks of realization open up to enlightenment; to be as Janus as possible, and still, to see the bigger picture without becoming dead to the moment.
Writing Like a Hell Kitten 