el hombre y el sol

Revolutions don't happen overnight. Well, of course, because that's only about half the earth's rotation--overnight, that is. And that's a hundred and eighty degrees. If I am to grow a third eye, I think I'd like for it to be at the back of my head. For what purpose would it serve if it's on my forehead. It's kinda seeing the same thing still now, is it not? Well, a vertical eye on my forehead, that's a little bit different there. Now that's a slit inappropriate for poking. It's kinda the thing between people in "playful wrestles." You don't grab the hair, you don't poke the eyes, and, especially, you don't kick the nuts. Well, unless the bastard really deserves it. Oh, yeah, I keep on forgetting I should come upon some semblance of sense with this blog, at least to mirror that of my contemporaries. I have to give justice to their companies--you know, in that my spending time with them should have brought me a semblance of "good."

Of course, I feel regret after getaways and getaways from my logic. It is the very reason why, sober, I hold on to it as much. We are still on the lines along my sanity and sobriety. Here, I am threatened by the thought of craziness because my now, I can't say entirely, sober state forces me into a form of self condemnation. Did I just elevate myself lower in this walk toward knowing?

Even I, have to say, that is beyond the point. Let us then return to the present topic at hand. The revolution and the sun. It is absurd to think it is the sun that moves. But they did use to think this way. Perhaps our errors today would seem as absurd come some time. Thus, it is my source of amusement, the looking for the absurd in my here and now. I shall then laugh with arrogance at whoever might read this posthumously and think of himself knowing better, or herself for that matter. There, sans the feminism, perhaps you shall notice I am no longer on my knees for equality. We are equal. Whether that works for you or not. Again, we are equal. I shall have your arrogance now as well, as much at the very least. Perhaps pleasure would not come with masochism anymore. Not that every time happiness strikes me, I will wait for the catch that comes afterward. No more of that now.

And yet again, I have wandered from my topic at hand, which is the sun. And the man. Oblivious to each other, the two sits in silence. It is only the man that feels the difference of the movement, even if it is he who sits on that which moves as such. The sun is just there, time not a thing known to it. Whatever time of day it is to us, for the sun existence is existence, no time being of a lesser or greater significance than any other time. I, personally, love sunsets. When I bought my shades, though, I did begin to have a tolerance for the sunrise. Of course, it matters. I used to have thoughts on perpetual nightness. I preferred artificial lights. Reality, though, changed my mind. The world is a good place, a beautiful place. And even my hypocrisy cannot corrupt it.

Thoughts of an Existentialist

I only realized I was actually an existentialist when after having a conversation with a prominent artist, I was told this—that I am the first of my kind he had come to know. I have forgotten what things I said to make him have such a conclusion aside from “hey, do you want to know my background? I’m a philosophy major slash an existentialist!” but considering he was of a great stature already, I can’t help but be convinced that maybe I really am one.

More than anything else, I, as an existentialist, live in the present. What happened before now are mere memories, what will happen tomorrow are plans if they are realistic, fantasies if they are not, and wishful thinking if they involve some form of romance. My mood swings from angst to gratefulness to sadness almost at random, but fortunately, more often than not, I am glad I exist. Suffice it to say that the only time I am sure of what I would feel is when the feeling is self-induced.

Before, every single moment of my waking life, the only things I have were questions—the typical “why are things are and why do they happen as they do.” Everything was about finding a purpose, a reason, all the blahs just so to assure myself that I am not just an empty shell, that I have—if I were, say, a book or a song—content. My telling this would already give you the idea that yeah, I have changed my mind yet again.

First off, I’ve been given life. Secondly, I then accepted it. There now my problems start with the third stage, what do I do with it? And yet again, I was given choices; there the problems escalate even more. Then soon it catches up on me, the fear that the moment I finally make a choice is when I’m in my deathbed already. So it is that I have decided to come original. Actually, since I am an existentialist, I am supposed to be an original character. Existence comes first, then poof! everything else comes following suit. So the point of all this? There is none. That’s what I do, I let my mind race until it comes upon a temporary conclusion, which could hold my sanity awhile. Then when I feel that I need new thoughts as the previous ones’ wonder have faded already, I then think some more, or not.

To balance the more-often-than-seldom tiring clockwork of my mind, I do sports. I run, I swim, I get a baseball bat and swing as hard as I could—I do these to lose consciousness of my thoughts. I am convinced that the human body has workings that is detached from the mind—not to mention as examples the brainwork and heartbeats that are involuntary. There is also one thing about sports that I like—this is not my phrase—“bragging rights.” Whether we accept it or not, bragging feels good. Winning feels good. And in sports, the winner can brag as much—in fact, the winner has to brag so the loser don’t feel so bad about his loss. The lack of complexity of this really appeals to me.

I heard a friend say something about writers/columnists having this certain air about them when they write. I agreed. They really do have this “read me and my opinions matter” attitude. I may have that too, or not. I could have “read me or not, I’ll live.” But that’s even worse. I think I prefer, “Got time to spare? Read me when you got nothing better to do than die.” I think that would be my writer’s motto.

If I am to continue on with this kind of arrogance, I see no wrong coming out of it. I would never know how the world really is like from another’s eye, not close to the things I could come upon using my own vision. No, I do not wish to deny another’s views; I only want to use my own as none but me could ever do so. Yeah, a form of a universal individuality—when everyone is an individualist, then that’s one thing we would all have in common.

I am glad and saddened at the same time at how the world has become, for me at least. It is a question to me, of great magnitude, how knowing more people could sometimes be a sad thing. I tend to forget a past love in exchange for a new greater love. Is there something wrong with that? Have I then become too swaying that I no longer can hold on to just one founded truth.

The year is about to end, and it is a fact that this year has been my best so far. And I know I would be saying that next year too. Is that wrong? Going on with life knowing that things aren’t in their best form now—that tomorrow would be better. This is optimism, and I am supposed to be hopeful, not disturbed with this knowledge. Yet, I am. But then again there is the aspect on reality and physical and pleasure stuff. If only my imaginations are not so vivid as to actually almost mimic reality. Yeah, sometimes knowing is enough for me already. The fear of becoming sad after euphoric experiences with things fleeting has made me opt for things more lasting.

This is one of the things I’m not good at—endings. Like conversations, I had a friend tell me before that “you don’t end conversations, you abandon it.” Maybe it can also apply to writing. But my being an existentialist makes creating endings a kind of practice for my own death. I am highly amazed with people who go through life knowing that death would be the only one meeting them in the end. At least with things like this, I know that I can always make another one. With life, well, maybe God also thinks, when I die, that “Well, I can always create another one,” without care for what I might be feeling after death. Alike me now, I end this, without caring; for these, anyway, are only thoughts, words.

(December 2006)

Emulsion

It had been raining the night before. Good thing it seems there’d be none left today.

“I told you it was going to rain,” she tells him, a grin spreading across her face. He only smiled at this. “A self-proclaimed weather girl.” She all of a sudden went serious and started to stare at the rain. He really could never understand her. “What? Did I upset you? I was just teasing . . .” She turned back to him and smiled. “Yeah, I know.” “Why the sad face? You love rain.”


The weather has always amused her. It seems when it’s raining she doesn’t need a reason to go out.

“What took you so long?” Her voice barely audible as the pouring began to gain force. He took a deep breath and sighed. “I don’t know.” She looked away again. She took a stick from her black cigarette case and tried to find amusement as the smoke tries to join the rain. He just looked at her, knowing more words would not help. He poured himself another shot of brandy and chased it down with Coke. “Where’d Mandy go?” he tried, hoping to divert her thoughts. “Went to get Ron.” “Can he not come here himself?” “I don’t know. Says he’s running a fever.” “Mandy deserves someone better.” “Don’t say that. You’re friends. And besides I don’t think she minds. She likes rain too.”

The traffic is the only thing she didn’t like at times like this. Everything seems to move in a much slower pace.

Five shots he was starting to feel himself warming. “How was your trip?” she asked, hesitantly. “It was great. I didn’t hear any complains.” He saw her let out an almost laugh, the kind which only lasts a second or two and only noticeable because her abdomen moved. He did the same. “Come on, let me in on the joke,” he pleaded, touching her elbow lightly. “Let it go. It won’t be the same if I explain it,” she said, smiling. As he was about to back down, she added, “So tell me, what didn’t you hear?” She was grinning again.

She notices the orange car to the left of the jeepney she was on. Already five minutes and they only moved fifty meters.

“Another month and we’ll have to get back,” he said, trying to start a real conversation. “Can I come?” She was beginning to have her lightness back. He only smiled. “What? Come on, tell me, can I?” Before he can even reply, she went on, “For a change, you know. After a while, you might get tired of your guys’ faces. You need variety. Come on, tell your girls to relax some.” He was still thinking on what to say . . . “I’ll buy you a beer each night, come on!” She was now facing him, locking his eyes to hers, one hand on each of his knees, shaking them lightly. “You serious?”

It begins to drizzle. She smiles.

His phone rang. Relieved, he excused himself.