To the storm and of taking a bath


It was Tuesday and one needs to grapple with the psychology of laziness promoted, silently and villainously, by the oohs of rain if one wants to be productive.

I throw a slight attempt, right now, at the intangible whorl of nothingness that the storms strongly create. An attempt to be stubborn, hey rain, you tell me to lie down and sleep and laze around, but I differ.

In a narcissistic backreading, I find it delicious, the possibility posted that the voice of the rain is like that, “oohhs,” “aahhs.” I recall the everyday, when do we moan like this? Doesn’t we do it when we are delighted, when we have discovered a new information, when at the peak of sex, when we have come to realization that sounds so profound. If the storm’s tugging of the frail stems of the trees and their unabashed clinking on the roof is made at its pleasure, does that make it an utter evil? It revels in its own way, how it pounds on earth like in some human form, like a giant stepping down on trees and rocks, not really for its disastrous consequences on humans, but on the mere act itself.

I tried to hush the storm, but in the discovery of the futility of my act, I negate the supposed effects of the storm on me. The bathroom is ready and clean and I thought of basking in an overflow of water. Rains are swanky and enormous outside and would not some refreshing bath be beautifully harmonious with the day’s flavor?

Contradictions are wise opportunities for betterment. And I am in the mood to agree with the rain, but with a twist. I am not in the mood for some merry, children-like, so-carefree-of-the-world dancing in the rain, but I will be merry and productive despite the rain in alternative ways. And almost in instinct, I felt the beauty of things like that, singular ideas expressed with the aid of hyphens. As if words are rubber and we stretch it because we want more, because we recognized a lack, and we want to fill in that lack, and we recognize that we are actually capable of filling in that lack.

My cliché is that language always lacks. But to add salt to the wound, it would be apt to declare that everything lacks, in one way or another, in a simple facticity that we would rather not consciously admit. Efforts lack, sometimes. So do are time, energy, commitment, my hand’s length, the beauty in your lips, Pnoy’s education budget, the length of the semester, or the sembreak, money for a DSLR camera, or our life span. What an embittering tragedy is that, all is lacking expect for some things untouchable: the span of my dreams, the length of my imagination. And some people, frustrated cynics, would say that our dreams and imaginations also have their limits.

In a conversation with a Lacanian/Zizekian reader, a touted intellectual and a very good speaker of love, we agreed that the symbolic will always fail, and the idea of the Real needs to stay or else the insufficiency of the symbolic be invalid. And what beauty do we find at the end: there will be a lack forever, but that could be the cause for some really notable creativity. Creativity supersedes a lack, but it is not exactly that the latter necessitates the former. Creativity is not necessitated girly, it is, ahm, chosen, and then done.

I am such an incoherent blabber, defying the storms and the sensuous sound of it, in a Tuesday afternoon when no Snow Patrol is in Itunes.

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Where we all meet


 

The treasure hunt is precisely about that – love. I often arrest an alarm sound ringing as the signal of a new hunt’s beginning. The scholars go open their books again, or troop to the fields to find answers, the missing details that will complete the work that will catapult them first to the internet then to being a household name, and ultimately to being an entry in a bibliography. The beggars will look for food again, or for people’s pity or generosity, or to the kindness of fate. My mother perhaps will search for a new motivation in her teaching, my sister, in her Medical Technology studies. In sum, we are in a rabid hunt for meaning. And god, people may give him a damn, but meaning seemed to have become so elusive and fleeting and dissatisfying as we grow older.

So there is the tedium and dissatisfaction born out of our endless meaning-makings, meaning-seeking. Bestowed on us face front, often motivating us to pedal the days forward, making us use it subconsciously as an answer to the commercial’s catchphrase, “Para kanino ka bumabangon?”

Usually, I end up with naught. Life does not seem to make sense every after day. If they do, the sense seems so ephemeral and not that essential. My Tuesday is for this subject and our org’s meeting. Wednesday’s for, ahm, a bit more library and some SM after the 4pm dismissal. Thursday is haggard. Friday is shot day. Either you feel mechanical eventually or you’ll find something that will prevent the first possibility.

Love — that is precisely what will tear away the mechanical, what will make meaning last longer, and sense more tangible. I looked at Holden Caulfield and I was happy that Phoebe saved him from the phoniness. I looked at Angela Carter and I must say that I must thank her for avowing that love is “the certainty that one is doing evil.” No, love is not Cinderella and Prince Charming, Barbie and Ken, love is you and me, you-Other and my-Self. Sorry, Psychoanalysis. But I am saying to this person that I love him even though I do not know him, even though he is just one of the countless ghost-like Others which I cannot fully understand, fully trust. And that is so villainous of me too, I am offering myself as an Other who professes this love for him, yet even I, is not certain that this which I profess will be guaranteed until we kiss death. But that makes it the way it is – love being a choice, a risk, an invitation to some fracture or rending, or to recast Carter, an invitation to annihilating embraces.

Once in our lives, we felt like we had it. The One, which we will love with utmost passion — the one we will skip breakfasts for, or already did, the one we spent hours in bed with, the one we wrote poems for, the one whose Cubao departure we cried over, the one we bought Jollibee Spaghetti for everytime allowance comes. There is no point deciding whether they are love or not, the more vital point is that, once in our lives, they made us more settled, more accepting that life has a more lasting sense to offer. That we were not just living, nor just living for Causes, petty or otherwise, fleeting or big — high grades, graduation, a good career, the masses, but also leaving for someone else.

This is losing sparseness for the word count. So I’ll leave for Murakami’s Wind-up Bird Chronicle. And perhaps I’ll be quoting him soon too