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.