Crap. And then some

I never saw myself writing my own blog. I never imagined it to be a necessary undertaking on my part. I do read blogs from time to time but it doesn’t make up a significant portion of my entire day. It could be that I am not so much into this “modern” form of expression because I never deemed my thoughts important enough to be cast far and wide the vastness of cyberspace. I might as well have been writing shit for all I know. Yet, crap is what led me to, finally, jump (down someone’s throat, nah!) at the opportunity to crap about crap. Oh crap! Never thought I would give in to the allure of establishing my own crap here.

Perhaps I see myself as a student of literature that’s why the words of the Sassy Lawyer touched a (right, or wrong) chord. Perhaps it was the brazen use of the crap word that ruffled some feathers. Perhaps it was the hasty and uncritical spewing out of crap that gave me a crappy feeling. Or, perhaps because I am a slow reader, that’s why I was overly sensitive to the words of the blogger.

It was in Goa where I realized that it’s perfectly normal to read slow. I made friends with a wonderfully garrulous Indian lady who never tires of weaving a motley of seemingly unconnected, or seemingly interconnected, stories. One time, on the way to the flea market by the beach, she asked me what sort of things I write. Oh, a couple of absurd, speculative kid stuff, trying to make myself sound nonchalant about the topic of conversation that was me. The next question that was kind of logical, at least to me, was what sort of things I read. Hmmm, a bunch of absurd and speculative and fantastical stuff, attempting to put on a flippant air to my aura. Then I told her about my favorite Japanese writer and the kind of stories he writes. Then, I told her about my favorite Filipino writer and the kind of stories she writes. I am not certain now if I was able to hide the arousal (aherm) brought about by the subject of our chat. But, I am quite sure that the same elation caused me to unwittingly spill my deepest, darkest, dreadful secret (those Ds add to the drama, I suppose)—I read slow.

I used to see this as an inferiority especially because people have always regarded me as a person with a proclivity for letters. I often wondered how on earth my wife and my friends could gobble up an entire novel in a couple of days or a few weeks. On the average, I surmised, people I know read faster than I do. So, I tried to follow suit. And I became miserable. How many times do we need to be reminded of that ancient adage that speaks of the essence of being, an ontological inquiry into the individual subject—be yourself.

Since no one is perfect, I assumed that reading slow should be that thing that makes me human (aside from the many other things of course; details before long). I kept it a secret nonetheless. Maybe because it was embarrassing for a decently educated adult to admit reading less number of words per minute as compared to the average readers of his/her group. Maybe because by reading slow, I actually mean, I am dull-witted, a doofus even! Imagine the tragedy of self-pity and insecurity. Good thing I am not wont to nurture such negativity (therapies work!). And, good thing I met a kindred spirit. The Indian lady (let’s give her a name why don’t we; say, Mish) assured me that it is absolutely normal. She reads slow, too and provides reasons for it. But this is about me so I won’t allow her to steal the spotlight (therapies work?). Me? I read slow because, as with writing, reading is a creative process. As with constructing narratives, reading is making meanings. And there are moments when meaning-making cannot be rushed. Thinking about it, meaning-making should not be rushed.

Sometimes literature will force us to chew the cud. Sometimes, we instantly digest certain forms of writing and instantly get satisfied with that same kind of literary fare. It is perfectly understandable for us to relate more easily to the writings produced during our time. That merely shows how language adapts to the changes in history. That clearly shows how literature must be alive since, along with language, it morphs into the beings that effectually lure/entice readers. But not all that instantly fills the tummy is healthy (the rhymester in me). Masarap man ang instant pancit canton, kulang pa rin sa nutrisyon kahit pa budburan ng pampalasa at bitamina (the rhymester yet again). There are writings—old and new—that will ask a little bit more effort from its readers. We cannot expect to grow when all that we take in are 3-minute-just-add-water meals. They say the healthiest way to eat is to indulge in a variety of foods. That is also the best way to read.

I am one with those who observe that there exists a certain (a lot) amount of elitism in the literary arena (in the arts generally, as with all other exclusivist disciplines—law, for example). But this does not necessarily produce a difficult reading. Literature, like all the other arts, is a matter of language. Language is the main tool of creation and expression. The trouble with literature is that it is too obvious in requiring a certain level of literacy from its audience. When we see a painting for example, we appreciate (or not) the work in a manner that is more immediate than when we read a poem (a bashful punctuation anyone?). Then we are promptly satisfied. But instantly being gratified does not automatically mean that we’ve fully digested the work. Perhaps, there is a need to read the painting at least a second time. As with all other instance of interpretational endeavor, we view the painting as a visual text that asks of us a certain amount of literacy.

The creation of meanings is work. Reading literature, perforce, is work. Cultures, or aspects of it, have persisted or perished because societies have worked for its continuance or demise. Individuals, being the political and cultural beings they are, engage in signifying work all the time. Meaning-making is an ineluctable part of our existence.

Perhaps, the whole crap about this crap being crap, aside from the way we perceive literary legitimacy, boils down to the need for appreciating the process of reading as a creative activity of making meanings. There is an assumption here about who creates meanings. I am so sure that Hernandez in Ibong Mandaragit invested meanings in that piece that are quite different from the meanings that will be created by those who will read it today. Jose Garcia Villa’s modernist take on poetry, a venture out of the box during his time, will be appreciated or excoriated uniquely for reasons different from the period in history where they were written. However, one cannot know what possible confluence of meanings are to be generated from reading the text if one renounces it as easily and as fast as one cooks instant pancit canton. Don’t get me wrong now, pancit canton is absolutely addicting (sweet and spicy!). But, at the risk of being redundant, there are lots more to try and eat and savor.

I think I read slow because I enjoy the process of constructing meanings from a particular text—meanings that are (almost) entirely my own. Sure there are times when I am forced to read something that is not a usual part of my literary repertoire, but I take these as opportunities for growth. Required readings afford us the chance to try out affairs that we would commonly just instantly ignore. Sadly, these are the ones that would likely give us a hard time understanding for reasons of familiarity and interest (or the lack thereof). However, the greater mishap lies in the swift rejection of these texts without giving them more thought and consideration, and without giving the credit due them that we will only realize if we read alongside the text the context of its writing. Reading is hard work.

Speed is directly proportional to forgetting—thus mused Kundera in Slowness. More often than we should, we are trapped in the immediateness of things. We encounter people and places and events and experiences fleetingly. We search for crap in the net with just a click of a button or key. Then, we forget about it. Gone are the days of laboriously searching for answers by consulting heaps of printed matter. Gone too, are the days of experiencing the arduous nature of searching for meanings. We gain and lose so many things everyday in an instant. It’s not that it’s a bad way to live, it’s what is offered to us by our current existence. The task is to make sound meanings out of everything that we encounter, crap or no crap. The key is to read everything actively. Read everything whether they be great or small (read: create meanings).

There is one more reason why I read slow. Having the opportunity to experience another’s world in that other’s words is humbling. I guess it is much like blogging. No one in the blogging universe has the sole right to be read. No one has the unique right to read. It is an opportunity for those who have access and that access is a form of power. Much like the writers who were given the opportunity to write by having the capability to do so. That capability is power. Much like the readers who are afforded the opportunity to read by having the capability and access to do so. That is power. It just takes some effort to realize it. It just demands a bit of time, of reflection, of introspection.

This may be the crappiest (read: schmaltziest) thing I dare write in this maiden voyage through the immense ocean of blogging. I read slow because I hate it that everything has to come to an end. When you’ve been with a book for quite a while, you develop an affinity with it. You allow it to take over a part of your life and yourself. That’s why parting is such a challenge. But you wouldn’t know it if you didn’t start—and keep on—reading. No matter how slow.