senti metro

Mami (Why I celebrate women's day)

2011-03-09T06:56:00.005+08:00

There is a need to write about Mami – my grandmother. I feel writing about her now perhaps because these are also the days that my spirit seems to have been slowly, but undeniably, vaporizing into an assured nothingness that doesn’t give back what it has taken or leave a little piece behind of what it has snatched. I need to write about Mami because I need to remember. I need to be fully alive again what is slowly dying. I need to write about Mami because I am afraid. And I want to cry and melt and dissolve into my basic substance but I cannot. Not right now. Not for now. I need to write about Mami because I am feeling a little lost and I need to find my way back before I disappear completely.

I’ve always said that the reason for a big part of my being today is because I grew up with her. I will always say that I am feminist even though the label is open to so much argument and opens myself up to utmost questioning and excoriation. I will always say that I am feminist for the simple reason that whatever happens, my view of women will always be different (oppositional at times) to how the current world constructs a woman to be. I will always say that I am feminist because of Mami.

But this is no news to people around me.

Still, another expression of my indebtedness to my grandmother has something to do with how I am able to do things. I need to write about Mami because I need to remember. I need to remember that the days I spent with her as a child were the most fruitful and amazing and creative days of my life. And I need to write this down to be able to see my way back. I’ve been getting myself lost in this sinuous present. Most of the time I just wander aimlessly though with a tenacious feeling that I have a goal. Many times the ability to feel that I am still here is weakened by the necessity to live. All too often, that need to live softly snuffs the fire out of me.

The spirit is like fire, I guess. It is the fire that enables one to create. It is the fire that enables one to go on. It is what makes happiness a possibility. It makes me…fireless then to not even have the courage to cry and create tears and go on being happy by feeling sadness.

I needed to write about Mami because I suddenly remembered her. And with that remembrance of her, I also saw myself as a child. Lying on my stomach on the floor, deep in thought and with a pen in hand, constructing the unimaginable on paper. It was way past midnight and all was quiet. Mami was there sound asleep. I am pretty sure that the next day, when she awakes and goes about her daily routine, part of it would be to ready more scratch papers and pens for me. Urging me to do more without imposing. Telling me to create endlessly without reason.

I suddenly remembered Mami tonight and managed to sneak a few words that are officially owned by that which defines me at present – almost lost, almost nothing, almost the disappeared.

I remembered Mami and I am still here. For now.

(QC June 28, 2010 122am)

Flory

2011-02-15T18:42:00.001+08:00

Today a good friend died. And I’m so far away I couldn’t even bid my last goodbye. No way of telling her loved ones that things are going to be all right. And they will be. After infinite moments of time spent in oblivious longing. Things are going to be as they should be. They should. There’s no other way of dealing with loss except to try to accept that a permanent hole is left when someone dear to us had breathed its last.

I’m so far away and that’s why the pain is greater. Perhaps, because sorrow finds no consolation in nearby friends who share the same feeling. There is sadness but it couldn’t find a proper venue to be heard. Sadness needs to be heard. It’s the only way to let it go. That’s why it’s more painful to hear one’s own sadness. It just bounces back to where it came from. It never finds rest in someone else’s caring embrace.

Dying is a leaving of the space in the lives of those touched that had always been reserved for that person who passed. That space becomes permanently erased and it is not emptiness that remains, but nothingness. Imagine when so many beloved have moved on in one person’s life, all that will be left of that person who grieves is a disintegrating presence until the nothing fully overcomes. Thank God for memories. The filler of voids that human being’s frailty creates. Mortality is intuitive. It creates imprints of time in one’s head so that nothing completely devours the heart. Not even loss, or sadness, or death.

Missing a colleague, a good friend, a ninang
February 9, 2011
3 AM
AkNZ

Matalino si Rio at nakakalungkot kung minsan

2010-12-05T17:31:00.002+08:00

Hindi dahil sa matalino siya kung kaya’t nakakalungkot. Sino ba naman ang hindi matutuwa kung may anak na sa murang edad na dalawa ay kakikitaan na ng isang malalim na persepsiyon at malawak na imahinasyon. Yun na siguro ang isa sa pinakamalaking inaasam ko para sa kanya: ang magkaroon ng isip na kamangha-mangha.

Ang nakakalungkot paminsan, na sa mga araw na nagdaan ay mas napapadalas na, makakaisip siya ng mga bagay na siniseryoso niya kaya’t dapat mo ring seryosohin. Wala sanang problema kung seryoso siya, minsan naman ay seryoso talaga ang tao, kahit na dalawang taon pa lang. Mas partikular kasi ang sinasabi ko sa isang bagay na paulit-ulit niyang sinasabi nitong mga nakaraang araw.

Isang buwan na rin nang dumating kami dito sa Auckland. Halos tatlong linggo na kami sa unit dito sa Old Railway Station – ang dating sentral na istasyon ng tren sa lungsod na sa ngayon ay ginawa nang apartment. Nakakamanghang kung paanong pinanatili ang struktura ng istasyon sa labas at sa lobby kaya’t aakalain mong istasyon pa rin ng tren. May mga nakapaskil ngang paunawa na “This is not the train station” sakaling may mga mag-akala pa rin at mag-abang ng tren hanggang sa mamuti na ang buhok. Kung mahilig ka sa kasaysayan, matutuwa ka sa apartment na ito dahil ang kabuuan niya ay testamento sa kanyang pinagmulan. Kung mahilig ka sa arkitektura, maliligayahan ka sa mga detalye sa kisame at dingding pagpasok mo dagdag pa ang malaking orasan sa gitnang-tuktok ng harap ng gusali. Kung mahilig ka sa kultura, walang problema dahil iba’t ibang lahi ang nakatira dito – Indian, Hapon, Chinese,Eurpeo, mga Kiwi. Pero ang totoong dahilan kung bakit kami andito sa ngayon: ito ay mura na, mura pa. 240 dollars bawat linggo kasama ang tubig at kuryente. Wala ka na yatang makikitang mas mura pa diyan sa bahaging ito ng siyudad na malapit sa unibersidad.

Noong kararating pa lang namin, sa isang student hotel kami naglagi hanggang sa matuklasan naming hindi na kami maaaring mag-extend dahil may nauna na sa amin. Kaya’t sa kabutihang-loob ng mga kaibigang ipinakilala ng mas matagal nang kaibigan na nasa ibang bahagi ng bansa, nagkaroon kami ng bubong sa ibabaw ng bumbunan sa loob ng isa pang linggo hanggang sa mahanap namin ang istasyon ng tren na ito. Noong una pa man, lagi nang binabanggit ni Rio na gusto na niyang bumalik sa “Philippines”. Miss na raw niya si tita. Love na raw niya si tita. Na sa pakiwari ko ay representasyon ng lahat ng kanyang pinagmulan – ang pamilyar na mukha, ang pamilyar na tunog, ang kuwarto naming pula ang isang dingding, ang mga laruan niya, ang mga mall, at lahat-lahat. Lahat-lahat. Na pinili naming iwan pansamantala.

At kahit na noong papaalis pa lang kami ay sabik na sabik siya na nakita namin nang ilang oras din kaming naglagi sa eroplano, inasahan na rin naming aasamin niyang bumalik agad. Kahit pa ipinaliwanag namin ilang buwan bago pa kami umalis na “matagal tayo doon, matagal pa tayo babalik, matagal pa bago mo uli makita sina Mama Luz at tita at tito...” Ano ba naman ang alam ng bata sa tunay na haba ng tatlong taon at least. Kaya’t ayun, ikalawa o ikatlong gabi pa lang namin sa bagong bayan, nag-aaya nang umuwi. Ang tatlong taon, akala niya’y singhaba o sing-ikli lang ng tatlong araw.

Hanggang sa medyo nawala na ang pangungulila nang magkaroon ng mga bagong ginagawa at nagkaroon ng mga makakalaro bukod sa amin sa ilang okasyon. Marahil sa ilang araw na pamamalagi namin sa isang kaibigan na may isa ring anak na mas matanda kay Rio ay nagkaroon muli siya ng isang malaking pamilya. Marahil, sa paglipat namin dito’y naituring na rin niyang isang kakatwang bagong tahanan ang dating istasyon ng tren – mahilig din kasi siya sa tren; pangarap nga niya (isa sa mga ito) ang maging “train engineer”.

Ngunit ngayong mga araw, nagbalik na naman ang pag-asam sa sinilangang bayan. Hindi naman yata ito mawawala kahit kailan. Ngunit mas nakalulugkot nitong mga pagkakataong ito dahil, sabi ko nga, matalino siya.

Marahil ay matagal niya na ring pinag-iisipan kung paano siya makaaalis dito at makababalik sa dating tahanan. Ilang ulit na rin sigurong naglalaro sa isip niya ang mga paraan para maisagawa iyon. Baka nagkaroon siya ng ideya mula ng mga pinanonood na anime at mga pinagkakaabalahang laro. Nahihilig kasi ang bata sa baril-barilan (kahit ayaw namin), mga espada (ilan na nga ba ang meron siya), construction (alam niyang lahat ang tawag sa malalaking makinang panggawa). Isang araw nitong nakaraang linggo, habang papunta na muli siya sa nakagawiang kalungkutang dulot ng pangungulila tuwing papatapos na ang araw, tangan ang isa sa kanyang mga espada, sinabi niya sa isang monotonong tinig: “sisirain ko na ‘to…” Pinukpok niya ang sofa. “Papaluin ko na ‘to…” hinagupit ang mesa. “Sisirain ko na ‘to…” pinukpok ang pader.

“Bakit naman? Hindi naman sa atin ito?”

“Hindi ko na ‘to love. Ayoko na dito.”

“E, bakit mo pinapalo? Baka masira, magbayad pa tayo,” medyo may inis na rin kami.

“Para masira na ‘tong house natin dito. Para wala na tayong house dito. Para babalik na tayo sa Philippines.”

Melankolya ang akmang salita. At sa tuwing aasamin niyang gibain ang silid namin ngayon, sa totoo’y ako ang nadudurog.

Auckland, NZ
November 9, 2010
735PM

The Unbearable Lightness of Dreaming (with apologies to Milan Kundera)

2010-06-20T02:19:00.003+08:00

13 March 2009

Friday. This should be a happy day.

As usual, I pick Rio up from school at 11:30. I always find myself rushing out of the building to get to the Psych department (where we stay till after lunch) as fast as I could just so we would avoid the blistering and oppressive mid-afternoon heat. But, as always, I end up taking the umbrella out since the sun proves to be a stickler when it comes to keeping schedules.

As usual, I carry Rio with my left arm from which also his baby bag hangs down. I hold the umbrella over our heads with my right hand, which also happens to get hold of a stuffed toy cat that the little man just recently decided to keep as pet, and lug along to school.

Everything is just as it should be. We (I) walk to his nanay’s office where he usually spends at least an hour of dreaming. That is, if his parents lucked out to find the chance to enjoy lunch together. Which rarely happens. Because what usually happens is that he stirs just when his parents are about to start their mid-day meal. So, he, lunching with them is what usually happens. Which is not at all a bad idea save for the fact that one parent usually has to wait till he is done before that parent could begin eating.

But this time, it’s quite different since Rio’s nanay flew to another continent and will be gone for a few days. So, we perform the usual routine and tread the usual route knowing full well that the usual end of the walk wouldn’t be as “usual” as it usually is. Perhaps, Rio is aware of this (sad) truth so he decides to snooze even before we set foot on his usual resting place.

This time, it’s also quite different because Rio seems to be a lot heavier. Discounting the fact that there’s the bag that dangles from the arm that also props him up; that there’s the umbrella being gripped by the hand that also awkwardly grasps his pet, he actually put on a bit more weight, to my estimation. More weight than I had been accustomed to.

Perhaps, because this time he is surrendering his entire being to whatever buttress my arm affords him. Perhaps, because this time his massive head is resting on my chest so that I am forced to lean back while walking. Perhaps, because this time he sleeps in frustration and agony that his nanay won’t be where she usually eagerly awaits his return – imagine the emotional baggage that he has to bear. Perhaps, because this time he is dreaming while I carry him, as we walk the usual path, attempting the usual routine.

Maybe he is dreaming of a place where his nanay is expecting him – with soft arms that embrace and ample bosoms that nourish. Maybe he is dreaming of bubbles endlessly appearing and vanishing. Maybe he is dreaming of his classmates whom he finds such “babies”! Maybe he is dreaming of dreams that make him smile unwittingly while he slumbers. Dreams that scrunch up his face in anger or sadness or concentration. The endless possibilities, unbound fantasies, undisguised emotions, unfathomable visions. Dreams that I wouldn’t even be sure of though I may hazard a guess or two.

This time, this little man in my arms is heavier than usual.

I hope these arms are strong enough to carry him through.

Err...

2010-02-20T23:09:00.004+08:00

I thought all along that my multiply blog posts are subsequently reposted here. Obviously, I was wrong. Boo.

As much as I desire to see here the aforementioned entries, I just can't do it tonight. Still nursing a flu. Or, some similar virus. Not the "fringe" kind of virus.

Gosh. Miss the big cold viruses (literally) that rip their way out of a victim's throat, haha! Fun Fun.

Fringe. Oooh.

the fetus boy

2008-07-17T21:41:00.000+08:00

funny thing. there was this kid of about seven or eight who visited rio's class one time. there were three babies that day including rio, two were absent due to a storm signal that was waiting to be raised.

a bit of information about the class, first: all the other babies are huge -- plump and full, succulent and thick, a little burly boisterous lot -- except for our son. who, by the way is slender or svelte as described through a language a little more elegant and less disheartening than that commonly heard in pediatric parlance as represented and (suspiciously) inspired by the growth charts that come along with the free baby book sponsored by infant formula and baby food companies through which rio has been categorized as "slightly stunted and wasting away".

rio is underweight. slow to gain pounds. as in, further down the chart (not within, just to be clear; charting its own point independent of the graph in the growth chart page). and just so we could dispel any impression that we are in denial, the mother and i are well aware and conscious of this fact and have been feeding him "fat", a step among other things to make him catch up and climb, at least, to the 5th percentile.

so, back to the kid (a boy) who visited the babies on a stormy morning. this story is about him basically. but also, primarily, perhaps a story about "normality".

back to the kid. and to cut to the chase: when he saw rio (who was his usual self: interested and incredulous at the same time, showcasing his sparse eyebrows knit together at the inner corners of the eyes), he curiously asked: why does this baby (rio) look like a fetus? ngyay!

of course, this little scenario is just a retelling of a retelling of what occurred that time. and on this i would like to quote mitch (wink). but now i tell you, had i been the one who witnessed the sequence of events, the next step i would've taken was to deliver a much deserved repartee that goes something like: perhaps a fetus, admittedly so, but at least, here I cite St. Augustine, a fetus animatus -- endowed with a soul.

he might've bantered with me a bit more, there's no way of knowing. but the point here is plain and simple: rio has got a massive skull.

the other point is, early on in our lives, we are trained to see and believe only in what is "normal" as though the definition of normal is immutable, absolute and neutral. i do not blame the kid if his idea of a baby follows the popular representation of babies being beefy, or porky or podgy. certain businesses promote this image through mass media. stories abound of mothers who'd rather feed their infants formula milk though there is the availability of breastmilk because they want their babies to achieve this certain "look".

this story is therefore, also about "ideology" as false consciousness. false. consciousness. no massive skull needed to comprehend that one.

[though to me, rio looks more like a martian (^^) ]

rio's firsts this week

2008-07-13T12:53:00.000+08:00

1. mahulog sa kama

2. lagnatin (39 degrees)

3. masugatan (sa maliit na daliri, paper cut dahil kay Olivia)

For whom 'Ka Bel' tolls?

2008-05-27T00:53:00.004+08:00

Quite, strangely, appropriate is the title of Hemingway’s 1940 novel to be alluded to by a sad, sad event that Philippine politics, government and history have recently had to endure. Not only does it afford us a pun to ponder, even the message of the novel seems to be relevant to the life and struggles of Crispin “Ka Bel” Beltran. The party list representative, labor leader and people’s champion passed on last Tuesday, May 20 after succumbing to severe head injuries and being comatose for a number of hours.

Ka Bel Patay! Nahulog sa Bubong! This sort of tabloid headline sums up the entire deal and there’s nothing worthy of a grand scale hullabaloo indeed. But, the whole affair, to my mind, smacks of the very essence of Ka Bel’s unwearied life and politics.

It was Mitch, my partner, who pointed out that the incident actually exemplified Beltan’s life, yes, even to his death. He fell from the roof that he was trying to fix and hit his head on the pavement. Now, how many of us would’ve thought that a government official would actually fix his own roof to effectively shelter the family from the rain? Sure there’s nothing wrong with fixing your own roof whatever position you hold; sure, it is not impossible for anyone, including politicians, to fix anything that needs fixing in their homes. However, if we take the tragedy that has befallen the man as a counterpoint to the usual picture of our beloved politicos as fulsome in their amassed wealth, hidden or otherwise, it becomes clearer how Ka Bel’s life (and unwelcome passing) certainly lays bare the need to reevaluate the ways we make use of our one-shot deal lives. Humility was the word used by Mitch to describe Ka Bel’s seemingly absurdist manner of bidding us farewell. Makikita mo talaga na simpleng tao siya—a way of life certainly not reflected through opulent mansions, superfluous luxury vehicles, fancy hotel accommodations, and inane golf sessions.

Fellow congressman and ally Satur Ocampo shared that Ka Bel didn’t exactly want to take his leave of his family—personal and national—and mission in such manner. He’d rather die engaging in the battlefront of the fight for justice and equality. But, such is life. It’s the caveat that goes with having given a shot at this earth—you relish the unbound possibilities while you breathe, but you also need to embrace the inevitability of meeting the dark angel at the most unexpected and undesired time.

When Ninoy Aquino was killed, it caused quite a stir. It even offered the entire nation a window for converging and taking action to end a despotic reign. But, Ka Bel’s exit wasn’t as, shall we say, dramatic. It sounded incongruous even. Perhaps because we expected him to always be at the forefront of the struggle for a more egalitarian society. Perhaps, because we’ve always pictured him as a survivor persisting with his political convictions even after being detained during the Martial Law days and being locked up once more during this (Arroyo) administration on rebellion charges.

Coincidentally, Hemingway’s novel speaks of death a lot, and of comradeship and of the sacrificing the self for the greater good of the people. Such vivid scenarios of dying that will surely leave the readers teary and hopefully, awakened. Ka Bel’s story didn’t offer us that much sensation when it reached the end, what with all the foregrounding and build-up that the nation had witnessed. Yet, we are forced to think that there has got to be something more than a daft ending to this man’s tale. We are, by a sense of denial or duty, prompted to make more out of an overly simplified and nearly maddeningly ridiculous denouement.

We are almost tempted to accuse death of not honoring the man—of not giving Ka Bel the true, grand and “fairly good” end that he so rightly deserved. Or, maybe the end is pointing us away from itself. And rather than revolving around the man’s death, we are actually urged to examine his life. Better yet, examine his life relative to the ones we are currently holding on to lest we see them fulfilled and fulfilling at this point and at the current state of things in the country and the world.

Ka Bel lived simply and fought the heaviest of battles. He deserved some kind of rest. But we don’t. Not yet at least. There’s still so much to do. The man did his share. The rest has now fallen to our lot. His parting may have been much, much simpler than we could’ve ever imagined, but we should not be blind to the complexities of the struggles that he fought for and entrusted upon us to take on.

“For whom the bell tolls?” ask once more need we,
The bell tolls for those—of us—who refuse to see.

Life is the most precious thing that a person has. Life is something that we get to experience only once. In thinking of the past, one shouldn’t regret the wasted years. In thinking of the present, one shouldn’t be bitter at the pervasive mediocrity. It is enough to be able to say in the end that one’s entire life and strength were devoted to the most glorious enterprise on earth—the struggle to liberate all of mankind.

Nikolai Ostrovsky
"How the Steel was Tempered"

Crap. And then some

2008-05-18T23:54:00.000+08:00

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.