No Hay Maestro Como Carne Propia

“Nothing defines me…”

-John Goodman as Graham Bloomwood

Often times, it is the shallowest of things that lead to the most potent epiphanies.  Such was the case with watching the Isla Fisher-starrer, “Confessions of a Shopaholic”.

To be sure, it maybe thrown into the Chick Flick box without batting a mascara laden eyelash. It is predictable to the point of indulgence and shamelessly plays on the everywoman’s fantasy of the serendipitous romance with a knight-and-shining armor with a British accent to boot. Yet for all its shortcomings, it did stimulate some introspection, leading to questions of self-definition,  which in itself is a success.

Although Rebecca Bloomwood’s (Fisher) addiction is specific to designer clothing, her predicament is universal. For what is the human condition but a relentless pursuit of More? Be it power, success, beauty, pleasure, or fame, we can (and should) all confess to our own “holic”-isms. In fact, many a philosopher (or even prophet) has tried to address this basic human dilemma. Buddhism tells us to seek the eradication of desire, nirvana, by denying ourselves of worldly pleasures. Hinduism on the other hand talks of seeking, alongside righteousness, wealth  and even sensual pleasure to reach moksa, a liberation from worldly chains.

I for one, have always wondered about the root of such desires in the first place. I’ve come to think that it has a lot to do with our inherent need for self-definition, or perhaps as Maslow psychology would put it, self-actualization. We find ways to create a sense of self, and often times look to external, physical things for such a validation. For Rebecca and for some women (and men) I know, it comes in the form of beautiful things. For myself, I think it has mostly been titles of achievement and the image of success. Yet even as some us actually do acquire such labels, images and objects, I cannot help but feel a pervading sense of poverty in such a state of affairs. A poverty that speaks not of a lack of material wealth but a lack of purpose, the lack the Self, which leads most people to fill the void with the aforementioned frivolities. This then leads one to ask: how then should one measure oneself?

Just like the ending of “Confessions”, the answer, by this time, should be obvious. And although painfully predictable, its truth is not diminished in the least.

“…except you and your mother.”

-John Goodman as Graham Bloomwood 

hindi ako magaling magtagalog

marahil dahil pinalaki ako 

sa mga VHS na Disney

at nagkamalay sa mga paaralang pinupuri 

ang katatasan sa Ingles

hindi rin ako magaling tumula

at nananatiling tila trying hard 

na makata

dahil natuto akong maging matatag gamit ang lohika ng isip

gayunpaman

ay naalala kita

at kung paano mo

kinanta

ang katotohanan

sa kayumangging wika

at kung paano mo

binigyang balarila

ang mga pangungusap ng puso

at kung paano mo

nilasap 

ang lengwahe ng libog 

kung kaya’t ako ma’y magkulang

sa mga mata nina Balagtas, Barros o Lacaba

ay wala nang magagawa pa

ito lang ang panitik ng pag-ibig 

na alam ko

Last night

I invited the Truth to my room

But it was the Devil who came

he held my hand in his-

calloused and scaly

as sleep and sobriety

were quick to abandon me

“Ambitiouss Artisst…”

hissed he

paint me with a poem

paint me-

properly

no pen nor ink had I

so with a silver feather

He cut me

lovingly

And thus with a scarlet song I sing

Until God comes

Or his angels do

I sing of Satan

I sing of you

Matagal na akong hindi nagsusulat tungkol sa pulitika.

Magulo kasi. Masalimuot.
At pagkatapos mong ipagyabang ang talino at tatas
at ipangalandakan ang pusong "nagdurugo" para sa Bayan
anong kahihinatnan?

Nagkaron ba ng pagkain and batang nagru-Rugby sa kanto?
Nakakuha ba ng pang-matrikula ang anak ng katulong niyo?

Sumarap ba ang sinisipsip mong Green Tea Frappucino (without whip cream)?

Kaya ayokong magsulat tungkol sa pulitika.

Mabuburat ka lang sa mga kaburat-burat na ngang bagay.

Ang gusto ko, yung mga nakakatuwa.

Kahit nakakatawa, pwede narin.

Mga tipong Light Comedy.

Wala masyadong commitment.

Kaya okay sakin and Trillanes Hotel Takeover Series.

Very light.
So light, parang utot.
Yung tipong comic relief lang talaga in the midst of a very stressful day in Makati.

Kung iisipin, halos lahat ng mga balita ngayon

Parang utot.
Yung iba malakas, pero wala naman talagang amoy.
(Parang ‘pag and Piso lumalakas)
At shempre may "silent killer".
(Parang ‘pag daan-daang aktibista pinapatay)

Pero humangin lang konti okay na ulit.

Balik eskwela, Balik trabaho

Balik Green Tea Frappucino (without whip cream), Balik Rugby

Ngunit dapat mag-ingat

Dahil kahit ang utot, minsan ay nakasusulasok

Pwedeng maging mala-teargas

Lalo na pag ang kinain ay panis, bulok

Minsan di mo alam, sakit na pala

Pwedeng Bulate, Pwedeng Diarrhea
at hindi na nakakatuwa

Pero okay parin,

Kasi nakakatawa.

I have always been a bit annoyed at how some people would describe my aesthetic sensibilities as "dark", always leaning toward expressions of pain, horror or tragedy. Not so much because of the fact that I am considered dark as the way that they seem to regard being dark in general, as if it were something only so-called weirdo’s and nutjobs were capable of being. I think this is because I have always thought that a preference for the darkness and pain of life is just that–a preference, and cannot therefore be considered "less" of a preference than the usual desire to be a shiny-happy-person.

And at the risk being judged, I have to confess that I do at times revel in my darkness and pain. The primary reason being that, it’s my way of dealing with my demons. It’s always been about facing the unbearable din of the proverbial "music" and trying to make sense out of it all, maybe even learning a thing or two from it.

The funny thing is, post modern culture seems to be agreeing with me. What with the fall of "happily ever afters" in literature, music and film and the rise of  painful ambiguity and chic melancholy. Or even the evolution of cool-Alanis Morissette-grunge into unbearably-popular-My-Chemical-Romance-emo– it all seems to show us that we are, oddly enough, feeling alone, together. Feeling hurt, together. Feeling rage, together. Almost as if we were all unknowingly part of some cosmic Oprah-slash-Dr. Phil show.

But that’s not even what interests me.

What interests me is that for all my efforts to confront my pain and suffering, I think  I’ve unconsciously made it harder for myself to do the opposite, to "confront" happiness, to experience unadulterated joy. I seem to have turned into masochist of sorts, in that although I don’t slash my wrists, I have come to, in a way, take comfort in constant adversity because that mostly what I thought my life would be like. Just like how the cliche goes: better the devil you know.

And something tells me that alot of people from my generation, (or at least those who are "privileged" enough to have the time and resources to bitch and moan about their bourgeois lives) aren’t too different. The dumb jocks and busty cheerleaders of old are no more, and have been replaced by the cool artist types who are cool because they don’t smile, who are "man enough" to be sensitive and to cry. Granted, it’s no mean feat to deal with your demons, but it’s a whole other story to languish in your pathos just to be "cool".

More importantly, I don’t think alot of us realize how much the thought of being happy and content actually scares us to bits.

Maybe because we feel that life or other people have been so cruel to us that a genuine moment of joy is either too good to be true or just another evil ploy to trick us into believing again, just so that the carpet can pulled from under us just one more time.

And in all probability, we, the members of this decidedly tragic generation, just might be right in either assumption. Hey, shit happens right?

But good things happen too.

And more and more, I’m beginning to see that I’m man enough to endure that painful truth.

I’ve told people many times in the past that it’s tiring to be myself. What with an insufferable superego that defines self-worth and success by the amount of pain one endures; so much so that comfort zones and ‘life plateaus’ throw me off my rocker.

Maybe it’s a disease or some undiagnosed syndrome, but I just can’t seem to "go with the flow". I need to jump. I need to leap, to blaze a trail, to do somersaults and backflips. To go where no man has gone before.

But with my butt firmly placed on a cushy seat in the heart of the corporate world, and with "the realities of life" breathing down my neck, things just aren’t as simple as they used to be.

Or are they?

As Fate would have it, I have found an aphorism of hope from a most unlikely sage:

"First thing to do is [have] some balls." - Sadhashiva De Vera

For all my so-called sophistication and "philosophical" considerations, dammit, I think he’s absolutely right.

Alot of us like saying the phrase "Take me as I am", and are empowered by it. And I cannot resist the temptation of asking: But who is "I" [sic]? What exactly do we refer to when we say "I"? Or what characteristics of ourselves do we refer to when we ask people to accept us for what we are?

Granted that the same people who like the cliche would have no problem enumerating their personal pro’s and con’s which they want people to accept, I still feel that something somewhere might be wrong with that line of thinking. The main issue with it is that in effect, it creates an "esssence" of one’s self and there by limiting that self. For example, if by "taking you as you are" we mean accepting you for being goodlooking but stupid, or vice versa, do we not then define and limit ourselves to definition? Are we then conceding that we will forever be proverbial "dumb blondes"? Or are we then encouraging complaceny and hindering self improvement?

Of course in the end, this is probably a false dilemma. Maybe we just like saying it whenever we feel bad about our shortcomings and flaws. I guess the key then is to ask people to accept not everything that you are right now, but just the fact that everyone is a perpetual work in progress. To make reference to an overused joke, just because no one’s perfect, doesn’t mean you don’t keep on practicing.

And lest we think that this is too masochistic a mantra to follow, it is precisely because we love ourselves and more importantly, others, that we then constantly want to become better human beings. Contentment and satisfaction should NOT be equal to stagnation.

Whenever I have second thoughts about the career choices I’ve made so far, I always justify them by saying to myself that I’m doing this so I can have the financial freedom to pursue my passions. i.e., writing and exploring photography and film. But now that I’ve sort of gained a free-er financial rein and a more flexible sked, I am left waiting for my muse.

Every night, I open my friendster, click on ‘update blog’ to start working on something… but then nothing comes to me. Maybe I’m still reeling from the drastic shift in lifestyle. Or worse, I might be assimilating the whole materialistic bourgeois crap I used to vilify. Maybe, to the extent that it’s dulled my aesthetic and social sensibilities.  Like if I made an essay or a short story, maybe it would then just be impertinent self-glorifying musings fermented by boredom.

That makes me think though. Would I be a better artist if I were poor and struggling?

Is suffering a necessary ingredient of ‘good’ art?

Perhaps not. But surely the human experience is. And I feel that with a consciousness that is inundated with the ephemera of materialism, one tends to be too callous to see the whole spectrum of this experience, not only for oneself but moreso for others. Even outside the concept of suffering, one can lose sight of genuine feelings of joy when one is overwhelmed by the contemplation of ever increasing material wealth. Instead of experiencing happiness, one constantly contemplates future happiness. And therein lies the dulling, the numbing effect.

Hey. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.