hopeless romantic (2)

In defense of romantics

but is it a malady at all? could it be a genetic propensity or an intrinsic characteristic of the bold who are never satisfied with the ordinary, the predictable, the average. foolish romantics are deemed foolish by their envious neighbors when they meet their doom and yet one would think whether they hadn’t expected that impending tragic outcome. Hadn’t these foolish romantics dared to see that ultimate outcome straight in the eye? Even death could blink at their determination. When all have retreated in fear, or, at the last minute, recanted their claim of passion– the foolish romantics ready to have their heads bashed in, unfazed by humiliation and ridicule, assuming a quixotic air, relentless and resolute, view this “foolishness” as a heroic plunge into the depths thus fulfilling the most noble task of dying for a cause. whatever cause. Love? Revolution? – anyything that pushes one to the brink, oblivious of death.

romantics have the highest heroic sense. it is they who dare ask why things are so and it is they who push the limits set by the status quo. it is they who conjure the vision of a world outside the box. who could not be satisfied with what is given, unable to bear the monotony of cycles or the security of the herd. Thus romantics are, by nature alone and shall forever be lonely despite people who love them.

And in literature they abound. Great writers have paid tribute to them. Ophelia might be the most tragic of Shakepeare’s hopeless devoted romantics. confused and bewildered she goes mad and flings herself into the lake. Young Werther has roused the emotions of much of Europe when Goethe published his story. Young men have emulated Werther’s despair, and in his death, many perceived as victory over unrequited desire. And what about Thomas Mann’s Aschenbach wasting away in Venice over his obsession with beauty in the form of a young man?

the French have mastered re-telling the stories of these foolish romantics. From Victor Hugo’s hunchback to the more recent filimng of Jean de Florette/Manon of the Springs. There’s a bittersweet scene where a peasant has gone insanely in love with Manon, that he sewed her ribbon onto his chest, near his heart– and it stuck to his chest till he died.

surely it can’t be a sickness? It is embedded in our hearts. whether we choose to indulge in this passion or not may be triggered is entirely up to us. The object may not necessarily be someone. it could be an ideology, a scientific discovery, art, an inexpressible religious experience. and yes, when the romantic is assailed by all these, time will stand still.

But i am, of course, exaggerating so as to ingratiate myself among these larger than life luminaries. for I am not one of them entirely. I do allow myself to indulge in this passion and yet up to a certain degree. i fall short of the heroic and so all I could do is admire and adore those who are really hopeless and severe. and yet i do feel the same pain, the same intensity. But my will is much weaker than these who have dared to walk past the forbidden line.

hopeless romantic (1)

i am reposting these random thoughts from my old blog. with a few tweaks here and there, it still pretty much resonates.

hopeless romantic (1)

hopeless romantic. it’s a label tagged over and over again for people who are so much into falling in love– no matter who the object of desire is. pathetic little creatures we are. we dwell in our fantasies. we spin splendid scenarios of intimacies clutching our pillows when we’re in bed, talking to ourselves while we take long walks, collecting daydreams, relishing that tingle of pain that scratches our hearts when we recall a sweet memory. it’s a sickness that I catch less and less now. But when I do catch it (yes, it’s like flu), the intensity is much the same.

I’ve known some people who can easily brush this malady aside. Is there a vitamin that somehow strengthens one’s resistance to it? In fact I think we, hopeless romantics are very few in proportion. We are the stuff films and plays and a host of mediocre tv crap are made of. We are the lifeblood of this otherwise drab existence. and yet others who have managed to keep this passion at bay would, I imagine, laugh at us for being idiots.

i have always believed that amorous love– this feeling, this passion is at its most magnificent when it is without dignity. which paradoxically, by virtue of that lack, in fact, gives it a higher form of dignity instead. My example would be victor hugo’s hapless lonely daughter gone insane over a soldier who didn’t love her. adele, immortalized in truffaut’s the story of adele h. plunged into doing undignifying things for the object of a love that she knows will never be hers. and at the film's end, i would be awestruck by how she had destroyed herself almost willfully for love. and this very fantasy fascinates me. and continues to fascinate me. how much can I really do for love (that song in chorus line comes to mind– i told you– it could get divinely profound or awfully cheesy– it doesn’t matter, this is my blog!) ?

how many times have i been in that similar situation, licking the wounds I inflicted upon myself. painfully deciding to set free the object/s of my desire.

my friends roll their eyes. I don’t have their sympathies. they know I love the feeling of being smitten and getting hurt and going through the rigmarole of unrequited affections. it’s an idiotic state I will avidly get into whenever i get the chance. the risks can get very high indeed. i am beginning to believe it’s giving me the lower back pain. and yet I willingly dive into the murky pool, unmindful of consequences to me, especially.

I watched another french movie about four years ago. I forgot the title. (can anyone supply?) I remember the very first scene: a female cat was in terrific heat and she was quivering in awful passionate cringing desire. it was the story of a married woman who falls madly in love with a rather dispassionate NGO volunteer. when the guy leaves her she suffers a breakdown. Unable to function, she goes into a terrible depression (not unlike the cat in the film's opening credits). she chances upon reading about this obscure Greek myth. there was this cliff where the god Apollo throws hopelessly languid mortals into the sea to cure them of their lovesickness. On one occasion, she goes to Greece with a friend and finds this cliff. she plunges into the water. Her friend thinking that she has committed suicide shouts for help. After a long while, we see her resurface, and immediately we know she has just been cured.

that’s almost what it will take for me to relieve me of this awfully painful yet sweet malady, whenever it comes and comes unrequited. now i realize why i take to swimming much too much. back to the pool.

tagheuer

Matagal na itong tagheuer sa tocador ko. binigay ni khaek sa akin. sabi niya, akin na lang daw. ako naman siyempre tumaba ang puso. wow. tagheuer. "is this orig?" tumango siya. 30k daw ang binayad niya dito. sale. "why are you giving it to me?" sabi niya, nakabili na daw kasi siya ng bagong relo. mas maganda. o di ba? Samantalang ako ito, nagtitiyaga sa isang seiko automatic na tuwing dalawang linggo ay kailangan kong i-adjust dahil bumibilis nang bumibilis ang takbo-- nagiging 30 minutes advanced.

kaso masyadong maluwag ang wrist strap nitong tagheuer at hindi na siya umaandar. kailangan na yatang palitan ang baterya. four or five months ago, dinala ko sa tagheuer store sa makati. sabi nila hindi raw sila repair shop. the only repair shop for tagheuer and other luxury watches is in ali mall daw, sa cubao. ang layo. pinatingnan ko sa ibang repair shop. tuwing nakikita nilang tagheuer ang relo, sinasabi nila, "hindi kami gumagawa niyan, ser. kailangan sa tagheuer niyo ipagawa."

tumagal nang tumagal, di ko na napaayos. until itong pasko. kasama ko si jun nagpasya kaming lakbayin ang alimall. at nakita namin ang repair shop. sosyal. ang tangi nilang inaayos at kinukumpuni ay mga sosyal din na relo: oris, tagheuer, movado, rolex, rado, etc. So pumasok ako, all of sudden feeling one of the few elite na merong tagheuer. nilabas ko ang relo at sinabi ko sa babae sa counter, " Gusto kong ipaayos ito. I think kailangang palitan ng baterya at saka paiiklian ko na rin ang metal strap" Tumayo ang babae, "Wait a minute po, sir." At pumasok siya sa loob ng isang pinto na piring nakasara.

Naghintay kami ni Jun. Luminga-linga kami at nakita namin ang mga binebentang tagheuer, longines, etc. wow, sabi ko sa isip ko, pag naayos na itong tagheuer ko-- pareho na kami ni tiger woods... not about that part na marami siyang kabit, and then again... pareho na nga kami talaga ni tiger woods!

biglang naputol ang aking munting daydreaming nang lumabas ang babae, with a smile. Lumapit ako at sabi niya, "Sir, saan niyo ho binili itong relo?" Halos pabulong. Sabi ko, bigay lang sa akin ng kaibigan. Tila hindi na makakaatras pa ang babae at kailangan na niang sabihin ang tutoo. tumingin siya sa mga mata ko at sinabing, "it's not authentic." Siyempre nagulat ako. Nagulat na napahiya. "We don't repair watches that are not authentic" 'Not authentic' sounded a lot less painful than 'fake.'

Ngumiti ako. Nagkamot ng ulo. "Gago talaga yung kaibigan ko. kaya pala binigay sa akin. Na-ninyos inosentes ako." I got the watch at lumabas kami ni jun. Tawa kami nang tawa. Pero sa loob loob ko, nakita kong papalayo nang papalayo sa tabi ko si tiger woods. Parang bigla siyang may naamoy na hindi maganda at di na lumingon, tuluyang nawala.

bumaba kami sa first floor. merong watch repair shop sa gilid. sabi ko, kailangan kong palagyan ng bagong baterya at paikliin ang metal strap. tiningnan ng repairman. hinihintay kong sabihin niyang "hindi kami gumagawa niyan, ser..." pero para bang biglang nawala ang magic spell ng relo. Kailangan lang pala may magsabing hindi authentic ang relo ko at biglang-bigla, lahat ng repairman, alam na agad na peke nga ang relong ito. Sa loob loob ko, ang galing! Parang nagkaisa silang lahat na lokohin ako.

Pag-uwi, kinausap ko si khaek. "sabi mo genuine ito." Ngumiti siya sa akin, tapos tumawa. Halos isang taon din niyang hinintay ang punchline ng kanyang practical joke. Deadma.

kinuwento ko ito sa isang mayamang kaibigan. akala ko matatawa siya sa kuwento ko. ngumiti lang siya. "nothing special. ganyan ang ginagawa ng kapatid ko pag pumupunta sa china. bumibili ng maraming relo: tagheuer, oris, movado, rolex, rado-- murang halaga. sino ba'ng makakaalam na fake? Sasabihin mo ba? ipagyayabang mo bang fake? ano ba'ng alam ng mga ordinaryong tao na fake nga iyan?" akala ko kasi, pag kinuwento ko sa kanya, matatawa siya sa kacheapan ko. Dagdag pa niya, "e kung tutoo nga iyan, at sinuot mo, naglakad ka sa kalye. ipagmamalaki mo bang genuine iyan? Siguro sa new york o sa paris. Pero dito? sa cubao? sa recto? o kahit sa makati cinema square? Ako hindi. itatago ko iyun. E pag hindi siya authentic... maipagyayabang mo, at wala kang takot maglakad sa kalye. bukod pa diyan, bukas sira na siguro iyan. Manghihinayang ka ba? Ha?"

Napatingin ako sa kanya. Seryoso ang tanong niya. So sumagot ako, "Hindi... bigay lang naman kasi, e."

Tawanan kami. Pero sa loob loob ko.. sana hindi masira agad. sana hindi bukas.

The Reluctant Critic

Gilbert Cadiz, aka Gibbs is a writer of theater reviews, news about theater events, among other things, of course. A lot of theater artists call him a theater critic, but he modestly balks at the label saying that he sees himself more as "a journalist covering theater, that's it." ok then, Probably the best journalist for theater I've ever met. during my younger years, we'd read reviews and press write-ups written by the Orosa sisters (Leonor and Rosalinda), Barbara Dacanay, Wilhelmina Orozco, Nestor Torre, Jr., Amadis Guerrero (who still writes, though covering more than just theater.). and then there's the next generation of reviewers, the one I can recall in that league is Cora Llamas.

Gibbs laid out his own perspective as "someone who covers theater." when I read this piece of self-explanation, it got me thinking and, well a bit confused. So I asked if I could post it on my blog, along with a counter-"monologue" that i'd set out to write. Maybe Gibbs and the rest will ask what a counter monologue is. Honestly, I have no idea. But let's see where this goes....

just one note: GIBBS' lines were taken verbatim from Gibbs himself. I may have added a few "stage directions" for effect. gibbs' lines, however, i must take full responsibility for.

So pasintabi kay Gibbs, the reluctant critic:

LIGHTS FADE IN. GIBBS CADIZ, approaching 40, is seated on a stool, he smiles at the audience-- all of whom are theater artists. We sense a bit of anxiety from that smile, but then a hint of mischief and then two blinks. He takes a deep breath, holds it a bit and then...

GIBBS:

Akin lang 'to, my own perspective, and i don't intend to speak for the rest... (a beat)... frankly, and with no disrespect meant to anyone in the theater world--i don't consider myself part of the theater community.

(He looks around and notices that the audience stops short. He raises his hand. House lights are turned on. He sees actor friends, director friends, fellow critics, national artists for theater, and in one corner, near the exit door, sits gibbs cadiz, approaching 40, listening to GIBBS onstage, a bit circumspect, pen in hand, with a notebook on his lap, but waiting for what he's going to say next.)

GIBBS:

(a little cautious at first but eventually getting more confident) I... see myself as a journalist covering theater, that's it. i am from the outside looking in. and whenever i write a review of a play, it is, in effect, my report of what i had experienced while watching the play. i try to describe what i saw and what i felt, and why i think i felt that way from what i had seen...that means that i am, in fact, a member of the audience. i suppose with one difference:

(At this point, we hear a voice from that same seat near the exit door. gibbs, seated on that chair at the rear is syaing something almost simultaneously, but inaudible. GIBBS continues.)

GIBBS:

I am a bit more informed about theater--not because i am smarter, but because i have chosen to spend more time, effort, money, etc. watching plays and covering the industry. the sheer number of plays i watch, the private research i do, the effort i put in to try to understand and see in perspective everything that i'm able to watch--even if i'm half-alert lang, that should make me a bit more informed than the average theater-goer who goes for a more select repertoire of plays. i try to watch all--simply because i like to and i enjoy it.

(Audience of theater artists turn around. gibbs stands up and approaches Gibbs, who remains seated on the stool. gibbs walks on stage.)

gibbs:

so this is how it feels! i could never imagine myself--

GIBBS:

This is not part of my job at the paper. My job is simply to edit. that's my main job. i wasn't assigned to cover theater. i took it on my own because watching plays isn't at all work for me--i enjoy it without reservation. it's a privilege.

gibbs:

sino?

GIBBS:

Ha?

gibbs:

sino sa ating dalawa?

GIBBS:

Ang alin?

gibbs:

sino ang journalist at sino ang nag-eenjoy?

GIBBS:

It doesn't have to be a contradiction. I mean at any rate, I don't see myself as a theater practitioner and more an outsider covering the field, i limit my coverage to what's ultimately presented in front of me. to be specific: i am not, and don't see myself as, part of the the process that playwrights, directors and actors go through backstage.

gibbs:

that's true.

(GIBBS and gibbs looks backstage. they see the stage manager, looking confused, turning her script back and forth, not knowing exactly where they are right now.)

GIBBS:

in fact, on a couple of occasions, i've been invited by two directors to attend their final rehearsals and asked to "critique" the work/offer improvements. i refused at both times, because i felt it wasn't my place to get involved in the process.

gibbs:

why not? di ba mga kaibigan mo sila?

GIBBS:

that's just it... look, as as an audience member, generally when i watch a play i have not had the chance to read the text (unless it's previously published/staged and the text is available commercially), or learn the process it's gone through before it eventually reached the stage. i can only judge what's ultimately, finally presented on stage before me. of course, if i am discerning enough, i should be able to understand what the material is talking about, to appreciate the quality of the text, to see how stagecraft is able to bring it alive before my eyes, etc.

gibbs:

and so?

GIBBS:

but again, everything based on a product being presented to me already functionally whole, and whose evolution i wasn't privy to. that means that the way you as a playwright/director look at your work, and the way i look at it, would certainly vary. ideally, i suppose, a one-on-one correspondence between what the playwright and director are trying to say and what an informed audience member actually gets would be most welcome.

gibbs:

a product.

GIBBS:

yes.

(There is a silence. Gibbs looks at his audience. All of them in their evening best, as though it was awards night. they look at their tickets. We hear the audience getting a bit shifty, a little confused. "akala ko awards night ito?"-- "ano ito, front act?" "marunong ba siyang kumanta?" "di ba seminarista siya dati? baka..." But this too dies down.)

GIBBS:

when an artist releases his work to the public, it's no longer his.

(At this point a sharp spotlight is focused on a playwright, killing himself. some directors stand up and shout "Bravo.")

GIBBS and gibbs, together:

the people who will look at it will invest their own viewpoints, perspectives, biases, temperament, etc. into it, and take away from it whatever suits their state of being at that moment. that's art.

gibbs:

At what point does it become art? doesn't it become art at the point when someone perceives it? the world became art, when humans evolved to appreciate Creation. the world waited thousands of years: rehearsing, editing, covering previous drafts, rewriting, creating multiple palimpsests before man's awareness was born and opened his eyes, perceived the world, breathless for a moment, then uttered, "beautiful." and so art is created not merely by its creators but completed by its witnesses. so tell me, Gibbs, which came first, man the critic or man the artist?

GIBBS:

But i think it might be wishing for the moon for an artist to wish that the public will get him or her every time, fully and down to the last nuance.

gibbs:

exactly. but aren't we all?

GIBBS:

aren't we all what?

gibbs:

wishing for that moon... or, to put it another way, bound to be misinterpreted. critics, journalists, artists, writers are almost always bound to be misinterpreted. But then, there is, always, the factor of Consensus. When audiences watch a play or film, when viewers look at a painting, when readers read a book- they may have different interpretations but they do arrive at a certain consensus, no matter how contentious.

GIBBS:

A contentious consensus...

gibbs:

In the end, the work gets its "verdict" of being a critical success, a box office hit, a fluke, a classic, or a forgettable pretentious flop. And this "verdict" is ultimately handed out by the summation of a consensus of artists, critics, and the public audience. and the work latches on to that "verdict", doesn't it? the critic's opinion is just that: an opinion. a ballot, an articulate vote that will eventually mix in with the general regard for the work. Sometimes we influence our readers, we convince them that our point of view is the definitive one, or maybe that's what we'd like to think. But sometimes, we ourselves boldly proclaim something that the public disagrees with. We pan a work, and the work becomes a huge success...

GIBBS:

thanks to us?

(they both laugh. a silence.)

GIBBS: (continues)

i write for a general-circulation paper. my audience consists of people like me--people who read, who try to be updated, who are reasonably intelligent and open-minded--but who are not part of the backstage, offstage life of theater. we don't know the process, we only get to see the final product.

gibbs:

but YOU chose to demarcate that line.

GIBBS:

which line?

gibbs:

the line between off and on stage.

GIBBS:

Shouldn't we?

gibbs:

But you said you are a journalist for theater! shouldn't you probe into what's happening behind the curtains, as well? why should you confine yourself to what you see on-stage? why should you deprive yourself of knowing the "process". A journalist surely must know the ins and outs of something, yes? And maybe, so should the critic.

GIBBS:

what i can write are my opinions about what i see--sabi nga ni ebert, what is a review but an opinion? and he's won a pulitzer for his. yun lang.

gibbs:

hmm. the same Ebert who panned Brilliantes Mendoza as he went on to win Best director... haha... but seriously, why would you deliberately draw your curtain from seeing what's happening off-stage because of that? Shouldn't a critic/journalist be just as interested in how this "product" is made? for how can a critic sufficiently understand artistic intentions and weigh them to ascertain whether these intentions succeeded or not, if he is not aware of how the piece was being set up in the first place? Shouldn't an art critic know about paints, colors, brushes and how the artist created the images on the canvas? Shouldn't a music critic know about harmonics, technique, dynamics, even notation and how the musician uses them to compose his work? Should a theater critic be confined to just THE work? Or is this your approach-- the approach that probably distinguishes a critic from... a reviewer.

GIBBS:

Well, now that you've mentioned it... the word 'critic' has always carried a lot of baggage such that, in the beginning, i never used it on myself. ibang mga tao ang unang gumamit niyan to describe what i was doing. i was content to say i was writing about plays. the long antagonistic relationship between critics and artists was something na i thought needn't necessarily be where i would end at, for two reasons.

one, i come from a position of friendship and support. i like the theater, i wish it to succeed, i have enormous respect for the people in it. that's precisely why i devote a big amount of my time covering it (inquirer does not pay at all for my pamasahe going to plays, or tickets whenever i need to buy, or pay me for the reviews i publish--kasama na yun sa basic sweldo ko) and getting more people to be interested in it via my blog.

two: i want to be as fair and objective as possible. that's the main reason why i don't want to get involved in the backstage/offstage process and become, in effect, an insider, a practitioner just like you. i'd like to believe i can honor your and your peers' work by keeping myself at a certain distance. quite a number have taken this the wrong way, but i also consciously don't hang out with theater folk, even if, in an ideal world, i'm thinking the closest friends i have would be artists from there too---given the shared likes and interests. if i weren't covering theater, i'd probably be an all-out groupie sa teatro. totoo yan!

but because i'm covering you guys, i just feel it's the proper thing to do, na wag ako maging intimately involved. training namin yan sa dyaryo--you are not part of the beat you cover. friendly, but not familiar--because the detachment and distance will (hopefully) help me see things in a clearer, fairer manner.

gibbs:

no one can be objective in the world of art, we both know that. Fair, yes, but objective? the critic has his own opinions, and therefore must take a stand. Journalists, however are a different lot-- which makes our position quite untenable now. Critics do not usually mingle with artists because everyone knows how hard it is to criticize your friends. you know that, don't you? Remember how many times we got the cold shoulder from those who were hoping we'd give them a "thumbs up". But that's what we in the Inquirer call par for the course. Critics get that all the time. But when journalists get it, they usually show up dead.

GIBBS:

(looks at the audience of artists)

it all comes down to this. your process is your own.

gibbs:

the process continues with the audience and back to the artists, should they wish to keep on polishing the project. many times, the critics offer a viewpoint that enriches the work-- unlike film that has a more definite finish. In the theater, ideally we'd have previews so the players can improve upon the work. Imagine new works being developed through years of constant exchange with artists and critics/audiences until they truly open to the general public as a "final product." Shouldn't we work towards that process as well? they've been doing that all across the U.S. before they open on Broadway, for instance.

GIBBS:

But i'm happy enough to be at the receiving end of their creative efforts! believe me, i may pan a work, i may find something objectionable with it, but in the grand scheme of things, i'm always grateful enough na me naipapalabas, me nagagawa at me napapanood.

i can't guarantee i will see the playwright/director's intention with 100-percent accuracy, all the time. all i can promise is, with everything at my disposal sa puntong yun, bubuksan ko ang isip ko sa kung anuman ang gustong pumasok. i know i will never satisfy everyone; me magagalit at magagalit sa opinyon ko, but wala ako magagawa sa ganun--in the same way that artists would have to resign themselves to the fact that their works will be received in as many different ways as there are viewers. ganun siguro talaga. we have more in common than we think.

gibbs:

and yet, as critic or journalist: knowing the process, what happens backstage, interviewing the director/playwright about their intentions and juxtaposing this with what you've seen onstage, witnessing the rehearsal, contextualizing this project in the whole scheme of theater history, if you must, and writing about it with all this in mind: shouldn't this be our contribution to the "ecology of theater"?

(GIBBS and gibbs look at each other.)

gibbs:

(avoids GIBBS' eye and looks away)

but then again, it may be a responsibility too much to ask from us, i guess.

GIBBS:

(looks down on the floor.)

there's just so few of us. we cannot take on so much.

(Silence.)

gibbs:

(goes up to GIBBS, a pat on his shoulder)

We who watch are part of the process, Gibbs. But yes, by all means, be fair.

(gibbs walks off. GIBBS goes back to his stool, sits and looks at the audience. a long silence.)

(LIGHTS FADE. )

Think before you speak

In what language do you think? english? pinoy? or the vernacular? steven pinker, author of "the language instinct" says no to any of these choices. i've been reading this fascinating book on language and how it works for us. i've always thought the reason it's hard to translate pinoy to english is because i "think in pinoy". but pinker says it's really just my imagination. I confuse thinking with words. and well, as i come to THINK about it, he may be right. Common sense, yah? everyone has the capacity for it. from the people of tacurong to the cosmopolitan citizens of paris. we all have thoughts and steven pinker dares to claim that the "language" we think in is more like "universal" language he calls "mentalese."

so thought and language are two distinct, separate faculties. the next thing he proposes is that our capacity for language is an instinct. not much different from a hen's urge to incubate her eggs. and this instinct begins to be at its most active during the first three years of our lives onward to about six or seven? we normally enter into what he calls a "grammar explosion"-- where we, almost automatically learn the grammatical structures of our mother tongue. we get a sense of what's understandable and what's incomprehensible, what for Hamlet would be just a torrent of "words, words, words" and what would have the "correct" arrangement of these otherwise meaningless words. this window of opportunity for language closes as we grow older. and that, he says, explains why adults have a more difficult time learning a new language.

so kung ganun pala, is growing up learning two languages at the same time really not a problem, after all? and so maybe that explains why i tend to use one language in a situation and use the other language in another context. for example, when I'm feeling contentious, i tend to use english more than pinoy. I feel that english can more accurately express the subtle differences of my arguments or tends to be more precise in pointing out one detail in my rebuttal. But if, during that same debate, things get heated up and, if my statements become more personal, then pinoy words tend to insert themselves into the fray. or say, i'm waxing romantic, i tend to use pinoy "archaisms" or kapag i'm in a creative mood and start writing a poem, my pinoy vocabulary comes to the fore like a shower of words i thought i could never use. but when i read a piece, not just my own, when i begin to to read "critically," english comes in handy. the switch is almost automatic for me.

Pero siyempre may mga overlaps iyan. sometimes I have had to write formal pieces in Pinoy. i catch myself reaching for an English-Pilipino dictionary to aim at expressing myself more precisely. and when I see all the possible words in the entry, i select the best pinoy word according to... to what... according to context and most importantly, according to feel. for instance when i want to use the word "provocative"-- do i mean nanunulsol? or nangyayamot? or nanghahamon? or nanggagalit? in this way, i achieve precision in my pinoy by going through english as my prism.

E, baka nga tama si steven pinker. I think in "mentalese" and dahil I'm isang Filipino na may history ng pananakop ng Americans, I can use either wika as it suits me. Pero nga naman, mahirap kung pagsasabayin. pero bakit naman hindi? the jamaicans speak english in a particular way, and rastafari has reflected this language as a fitting medium for their ideology, di ba? or why can't we, to use steven pinker's term, "creolize" our english-pinoy? baka naman doon papunta ang jejemon, di kaya? so what looks like a bad development for language, may actually be something good in the long run. baka ang kailangan lang ng jejemon ay... isang political philosophy deep enough to enthuse the next crop of intellectuals/hippies/activists of this bayan kong sawi.

Ambot, wa ko know. Bahala na si batman.

Hindi ako nagtapos

hindi ako nagtapos kaya hindi ako pwedeng magturo sa kolehiyo o kahit saang eskuwelahan. kaya iniengganyo ako ng mga kaibigan kong propesor na tapusin na ang aking AB Philippine Studies. Isang beses, muntik na akong makumbinsi ng isang kaibigan na ngayon ay isa nang PhD at may posisyon na sa pamantasang pinanggalingan ko. Kaya isang araw, wala naman akong masyadong ginagawa nuon, sinubukan kong sundan ang kanyang payo.

Nagpunta ako sa registrar's office para alamin kung ano nga ba ang status ng aking paggiging estudyante, mga mahigit labinglimang taon na ang nakakaraan. Nagulat ako kasi andun pa rin ang rekord ko. ipinakita ito sa akin ng isang clerk. nagbalik sa isang iglap ang maraming alaala ko sa kolehiyo. nuon ang yabang yabang ko. feeling ko hindi ko kailangan itong degree. pinagtatawanan ko ang mga kapwa ko estudyanteng nagkakandarapang makakuha ng degree, habang ako, ang tapang tapang kong pinaniniwalaang hindi mahalaga ang magtapos. ang mahalaga'y mapalaya ang isip, mapalaya ang damdamin, mapalaya ang bayan. kaalinsabay ng tapang ng loob, ng yabang na naramdaman ko, naramdaman kong suportado ito ng kilusang sinalihan ko. Noon, hindi mahalaga sa akin ang magkaroon ng diploma. romantiko akong tao. hindi lang sa larangan ng pakikipagrelasyon kundi sa usapin ng pagtingin sa buhay, daigdig. Sa madaling salita, romantiko din ang pagtingin ko sa aklasang bayang sinusulong namin sa kilusan. Inimadyin kong makakapagtapos ako, nang may tunay na ngiti sa aking mga labi, nang may buong pagmamayabang sa madla, kung ibang sistemang pang-edukasyon na ang inilatag sa bayan. Makapagtatapos ako, nang may kapayapaan sa puso kung nagtagumpay na ang rebolusyon. Weh. Nagdaan ang people power, at mrami pang signos pulitikal-- hindi naman nangyari yun.

Fast forward sa araw ng readmission: nang ipakita sa akin ang transcript ko, May 24 units akong penalty na idinagdag sa akin, para makapagtapos. Sabi sa akin ng kaibigan kong propesor, "ok lang iyan. mag-enrol ka sa mga kakilala nating mga titser. alam na nila ang ginagawa mo. Marami ka nang sinulat, marami ka na ring achievments-- e kumbaga, baka sila na ang mahiyang maging titser mo." May pag-aatubili ako, kasi parang, ano nga ba? Mag-eenrol ako para tapusin ang kaletsehang ito, mga isang taong mahigit na pormalidad ang titiisin ko, para makamit ko ang aking diploma. Nang sa gayon, pwede na akong kunin ng departamento para makapagturo ng pagsulat ng dula. Dahil kulang na kulang ang nagtuturo ng pagsulat ng dula.

Nung araw na iyun, sabi ko, wala naman akong ginagawa, at saka nandito na rin lang ako, ay di sige. So ang una kong dapat gawin ay magpapirma ng mga clearance. sa Admin, sa university registrar, at sa kung saan saan pa. Buong pagpapasensiya akong pumila nang pumila. at doon natandaan ko rin ang mga araw ko sa kolehiyo-- ang daming pila. pila sa pag-eenrol ng mga klase, pila sa loob ng ROTC para lang makakuha ng class card. Napapangiti ako habang naaalala ko ang kapangahasan namin noon. Noon, nag-eenrol ako para makasama ko ang mga kapwa ko estudyanteng sabay-sabay na lalabas sa classroom para magprotesta. Nag-eenrol ako nuon para tumayo at tuligsain ang reaksyunaryong pananaw ng ilang titser ko sa mga kursong hindi ko naman gustong kunin. Nag-eenrol ako para makinig sa mga student lider, at mga mahuhusay na propesor na humihimok ng radikal na pagbabago hindi lamang sa pamantasan kundi sa buong bayan. Pero ngayon, eto ako, nakapila sa isang binakurang daanan, kung saan maraming estudyanteng naghihintay na makapasok sa isang kolehiyo, para ano? Para magkadiploma. Ngayon, nakapila ako, walang yabang, pinagpapwisan, pero kiming naghihintay ng readmission slip.

Pagdating ng mga alas-tres ng hapon, nakuha ko ang readmission slip ko. Ngayon, pwede na akong mag-enrol. binasa ko ang readmission slip ko. Pero wala naman akong masyadong maintindihan. Ang naaalala ko lang nung mga sandaling yun ay yung sabi ng kaibigan kong propesor, " pag nakatapos ka na, pwede ka nang magturo dito."

Dala-dala ang readmission slip, pumila na ako sa unang kursong eenrolan ko. napatingin ako sa malayo. Matagal tagal din akong napatitig. minsan, napapasulyap ako sa hawak kong readmission slip. sumagi sa isip ko ang lahat ng mga nagawa ko sa labas ng pamantasang ito. kung paano ako natutong magsulat ng dula, nang walang tulong ng pamantasang ito. Kung paano ako natutong bumasa at sumuri ng mga obrang pampanitikan at pandulaan, nang walang tulong ng pamantasang ito. Kung paano ako nakipagbalitaktakan sa ilang mga propesor at mga mandudula ng iba't ibang bansa, nang walang tulong ng pamantasang ito. Kung paano ako nagturo ng pagsulat ng dula sa mga estudyante ng Masters in Education mula sa iba't ibang panig ng Pilipinas, nang walang tulong ng pamantasang ito. Napakurap ako sandali. Lumingon ako sa kalsada. At dahan-dahan akong tumalikod at umalis sa pila.

Hindi yabang ang naramdaman ko. Kundi, kawalan ng interes. bukod sa maghangad akong magkadiploma, ano pa nga ba ang silbi nitong pag-eenrol ko? Mula sa pag-aatubili, dahan-dahang naging sigurado ang mga hakbang ko papalayo sa pamantasan. sumakay ako ng dyip, palabas ng campus. Isinuksok ko ang readmission slip sa maliit na bulsa ng bag ko. At yon na ang huling beses kong nakita ito.

Lagi ko pa ring hinahangaan ang mga nakapagtapos na tulad ng mga kaibigan ko sa departamento. Pinagsisisihan ko pa rin kung bakit hindi ko tinapos ang una kong kursong pinasok sa kolehiyo. gusto kong maging duktor nuon. B.S. biology ang una kong pinasukan. Labis ko pa ring pinagsisihan kung bakit ako nag-shift ng kurso at napunta sa departamento ng Filipino at Philippine Studies na katatatag lamang nuon. At siguro hanggang ngayon, may kaunti pa rin akong pagnanasang makapagtapos. Ng kahit na anong kurso. Pero ewan ko ba. Hindi ko na makita ni maramdaman ang halaga ng pagtatapos. Dahil marami-rami rin naman akong natapos sa larangang pinili ko.

ang malungkot lang, ang tanging kinikilala ng akademya ay ang mga taong nagtapos sa kanilang institusyon. hindi nito kikilalanin ang mga taong nagtapos sa labas ng kaniyang campus. wala namang halong pag-iimbot iyan. At tinatanggap ko iyan katulad ng pagtanggap ko sa marami pang bahagi ng buhay natin na madalas nating ituring na "E sa ganun talaga, e."