Ngayon ang isa sa mga araw na hindi ko malilmutan sa tanan ng buhay ko. Sa ganitong araw, tatlong taon na ang nakalipas ay umiiyak ako sa loob ng isang classroom sa U.P. Baguio. Ibinabalita ko sa nanay ko na magkakaanak na 'ko. Hindi ito isang pa-macho-sensitive na post subalit isang paggunita sa isang pangyayaring bumago sa paginting ko sa mga bagay-bagay. Kasama ko ang mga Brods ko sa Frat noong umiiyak ako at todo tulo ang luha at sipon ko. It was not pretty, it was down right ugly.
Araw na naman ng annual Pasiklaban sa U.P. Baguio ngayon. Isa itong tradisyon kung saan nagtitipon ang mga mag-aaral, mga guro at propesor, mga janitors, guards, admin officers, maintenance at ang buong komunidad ng Unibersidad. Para kasi itong malaking Christmas Party kung saan imbitado ang lahat, maging ang mga hindi nag-aral sa U.P. Masaya rin ang mga alumni dahil nagugunita nila ang mga unang araw nila sa Unibersidad, lalo na ang kanilang unang Pasiklaban at ang panahon kung saan wala pang main gates at maayos na mga grounds kung saan pwedeng tumambay.
Masaya raw ang Pasiklaban noong mga unang taon nito. Walang bawal sa kampus, alak, sigarilyo, weeds at kung anu-ano pa. Liberal at wala pang restrictions. Ang kwento ng ibang nakatatanda ay nagbabaklas pa raw sila ng mga lumang bangko para gawing panggatong sa kani-kanilang bonfire. Kontra lamig nga naman dahil sa halos 10 degree na lamig na inaabot nila noon. Balot na balot sila at masayang nag-iinuman habang nakapalibot sa apoy. Maraming "firsts" raw sa mga selebrasyon noon. First and forever.
Noong pumasok naman ako ng U.P., una kong naranasan ang Pasiklaban noong pumasok ako ng Frat. Bagong pasok ako noon at nag-inom kami sa may pond area na kinalaunan ay nalaman kong nirerestore rin ng Frat na pinasukan ko. Masaya, una kong naranasan makapanood ng fireworks display up close and personal. Kasama rin ako sa road trip papuntang Bulacan para bumili ng mga paputok, may mga libre pang kwitis at iba pa dahil sa inabot ng mahigit 20,000 ang binili namin. Masaya, walang tulog at konting kain lang pero masaya. Simple lang kasi, kaunti lang kami noon. Pinapangarap kong makapagsindi rin ng kahon-kahong fireworks, gamit ang sariling lighter at nakasuot ng colors ng Frat. First and forever.
Balik ako sa umpisa ng kwento ko. Pasiklaban noon, umiiyak ako at muntik kong mapunasan ng uhog ko ang mga kahon-kahon ng fireworks na binili namin para sa gabing iyon. Pangatlong Pasiklaban ko na iyon, medyo matagal na rin ako sa Frat at bago sa prospect ng pagkakaroon ng anak. Todo ang iyakan. Tapik sa balikat at himas sa likod ang ginawa ng mga Brods ko at ang mga salita ng paalala. Bago pala kami umamin sa pamilya ng nobya ko ay Brod ko ang naghatid sa akin sa meeting place. Sya rin ang nagtabi ng tatlong hikaw ko dahil baka nga mawala pag nalasog ang katawan ko sa bugbog. Hindi ako nabugbog pero nawala ang mga hikaw. Tinatawanan nalang namin ang panahong yun dahil nasa lalamunan ko na ang betlog ko sa takot. First and forever.
Pangatlong selebrasyon ko na pero hindi pa rin ako nagsasawa noon. Ngayon, sana makahabol ako. Isinusulat ko to habang nasa trabaho at naghihintay ng "go signal" para makaalis na at mabisita ang anak ko. Manonood kami ng mga performances sa Pasiklaban, tatakbo sya uli sa grounds at magpapakilig sa mga chicks sa school. Kukurutin na naman ang pisngi nyang mala-mansanas sa pula at magsusungit sya. Mana sa ama. Ako naman ay mangungumusta sa mga dati kong naging propser at guro. Magtatawanan kami at magpapalitan ng kwento. Papansinin nila sigurado ang gupit ko at ang mga bilbil ko sa tyan at leeg. Medyo maooffend ako pero matutuwa dahil napansin nila ang pagtaba ko. First and forever.
Ang isa sa mga pinakaaabangan ko tuwing taon ang panahong ito dahil kahit magastos ang pagpapa-fireworks, masaya pa rin. Mukhang magkakaroon na ng huling yugto ang fireworks display tradition namin dahil sa iba't-ibang dahilan, lalo na ang environmental concerns at ang pag-funnel ng funds into "more socially significant events." Bullshit ang tawag ko doon. Simula kasi ng maging mag-aaral ako sa Unibersidad ay namulat na ko sa fireworks display. Hindi kumpleto ang Pasiklaban kung wala nito, tulad na rin ng pag nawala ang bonfire sa likod ni Oble at maging ang mga performances ng mga guro mula sa iba't-ibang departamento at kolehiyo. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung hindi lumiliwanag ang madilim na langit kahit na mayroong mga lanterns at mga Christmas lights sa palibot ng kampus. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung hindi mangangawit ang leeg mo sa kakatitig sa mga nagpuputukang bituin at dyamante sa langit. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung walang mga "woooow" at "Ang ganda, Daddy/Mommy!" ng mga batang dinadala ng mga magulang sa grounds ng U.P. Baguio. Kulang ang Pasiklaban kung hindi mo maaamoy ang sariwang pulbura pagkatapos nito. First and Forever ito para sa maraming tao. At makikita mo ito mula sa ibang lugar ng maliit at nagsisiksikang siyudad ng Baguio.
Oo nga, maraming pwedeng gawing proyekto sa 20,000 mahigit na mga paputok. Pero ang saya ng alaala ng mga taong nakakapanood nito ay higit sa isang malaking "socially significant" na proyekto na kahit ang mga pulitiko ng bayan ay madalang nagagawa. Para sa mga aattend pa lang ng Pasiklaban, welcome and let's get hammered. Sa mga bumabalik-balik sa U.P. Baguio sa ganitong panahon bawat taon, ipagpatuloy nyo yan. At sa mga makakapunta mamaya sa grounds, takits na lang. Please alukin nyo ko ng alak kung meron. Manipis lang ang jacket na dala ko. Sana'y marami pa tayong First and forever moments sa U.P. Baguio.
Sana makaabot ako sa fireworks display. Hindi man ako magsisindi ngayong taon dahil alumnus na ako ay masaya pa ring panoorin ang mga mukha ng mga taong nakatutok sa bawat pagsabog ng liwanag sa gabi. Shet, poetic. Di nga, excited ako, first time ko to bilang isa sa mga maraming nagtapos sa Unibersidad. First and forever ulit.
I'm Not A Finished Person
by Gaby Dunn
I think I knew who I was better when I was 14 years old than at any other period in my life. The thought kind of depresses me. At 14, I had all these intense beliefs and ideas about myself and other people. I knew I was “a hippie.” I knew my aesthetic of choice included vintage leather bags and fringe and tie-dye. I kept my hair long and wild like Janis Joplin. I listened almost exclusively to classic rock. But I knew I believed in art and in freedom and in helping others. I wrote and I painted and I read poetry and literature. I believed strongly in human rights. I also wanted to shave my head and join the Peace Corps, and I never doubted for a minute that that’s what I’d do.
Even in college, I feel like I was more sure about who I am than I am now. I was a journalist and I believed in that institution wholeheartedly. I thought for sure that I would only ever report the news, and even held some superiority and disdain for pop culture writers. The last big piece I wrote was an interview with “Call Me Maybe” singer Carly Rae Jepsen. Granted it was for the New York Times Magazine (#humblebrag) but it’s certainly not where I thought my career was headed. Nineteen-year-old Gaby would have some choice opinions for current Gaby. And current Gaby would find them cute, but ultimately worthless. Because I’ve adapted and I’ve changed.
As I’ve grown up, things have become less black and white — colored by experience and hearing about other people’s stances and worlds outside my own. I guess this should be obvious but at 24, which is very young still, I am constantly surprised at how my ideas and opinions can shape-shift. As recently as seven months ago, I might have told you something I believed and I might have really, really believed it at the time. I might have been rigid about it. I might have thought that was the only way for me.
And then you meet someone. Or you get diagnosed with something life-changing. Or someone has a baby. Or you have a baby. Or maybe nothing specific happens. Maybe you just read something or spend some time thinking about a topic and you change.
I feel like I change all the time. I don’t think I’m even the same person I was yesterday or last week or last year. In some ways, it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel like I’m not a solid person, like I don’t have morals or that I’m not intelligent. At the time, I honestly believe the views I’m holding but in two weeks, I could completely change my mind.
Certainly, I’m not made of Play-do: There are beliefs I’ve long held and can’t anticipate ever backing down on. I have always been and will always be a feminist. I’ll always pause the radio if Eric Clapton is playing. I’ll always think George Harrison is the best Beatle. I will always be a writer, in some capacity. (When I was home for Thanksgiving I found a journal of mine from when I was 13 and one of the entries just said: “Someday I hope I am a writer in New York City.” It made me cry.) So these particular aspects of me are non-negotiable. But I love debating or having deep discussions that challenge why someone feels the way they feel. And often, I am open to changing my mind. Does that make me the weaker party? Does it mean I don’t have values or direction? Does it make me too mold-able or, god forbid, too young?
I’ve been thinking maybe it just makes me an “unfinished person.” I don’t claim to know everything or to think other people can’t teach me valuable lessons. Like Chuck Palahniuk wrote: “Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I’ve ever known.” (And yes, I’m aware that quoting Palahnuik in a 20-something, college-educated penned exploration of identity is highly suspect and unoriginal but go with me.) Maybe I know who I am, as a foundation, and then life will keep happening, building in the assets: a light fixture here, a couch here, a mural there.
I don’t think that’s anything to be ashamed of. A lot of us are “unfinished.” Maybe it’s better to think of yourself that way so you don’t get too set in your ways, strict in your beliefs or high-and-mighty about knowing it all. Maybe no one is ever “finished” and if you think you are, you’re about to be wholly and wonderfully and terribly surprised because that’s the way life works.
It makes sense but what's disturbing about this is that it MAKES sense. It is frightening to think about the notion of not knowing yourself fully now as you think you have had back in the day. It's always a fear that creeps up whenever you get your mind to it. Not knowing yourself, the people around you as well. The names and faces that matter may have changed, too. It's some deep shit right there. And I am reading Thought Catalog again.
Being expressive in words can be very advantageous. You can tell people what you mean, what you think and what you really want to say. That’s if, those words are spoken. Writing a letter is very different from speaking up and telling it to the person’s face. Of that, I am sure. I have words but not a voice to back it up.
I’m somehow good at words but only in the written format. And it is not a good thing. Well, only for papers and press releases that I’m working on. But my words escape me when it comes to personal interaction. Those fleeting moments that could have been better with just a few words or a whole paragraph to explain feelings, emotions, sides and point of view.
How many times have we not told the people that matter to us the many things that are going inside our heads? What for? Fear of rejection, insecurity, anxiety, lack of confidence. And then, after that, there’s a gnawing feeling for a time. It lingers and grows on you. For fear of things to change after an exchange of words or confessions, we sometimes risk everything to lay by and be forgotten just so we can avoid uncomfortable moments. Spiral of silence. We communicate to shed our guilt. When we don’t, we are too cozy in our comfort zones.
When was the last time you told your special someone how beautiful she is? How you like her hair falling on her face effortlessly to make you feel like her face was a natural work of art. When was the last time you hugged your mum just for the sake of holding her and imprinting the feeling in your busy head? When was the last time you had a drink or a smoke with your old man to share with him the nuances of growing up as a man? When did you last have a chat with your sister to ask her about everything you can since you are “too busy” at work? Have you ever stroked your man’s brow to whisk away his sweat from all the plumbing work he’s doing at home and told him “Thanks, hun.”
Yea, that got a little out of hand. Speak more. Talk more. Relate more. Silence is a sickness in a point in our lives when we should be dealing with people that will last in our calendars and planners. Looking at people on the public transpo or on the streets talking to people in their lives is sorta disturbing. Yea, it really is. Only because you never use your phone to contact people you care about anymore. You just use it to play Angry Birds when you’re bored and refresh Tweets when you’re being “social.”
We have broken lines that can be reconnected with just words. It’s cool and all, being men and women with few words just as long as those words matter. You don’t have a postpaid plan for nothing. We are on mobile connections all the time. We do Facetime and upload photos on Instagram but we never truly connect. Dig? You can write that shit all you want and dream of a scenario where everything is as good as you can imagine. It’s a shame you can’t share it in a time when all that you need to do to share is press or click a button.
Broken lines, son.
Reflecting on my writing life and process. This is some narcissistic shit, or maybe just an introspection.
I have been pondering on the thought of how did I ever develop this sorta knack for writing. I didn't enjoy it when I was a kid. For all I know, I could have been an architect or a designer due to my earlier influences. I know for a fact that as a kid, I'd been keen on spelling and real bad at math so maybe, just maybe, those are the forces that got my compass to point to the direction of the scribe.
Whatever little left from the things that I still remember from college is that if you're already a 'good writer,' don't take up anything close to writing as a major. Still, that rings a bell whenever I remember it but I can't fully close my mind to the idea. I'm sort of 50-50 on that argument. Yes, I believe that you can't learn style from school, and if you do, you may have a 'template style' that goes along with the diploma that you receive after school.
It's kinda like saying that your degree is useless. Somehow, I feel that too. But not all too much. I learned that there are different ways of writing and different ways to express and cater to the subject matter. That, I think is something you can't learn just by being a 'good writer'or something. I'm not saying that those who didn't have prior and formal writing classes are dupes when it comes to writing. Matter of fact, the more popular and brilliant writers of the world come not from the academe of letters. They are but mere individuals stirred by the desire to express and [unknowingly, sic] impress the world with whatever idea or character or scenario they have or had. Yea, I'm thrown on both sides of the argument. Can't wrap my head over that shit.
Another thing that I've been giving much thought to, lately, is the fact that I really hate doing rewrites or editing of my work. It makes me feel like a cheat. That doesn't mean that I don't check my writing for typos but the whole prospect of re-reading my work and then editing it for better content, context, form and structure is somewhat sketchy to me. I feel like when I write, it should be final and down to the point. Let the regret come later if angry readers swarm in on my comments box. I highly doubt that. That's a bit of history and secret laziness right there. I don't edit my work. I'd like to edit other people's work, in good faith, don't you worry.
Self-editing feels like shortchanging yourself and your readers. Of course, there are times that things are so fucked up in your head that the need to expose them to the world is dampened by the fear of being loathed, trolled and flamed across varying media. Don't go there, they will eat you alive if you are a sick bigoted fuck.
Maybe, that's another reason why I like the name "Guderian"that much. He was a straightforward man. Straight as an arrow.
Edge for life, sonn.
P.S. I forgot something, some people I personally know hate the fact that I sort of do so much filtering of my thoughts that when they come out as words, they're squeaky clean as fuck. Well, thank you. My words are soapy as ever. I'd blow bubbles to your ears so when they burst, you'll hear what I really mean.
Flashes.
Tried a new joint at the local mall earlier. It's a Filipino restaurant that's celebrating the most (probably) Filipino food of all: adobo. The food was good. No, better. It was fulfilling. What made it fulfilling is not just the flavor alone, although it reminds me of home since we are fond of eating adobo with just the right amount of glistening oil and liver. The crew was very hospitable.
I'm sure that it's part of their job to be so but it's a feeling that very few people can fake. The generous servings of steamed rice, it's all-you-can eat btw, and the smiles make a good combo. I know, I'm a rude bastard at times but I always make it a fact to say 'thanks' whenever someone is serving me something to eat.
Kahit sa carinderia, sa turo-turo, sa pwesto ng mga fishball o betamax. Lagi kang magpapasalamat. Kahit banas ka na sa haba ng pila sa MRT at parang wala nang marunong magsabi ng isang salitang dapat ipinupukpok sa sub-conscious at lalo na sa conscious self natin.
What better way to repay their kindness (by not spitting at your food) than a resounding "salamat" to top it off.
That's the least they deserve for doing their jobs and doing it well. It's fun to see people do the same to crew members even if the service is crappy or needs a little tweak for improvement. Did I mention that they have amazing fried garlic toppings on their adobo?
That moment reminded me of a movie I watched. It was a suggestion from a very special friend. Happy tummy. Somewhat happy soul.
