TEARDROPS
It’s already 10.40pm and I know I should be sleeping. No matter how hard I tried of convincing myself to sleep now (or I’d be totally bald in the next 5 years), I only get to find myself going back to incessantly annoying thoughts. So I decided to leave a few more words to hopefully translate everything on this blog.
I feel like I've been crying the whole day—In fact, I actually cried so hard in the afternoon while being so... emotionless. Apathetic.
Have you ever experienced that moment of suddenly finding yourself crying out with no reason at all?
I must be really pushing myself into crying. Well at least I still had the energy to make myself believe that.
I knew what this is but I was too complacent to know. I was being so full of myself, believing that I STILL do things righteously without exercising humility and reverence to the One who provided me of every single thing I ask or otherwise.
Now I am contently crying my heart out as I accept all these by heart--that I still make mistakes. Everyone does. But because I put my trust in Him without leaning on my own understanding (Proverbs 3:5), I am at peace.
I’m dusting everything off and be back to where I should go.
May the Lord help me with all I do.
THE HARDEST THING ABOUT DEFEATING THE PURPOSE
My dreams are eating me up and alive.
It began when my deceased grandmother asked me about one of the simplest yet cringeworthy questions that my 10-year old self would never want to answer: my ambition. Immature as I was, I did not hesitate nor try to think an ounce about it and quickly I answered (for the sake that I have an ambition), “I want to be a teacher.”
I felt that her facial expression was a sign of complete approval. For a once recognized teacher in the municipality, hearing this was something she’d be proud telling our relatives any time shortly.
Fast forward, I believed that being a writer as my full time profession has just been a heaven sent favor. The hobby that I enjoyed doing for the longest time became my ultimate bread and butter. Of course, writing per se isn’t bad at all. I even believed during my first few years in the industry that writing is the product of the musings of our heart, mind, and soul.
Yet, with the ever changing needs of our world, doing things I long deemed as honorable eventually broke everything that I hoped for-- deliberately and profusely.
And it all took place during the first semester of 2014, in the Polytechnic University, Sta Mesa Manila.
****
My Philippine Literature professor wasn’t like any other professor like those who try to look like one. In fact, my professor was apparently like those of fervent followers of Che Guevarra in Manila: black shirt, unwashed pants, and yes, youthful independent aura. Despite all these, I tried to convince myself that I’m a believer of the old adage of “do not judge the book by its cover” while attempting so hard not to be bothered by his radical and rebellious looks at all. However, his thoughts did.
His stance about contemporary Philippine Literature was, if I may say, impressive. I was taken aback by it, as it was my first time to hear something so profound from a literature professor, who never failed to emphasize his ardent passion in the industry. Due to his moving free speeches and allegorical citations, I heard the name Rogelio Ordonez.
****
Rogelio Ordonez is, according to my professor, one of the iconic founders and pioneers of Philippine Literature. His literary pieces were published in the historically and academically acclaimed literary anthology entitled "Mga Agos sa Disyerto" which was published in the 1960s, alongside other renowned Filipino writers such as Efren Abueg, Rogelio Sicat, and Edgardo M. Reyes. Boy, did I never realize that Ordonez’ story could be this so dramatic, as I listened to my professor utter every bit of it like a complete masterpiece. Eventually, I found myself so engrossed by just about knowing a lot more of his accomplishments.
Curious as a cat, I read a lot of Ordonez work and then, something in one of his write-ups made my world collapse in its entirety.
“The writer must not primarily write for money’s sake. He must write because he wants to write. The taste of the reader is only secondary, if at all. For unless he is ready to sacrifice the reader’s predisposition to value judge the writer’s work on the scale of popularity — not on literary merits — the creative writer loses his social purpose, his creative writing. “
I stopped.
My world stopped.
I’ve been doing things wrong—and I have known it since day one.
Everything that goes bad in between just defeats the purpose.
(to be continued..)
My dreams are eating me up and alive.
It began when my deceased grandmother asked me about one of the simplest yet cringeworthy questions that my 10-year old self would never want to answer: my ambition. Immature as I was, I did not hesitate nor try to think an ounce about it and quickly I answered (for the sake that I have an ambition), “I want to be a teacher.”
I felt that her facial expression was a sign of complete approval. For a once recognized teacher in the municipality, hearing this was something she’d be proud telling our relatives any time shortly.
Fast forward, I believed that being a writer as my full time profession has just been a heaven sent favor. The hobby that I enjoyed doing for the longest time became my ultimate bread and butter. Of course, writing per se isn’t bad at all. I even believed during my first few years in the industry that writing is the product of the musings of our heart, mind, and soul.
Yet, with the ever changing needs of our world, doing things I long deemed as honorable eventually broke everything that I hoped for-- deliberately and profusely.
And it all took place during the first semester of 2014, in the Polytechnic University, Sta Mesa Manila.
****
My Philippine Literature professor wasn’t like any other professor like those who try to look like one. In fact, my professor was apparently like those of fervent followers of Che Guevarra in Manila: black shirt, unwashed pants, and yes, youthful independent aura. Despite all these, I tried to convince myself that I’m a believer of the old adage of “do not judge the book by its cover” while attempting so hard not to be bothered by his radical and rebellious looks at all. However, his thoughts did.
His stance about contemporary Philippine Literature was, if I may say, impressive. I was taken aback by it, as it was my first time to hear something so profound from a literature professor, who never failed to emphasize his ardent passion in the industry. Due to his moving free speeches and allegorical citations, I heard the name Rogelio Ordonez.
****
Rogelio Ordonez is, according to my professor, one of the iconic founders and pioneers of Philippine Literature. His literary pieces were published in the historically and academically acclaimed literary anthology entitled "Mga Agos sa Disyerto" which was published in the 1960s, alongside other renowned Filipino writers such as Efren Abueg, Rogelio Sicat, and Edgardo M. Reyes. Boy, did I never realize that Ordonez’ story could be this so dramatic, as I listened to my professor utter every bit of it like a complete masterpiece. Eventually, I found myself so engrossed by just about knowing a lot more of his accomplishments.
Curious as a cat, I read a lot of Ordonez work and then, something in one of his write-ups made my world collapse in its entirety.
“The writer must not primarily write for money’s sake. He must write because he wants to write. The taste of the reader is only secondary, if at all. For unless he is ready to sacrifice the reader’s predisposition to value judge the writer’s work on the scale of popularity — not on literary merits — the creative writer loses his social purpose, his creative writing. “
I stopped.
My world stopped.
I’ve been doing things wrong—and I have known it since day one.
Everything that goes bad in between just defeats the purpose.
(to be continued..)
Eulogy for Eulogia
The house of joy and laughter is no longer what it used to be. It was the second night I saw you lying in THAT casket. The house was so dark. Sad. Lonely. Perhaps even the house mourned for you.
I felt the sadness but I didn't mind; I looked at every corner of the house, but I didn't see what I've been looking for. I tried to take a peek at your room, but I felt pangs of fear--Am probably scared because I might eventually come into my senses and terribly realize you're already gone. OR perhaps the thought of seeing you standing in the dark, smiling at me would give me my premature death. Well, a young woman can horribly imagine.
I tried to be brave; I looked at your room but all I saw was darkness. I tried to keep it cool because it was scary. My very moment of great pretension.
I looked thrice at your room; maybe I was expecting you to come out and ask, "tara ne? Nagkakan na kamo? Sisay kaibahan mo?" Although the thought was really nice—thought or a glimpse of a memory—I was on the brink of crying.
I ran upstairs because I can't trust myself with my emotions any longer. The house was empty. It longed for its owners. The living room cannot be called as it literally was; it became a huge, dark, and lonely area of what we called home.
You're gone.
I tried to REALLY keep my cool the day I arrived until I left the town.
Now I'm missing you more than ever, Mama Ying.
Perhaps I am not as emotionally so strong to hold back my tears--for you.
I will be back.
We'll see each other—again.
The house of joy and laughter is no longer what it used to be. It was the second night I saw you lying in THAT casket. The house was so dark. Sad. Lonely. Perhaps even the house mourned for you.
I felt the sadness but I didn't mind; I looked at every corner of the house, but I didn't see what I've been looking for. I tried to take a peek at your room, but I felt pangs of fear--Am probably scared because I might eventually come into my senses and terribly realize you're already gone. OR perhaps the thought of seeing you standing in the dark, smiling at me would give me my premature death. Well, a young woman can horribly imagine.
I tried to be brave; I looked at your room but all I saw was darkness. I tried to keep it cool because it was scary. My very moment of great pretension.
I looked thrice at your room; maybe I was expecting you to come out and ask, "tara ne? Nagkakan na kamo? Sisay kaibahan mo?" Although the thought was really nice—thought or a glimpse of a memory—I was on the brink of crying.
I ran upstairs because I can't trust myself with my emotions any longer. The house was empty. It longed for its owners. The living room cannot be called as it literally was; it became a huge, dark, and lonely area of what we called home.
You're gone.
I tried to REALLY keep my cool the day I arrived until I left the town.
Now I'm missing you more than ever, Mama Ying.
Perhaps I am not as emotionally so strong to hold back my tears--for you.
I will be back.
We'll see each other—again.
Padangat po mi ikang maray.
Manila
2008. A group of PUP Broadcast Communication students had gone out to search all kinds of stories in the streets of Sta. Mesa, Manila.
Every footstep of a child is worth capturing.
Barangay Captain, reminiscing the past and foretelling the future of Pasig River.
Batasan, Quezon City
I still write with a pen and paper.
Believe it or not, I am actually a fan of the traditional style of authorship; and oftentimes condone those awkward technology-reliant writing mediums.
****
If you are one of those people who used to deem that being a writer is another hipster-related fad--I want to say this point blank--no. Writing per se is never, never easy.
I want to start this entry with being dead fair. Being a writer isn't a "special line of work" I wished or even hoped to exercise every single day of my life; nor did I ever imagine it as my long-term occupation. As a matter of fact, I used to be one of those people who tried to equate writing as a lowly-paid work. Only after working hours after hours generating ideas and putting them into words, I came into this realization that writing should never ever done or exercised without a purpose.
Talking It Over A Cup of Coffee
I have been working as a writer for more than two years. I have to be completely frank, it wasn’t easy. The day I thought that I could eventually lay my thoughts into creative and flowery words was also the very day I felt downright depressed. I realized I have so much more to learn, discover, and do. My articles have gone through a great deal of editing; from the hands of the Americans and then to the scrutinizing eyes of the very confident native English speakers: Brits. Again, it was like hell every single day.
Then a group of writers huddled and shared their “little” sentiments as to why a lot of us experienced such "great depression" in the office. We finally realized that the only thing we thought we do best has dramatically burned us all out.
A friend of mine, Jeremy, a 2011 UP Journalism graduate had experienced this, as well. He felt that the only thing he used to love doing had already taken all of his strength--as if he never felt this so drained his entire life. He said, “Nagsusulat kasi tayo dahil gusto at hilig natin. Ngayon, nagsusulat tayo hindi dahil para sa sarili natin, kundi sa kumpanyang pinagtatrabahuan natin.”
My thoughts, exactly.
Your Words Versus Mine
Apart from many of the things I used to complain about, I also have a few good memories being as a writer. For one, it was a huge learning curve, not just for me, but also for everyone I shared a bit of my life and my words with. I learned how to be an obsessive-compulsive writer-editor (I don’t want to describe everything in detail, but I am confident enough that your imagination is wilder than mine.)
So then I learned that learning and correcting your own words is better than rewriting someone else’s craft.
Go for 450-word article or go home.
But My Life Is More Than A 450-word Article
It’s true. If I may say, I now write 700 to 1,200 words a day. Yes, I still work as a writer, but as a freelance writer. I used to love the craft-- but now, I’m loving it even more. I can’t say exactly the do’s and don’ts, but as for you, allow me to quote Michael Christian Martinez, “Dream high, work hard.”
