If I would go on a personal journey and had to take a good look at the books that lined the shelves in my room and pick among them those that would be part of the personal logistics packed in my bag, I knew that I ought to write about them. I knew too that I would write about them either in the gazebo in Legaspi Village Park, or under the shadow of the trees in the lawn of Redemptorist Church, or in the stuffy Periodical Section of the National Library smelling the musty several-decade-old newspapers and magazines, or anywhere in the metropolis where I could sit and comfortably write. I knew I just have to write about them if ever I would.
First is M. Scott Peck’s Road Less Traveled, a book I stumbled upon when a monk friend lend it to me when I ran from home more than a decade ago, pondering now that learning about and from it must be the sole purpose why I had chosen to run to them past over mountains and seas toward the South. I now have my own copy, courtesy of my girlfriend, lil feather, who returned all the books (RLT included) and stuffs I gave to her as gifts when I tried to break up with her, so there would be no valid reason now to seek their generosity. The circumstances is different now: I would not run away as a rebel youth unknowledgeable of the real world as I used to be then, but simply would leave the comfort of my parents house to be the grown man that I ought to be.
M. Scott Peck aptly says the painful truth in the first sentence of the book: Life is Difficult. Indeed, nothing can be truer than that; “a great truth, one of the greatest truths,” he adds. Knowing about this bit of wisdom can calm the agitation of the soul. This is how life is, boy. No bed of roses, as the worn-out cliché goes.
This book is accompanied by Scott Peck’s two more works: The Road Less Traveled and Beyond and People of the Lie.
These three books would form as the frontline triumvirate in my journey as basic logistics as clothing, crackers, and candies (they have glucose and can make you last for sometime without food) would as I sneaked out of the house into the unknowns of my journey. They are invaluable companions to keep my eyes keen on different maps of reality with their wisdom culled from mystics, bards, musicians, artists, and conglomerate of gurus from various religions that Scott Peck learned along from his experience at poking at the contemporary human psyche and life.
Another book that would be included in the pack but sadly had to be returned to its owner, Pi, my senior in college, and also to reduce the weight that I would have to lug around, is Grace D. Chong’s Gifts of Grace Book 2.
There is no other book that I have read that skinned the layer of superficial and ordinary events to expose what marvelous grace they are when seen with the right insight. It was as if Chong could see the hands of Grace everywhere: in the simple call “Auntie,” in the desperate and failure of pregnancy, the silent patience of a spinster, the practical jokes of a sibling, the sheer single-mindedness of her son, a client with relentless pursuit for perfection. Even the commercialized slogan “Just do it!” rightfully comes back to its ancient owner Miyamoto Musashi’s Book of Five Rings, to set up the unwavering human spirit to be bold, undaunted, willful, and win the fight. And it might be winning the fight of my life in the street as it would have been my case.
Then there is my paperback The Essential Hemingway, constant companion on important journeys. How does he say it in Nick Adams stories? “You have to be tough.” Or from The Snows of Kilimanjaro: “He could beat anything, he thought, because nothing could hurt him if he did not care.” Well said. Very well said.
If the thugs whom I would chance to cross path as I stay in the streets of metropolis would try to rob or maul me, I would put their faces in with the book, follow-up with an upper-cut under their chins then a turning round-house in their guts. They could get me bruised, but not my spirit. “After all, what can they do to you?… Worst one can do is kill you.”
Then what could be a better accompaniment to Hemingway’s hard, physical reality, an antithesis to his subscription with the world as you see it in one dimensional ‘the sun is the sun, the sea is the sea,’ but Carlos Castaneda’s Journey to Ixtlan: Lessons of Don Juan. “I don’t care what you see… How you feel is the important issue.” Hemingway from the short story The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber: “We all take a beating everyday, you know, one way or another” to Castaneda from the mouth of Don Juan: “What injures the spirit is having someone always on your back, beating you, telling you what to do and what not to do.” What could be a better combination than that?
Journey to Ixtlan is a sad anthropological book. Amid the laughter of Don Juan Matus comically mocking the writer Carlos Castaneda at his obvious puzzlement to his statements, there throbs a melancholy beat in the heart of the don, infinitely sad and lonely, in a journey without end. And aren’t we all lonely in our personal journeys, clinging to whatever we could hold on to, a palliatative to the sadness within us?
Nevertheless, the book has an effect of a conjurer’s trick; opening worlds within the world before us, marvelous and amazing, virtually giving off an aftertaste of peyote to the spirit. Reading the book numerous times, feeling the weirdness of the narrative of Castaneda, there is no other way to see the world deeper than this.
And like the worthy enemy mentioned in the book – an enemy I choose to chase – it is wrestling me now and would throw me past faraway mountains and deserts into the concrete jungle only to find back my way home again. Though I knew, like Don Juan, that there would be no way to get back home. The place and the house might be there, but something has changed that make them alien.
I would be in a journey anytime from now. And these books would be my companions as I stave off loneliness, keep the spirit intact and make me breathe in the vast desert littered by metal and concrete, hoping to find one day the soul of my existence and rightful niche in this world.
Note: This essay is my entry in Philippine Star 'My Favorite Book' contest. Hope to see it published anytime soon from now.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Sunday, April 24, 2005
The End
He reached the south gate just in time to see the strange van, dark blue and heavily tinted, about to veer in the mix of the flux of vehicles along the main road. He followed it, three cars in between to avoid suspicion that it was being followed. But he sensed that it knew it was being followed, that it knew it was supposed to move as if it were not being followed and he to act as he knew he did not know that it knew it was being followed. He felt everything from the beginning, from the moment he heard of the van that it was a theatrical performance, where everybody was leading toward the two parties knew beforehand. He had felt this situation before but could not point on anything specific. A déjà vu, he thought. He followed the van as it circled its way around the metropolis ; along EDSA and the boulevard, engulfed in the din of automobiles. Once they even stopped in the same gas station to get a fill. The van finished first but waited at the corner for him and then they resumed their mock chase.
When the van reached the Libertad market, it dropped a passenger who walked briskly along the deserted side street. This is it, Edgardo thought. He pulled over beside a cheap record bar that was about to close. The Chinese owner looked behind as his two sons pulled the shutters down and the scene brought to Edgardo a pain in the prostate he could not understand. The man entered the market alley. Edgardo fished for a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, then crossed the asphalted street. He entered the market and saw the man trudging along the aisles, zigzagging between closed and darkened stalls. Then the man slipped out at the back of the market. Edgardo found it led to a narrow street crowded by urchins and planked by a beehive of shanties. There was a wake going on, and beside the cheap coffin, the gambling table was thronged with bettors. He caught a glimpse of the man vanished into a street. He accelerated his steps. The street was a dark deserted, bordered by walls with the lamppost at the end gave it light. Edgardo knew the end of it converged with the main street, and knew he had to accost the man here or else he would lose him. He yelled at the man to stop or he would shoot. The man stopped. Edgardo walked toward the man, careful as he drew closer; the faint light revealing the face of the man who was slowly turning his face at him; a face Edgardo had seen thousands of times before in the mirror, though this face was scrawny with deep eyes. The eyes told him everything; his fate, his destiny. He felt he had to flee, he had to run and escape. He backed away, toward where he had come from, and halfway through it, running, a shot rang. Edgardo felt the cold cement pavement slammed on his face; a bullet had whacked his thigh. He writhed in pain as the gun powder scalded the inside of his thigh. When he looked up, a gun muzzle was trained at him, held by the man whose face bore the answer to Edgardo’s questions. In split second, he heard the gunfire, saw the sudden flash of light, then total darkness.
When the van reached the Libertad market, it dropped a passenger who walked briskly along the deserted side street. This is it, Edgardo thought. He pulled over beside a cheap record bar that was about to close. The Chinese owner looked behind as his two sons pulled the shutters down and the scene brought to Edgardo a pain in the prostate he could not understand. The man entered the market alley. Edgardo fished for a cigarette from his back pocket and lit it, then crossed the asphalted street. He entered the market and saw the man trudging along the aisles, zigzagging between closed and darkened stalls. Then the man slipped out at the back of the market. Edgardo found it led to a narrow street crowded by urchins and planked by a beehive of shanties. There was a wake going on, and beside the cheap coffin, the gambling table was thronged with bettors. He caught a glimpse of the man vanished into a street. He accelerated his steps. The street was a dark deserted, bordered by walls with the lamppost at the end gave it light. Edgardo knew the end of it converged with the main street, and knew he had to accost the man here or else he would lose him. He yelled at the man to stop or he would shoot. The man stopped. Edgardo walked toward the man, careful as he drew closer; the faint light revealing the face of the man who was slowly turning his face at him; a face Edgardo had seen thousands of times before in the mirror, though this face was scrawny with deep eyes. The eyes told him everything; his fate, his destiny. He felt he had to flee, he had to run and escape. He backed away, toward where he had come from, and halfway through it, running, a shot rang. Edgardo felt the cold cement pavement slammed on his face; a bullet had whacked his thigh. He writhed in pain as the gun powder scalded the inside of his thigh. When he looked up, a gun muzzle was trained at him, held by the man whose face bore the answer to Edgardo’s questions. In split second, he heard the gunfire, saw the sudden flash of light, then total darkness.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Second Lease of Life
My time right now is short and not enough to elaborate the action, violent experience I have had several days ago, me, almost tittering on the brink of dying, or rather getting killed. There is no replacement to see Death before His eyes other than committing yourself into his scythe, through the participation of lawless scumbags that are ready to kill you without conscience or vacillation. Yet, all I could remember is to die with dignity, die with my feet standing and forsake living with kneels folded. What did Hemingway said about it? The worse that they can do to you is kill you. Well, they didn't, and living a life like a boy, boyish and always preferring peace is already over. It seems there is nothing that can daunt your spirit. You've stared at the eyes of Death and it is already like dying. This is already my second lease of life. Death no longer frightens me. I'm already ready.
Monday, April 04, 2005
No Pc, No Blog.... But There's the Net Cafe
This is the first day that I don’t have a PC at home. The routine of waking up and booting on the computer and logging on to check my mails and scribble something for my blog has changed into a mere ritual of having a mug of coffee, a couple of stick of cigarette for my nicotine dose, and staring blankly at space.
Even though the computer table in my room looks miserable without the CPU below, and my fingers feeling the urge to pound on the keyboard and yak something out, which would eventually end as a pos for my blog, everything is not lost.
Though rare it would be, I can still post something here by going to net cafes and have my slice of flitting net pleasure there.
I’m lucky that I’m in my part-time job as a programmer here in Navotas and have a free use of a computer and later on rent an access to the net so I could post this short rambling of my thoughts.
Everything is still okay.
On the sketch pad: I plan to go to my own so-called training camp in Taguig, in the house of my older brother, where there is no inhabitant most of the day. There I can continue rewriting my long due project short story.
Even though the computer table in my room looks miserable without the CPU below, and my fingers feeling the urge to pound on the keyboard and yak something out, which would eventually end as a pos for my blog, everything is not lost.
Though rare it would be, I can still post something here by going to net cafes and have my slice of flitting net pleasure there.
I’m lucky that I’m in my part-time job as a programmer here in Navotas and have a free use of a computer and later on rent an access to the net so I could post this short rambling of my thoughts.
Everything is still okay.
On the sketch pad: I plan to go to my own so-called training camp in Taguig, in the house of my older brother, where there is no inhabitant most of the day. There I can continue rewriting my long due project short story.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Will Be Gone For a While
The time has come... my sister-in-law is taking the pc with her already... it will take some time before i can post again here...
Farewell Pope John Paul II
I was barely awake when I found myself sitting in front of the tube. The screen scrolled down a solemn prayer, and it bore with it a sad news: Pope John Paul II has past away. My eyes turned misty, and after collecting myself, said a prayer for him.
I confess that I do not consider myself a Catholic, though I was born one. Probably I've read too much books, been exposed to too much radical ideas, and had had enough of the scandals going in the Church, plus the fact that I don't subscribe to some of its doctrines, that I decided to bolt from the congregation for good. I even would casually say to people that I don't have a religion. (Am I throwing the baby with the bath water? I'll ponder about it when the right time comes.)
Yet, this news about the Pope, saddens me. I shouldn't be that affected by his departure than a knowledge that a person has just died. But I am.
The closest the Pope had come near me, was when he visited the country, 1995 I think. Though, I did not attempt to take a peek of him personally, like joining the droves of faithfuls that welcomed him here. Watching him on the tube was enough.
And, in that short hours of parading on the road, amid the excited crowd, I felt a mysterious, almost unexplainable euphoria and realization of who really was this man waving and smiling at the cheerers. Someone I heard said that his aura is the grace bestowed upon him by his office. And I could not deny it. Upon seeing him, I backtracked generations to generations of long ago until I ended up seeing Jesus Christ. It seemed the gap between the time of the Christ and the present time was dissolved. Then the obvious, but now concrete moving evidence: the Pope is the descendant of Christ for our times. He is the present shepherd for millions of souls toward God.
The Pope is gone now. The thread that connects us to Christ is momentarily cut. In spite of this, Pope John Paul II deserves a thankful prayer for his service.
May his blessed soul rest in the presence of God.
I confess that I do not consider myself a Catholic, though I was born one. Probably I've read too much books, been exposed to too much radical ideas, and had had enough of the scandals going in the Church, plus the fact that I don't subscribe to some of its doctrines, that I decided to bolt from the congregation for good. I even would casually say to people that I don't have a religion. (Am I throwing the baby with the bath water? I'll ponder about it when the right time comes.)
Yet, this news about the Pope, saddens me. I shouldn't be that affected by his departure than a knowledge that a person has just died. But I am.
The closest the Pope had come near me, was when he visited the country, 1995 I think. Though, I did not attempt to take a peek of him personally, like joining the droves of faithfuls that welcomed him here. Watching him on the tube was enough.
And, in that short hours of parading on the road, amid the excited crowd, I felt a mysterious, almost unexplainable euphoria and realization of who really was this man waving and smiling at the cheerers. Someone I heard said that his aura is the grace bestowed upon him by his office. And I could not deny it. Upon seeing him, I backtracked generations to generations of long ago until I ended up seeing Jesus Christ. It seemed the gap between the time of the Christ and the present time was dissolved. Then the obvious, but now concrete moving evidence: the Pope is the descendant of Christ for our times. He is the present shepherd for millions of souls toward God.
The Pope is gone now. The thread that connects us to Christ is momentarily cut. In spite of this, Pope John Paul II deserves a thankful prayer for his service.
May his blessed soul rest in the presence of God.
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