Along the lines of my Statistics 101 notebook, I wrote between the mean and the measure of central location/tendency : “I cannot settle for mathematical truths. They might produce an accurate picture of reality’s parts (which is still questionable and problematic), but accuracy is not adequacy. Math is an abstract science that cannot accommodate or quantify life’s many abstractions. Math can only make reality, or parts of reality - abstract. I only attended the class for 7 days and didn’t even bother to drop out. I remember Dr. E___ saying something like, ‘statistics has produced so much damage in our judgment.’ Statistics brings us biases, not only figures.
And yes, I despised the class.
It was the first subject I flunked, flushing myself down the drain without even taking any of the long tests, the midterm or final exams. I clearly could’ve made it to the dean’s list again (an exact 3.0 GPA this term, without that 0.0) and keep up my odds for honorable mention. But what is a 3.0 or 0.0 but statistics themselves? It should not say anything royal about my wisdom or my folly.
I spent a night watching a marathon of six films in J.V.’s room. Included in the lineup was “The Last Temptation of Christ,” “The People vs Larry Flynt,” “Something About Mary,” “Basketball Diaries” along with a few smut films. They were all spectacular. They were such a spectacle that for a few seconds, all I’ve seen and heard from the flickering TV screen was a blend of beautiful noise and a torrent of colors in a flit, filling a dark room, a spot in my eye and a cavernous passage in my ear.The downside to this marathon was that I dropped my old habit of really reading through a film, listening to it carefully and even writing words from dialogue which was worth writing. Somehow, I’ve always allowed films, through dissecting them, to enter my mind to explore, embrace and challenge its cherished ideas. Now I merely watched it.
“Farewell my Concubine” saddens everything in me, even my toes. However, I still thought that films like these along with highly-rated films (including “Life is Beautiful” or “Saving Private Ryan”) has a propaganda for America, or American ideology. Farewell, for instance, seems to rant on heavily but quietly, about Communism’s setbacks. It seems that highly rated films must be pro-America. Undeniably, to describe these films as “fantastic” or “wonderful” would be an outright understatement. What I loved most about Farewell is how it showed China’s history through the story of two actors --- coinciding with a country’s rich tradition, culture, success, downfall, revolution, deceit, survival and desperation. And it really showed it, so as to make you know what China was with both warts and glamour. It made you feel what it was like, almost putting yourself in the character’s shoes. The drama has an Asian flair to it that made all the despair seem familiar. Unlike Filipino actors who are annoying to watch, the actors just move you. They don’t just scream and crying exaggeratedly, beg, or appear kawawa (pitiable) as Filipino actors do.
Today, I was on duty at the Eiga Sai Japanese film festival, which gave me a glimpse of a 1950’s film “Early Summer.” It was slow paced, blurred, and black and white that seemed strange and uninviting. Unlike Kurosawa black-and-white films, this one's just intolerable. I’ve also seen “A Sandcastle Model Family Home” which is no different from most Japanese films I’ve seen with its emphasis on their work ethic, and the nearly-generic yet fascinating character of Japanese people. It was much like “My Sons,” and I’m making that comparison because both movies probably run on the same festival theme. A Sandcastle has a good story, showing the family as a dying institution corrupted by mundane corporations.
We wanted to watch “The Red Violin” but it was in French, without subtitles. J.K. treated us to a Hollywood flick, “Deep Blue Sea.” The scares were well-effected on THX surround sound, and the 360 degree screen made the entire thing seem tangible.
All these films. Spectacles are flickering from a screen that blended beautiful noise and a torrent of colors in a flit, filling a dark room, a spot in my eye and a cavernous passage in my ear.
An almost-perfect dream. A volcano in a city by the beach was about to erupt. Its mouth started, abruptly, to emit smoke, like the radiator of an overheating car. Then it began spewing and spitting ash, lava and the volcanic grains that came with quakes and gigantic explosions from the core of a mad earth, making its nature nude. The nimbus of the noon sky took a completely gray scale.
Havoc was wreaked in the city. In this catastrophic event, people in all their craziness and impulsive panic rushed toward nonexistent exits.
I was standing by the beach, my feet buried in the damp sand. I just wanted to dance. I was almost happy, despite, or perhaps because of the chaos around me.
A woman with long hair flowing on her back approached me. She got herself undressed heedless of all the people running amuck and the danger about to devour everyone. She asked me to get undressed too. I did, without hesitation. I noticed that she was much taller than I am. This wouldn’t be awful, and would rather be the most beautiful, last testament in life. We kissed, though in all this haste I seemed not to feel anything in her lips. As some passion grew, I felt that kiss as the last poem, as the last romance, the last moment of existence. The volcano continued to erupt and made everyone bear its heavy grudge.
As we kissed, fire crackers lit up the sky. It’s a happy new year. On one part the sky was gray with ash, on another part, the many hues of the fire crackers sparkled and sprinkled like many Saturns and Venuses and Milky Ways in a pitch black midnight. We kissed while people were having their heads blown off, and their bodies consumed by tongues of cruel fire. Somewhere, someone was singing “Somewhere over the Rainbow.”
We held our hands, and she started running toward the sea with me. Then she swam. I couldn’t swim and I couldn’t tell her. She just went on and dived in to cold, green waters. While we swam, I felt my arms swish swiftly against the sea, and I kept on looking for her hand. When we found each others hands, we laced them and swam together. She carried me on. We reached the coast of an island, which had a rich, green rainforest. We walked, with our bodies bare, like Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.
As we searched through the jungles, we found another naked man. He was handsome and had a powerful built. I was surprised that the woman knew him, and a second later they were wrapped in embrace. I knew the man said something to me, but I vaguely remember, maybe because I didn’t want to remember. I knew they were old lovers. They walked away.
I wanted to swim to where there were no shores, swim to the end of the world.
In the surreal world of sleep, there is no time, and no gravity. But it turns out there’s still romantic tragedy. All this dream-imagery makes me want to vomit.
