January & February 2000

A Problem of Language. It is as if I have not really lived my life until I have written about it, until I have put it into the words. A few days ago I was caught in that warp with my family. We went swimming, singing. We feasted on steamed shrimps, caldereta, grilled liempo. I spent sometime looking at the greenish mountains splashed with the yellow luminosity of the sun. I kept thinking and went on with how we cannot think of anything that cannot be put in language. Everything is probably not language, but everything is in language. At the same time, language cannot accommodate all reality, all feeling, and perhaps all thought. More than a philosophical problem, it’s a personal problem when you begin to ask yourself.

How does one describe the way one had lived? Through words, through what has been done and what is remembered and written? But that doesn’t show you everything, not from the spot where there’s a panoramic view. Words do not feel the wounds or the wellness
How do I describe the January mornings that have been unusually cold, the shiver that went up to my spine, the delicate softness, the blow of warmth that the blanket rubbed on my skin? There’s a parch on my throat, with tiny webs of saliva accumulating in the corner of my mouth --- it’s the faint tang of last night’s beer.
I haven’t put into words that life I’ve been living --- with all its peculiarities, pompous events, little incidents, humor, wisdom, love, thoughts, pretension and idiosyncrasies. Doing the writing is not much of a chip in the shoulder but I’ve not done it all the same. Perhaps for my neglect, for my passiveness, my willingness to be a mere by-stander to what has transpired in my life, I feel defeated. I have not really appreciated things until I look back to it. More than that, what is lamentably lame is my awful skill as a writer.
And now how do I begin? Friday nights at duty with the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra. Weekend duties with fantastic main-theater performances such as Metanoia, Chorale festivals, Opera, Ballet, art exhibits at the gallery, Tanghalang Pilipino plays. No higher-than-minimum-wage job can be superlatively better than mine. I am surrounded by art that I humbly, knees planted on the ground, admit: I do not completely understand or put into words but do appreciate still.
There are Saturday afternoons sacrificing siesta for laughs and priceless learning at Cirilio Bautista’s Introduction to Poetry class. Or that other serving of existentialism, and TH mornings with Nietzsche taught by G___reminding me of his classic lines such as “We are all in one boat, and that boat is going nowhere...” How could one leave out beef pares with friends (technically -colleagues) after duty, or occasional Burger Machine treats in the middle of a dead night. I am in a multitude of remembrances, of ideas and a scarcity of words, and of patience.
More than that this is a time in my life when there’s a lot of women to be with --- to respect and love, to watch them dance, to admire and esteem, to play with, to laugh with, to smell, to give my glib, and yes, to thwart me, to cause me to cower.
Among these two months was a time I jumped into the wagon of health buffs. Together with D.N., we tried working out in the gym which I realized, requires so much discipline and determination just to keep a stupid built. Muscles wouldn’t make you any smarter. But it is one way to enhance power and be active. I enjoyed running during Sunday afternoons during sunse I run by the bay, by the burgers and the barbecue and my salt and my sweat. You see children, maids on day-off, and even foreigners with probable prostitutes with hands laced, watching the sun dapple the waves and the sailboats with orange, as the sphere slowly plops into the water.
For thepast two months, I had Lolita for my literature, along with a taste of Jack Kerouac. I also heard one of the albums that made a splendid mark in my life: The Police greatest hits album. Right now, Sting is singing: “all made up and nowhere to go.”