December 2000

The real tragedy of earning my degree in Philosophy (which should be soon enough) is entering the post-college limbo. During college, I have used parties and chewing on more ideas as an excuse to delay graduation. With almost less than two units, I’m almost there: the limbo where one grows up --- and grows up with an even more common tragedy: you grow up, and you run out of excuses for your failures.

Waiting for this Friday (course card day for Stat101)… waiting for the when, when I could say: the tragedy of my college life is over. Three days seems like an eternity away. I am glad to have the pleasure of reading Midnight’s Children comfort me, as cold gusts of December winds brush my skin. Yesterday, my thesis proposal has been approved with considerable commendation from G___ and Dr. E___. This at the very least, is a positive reinforcement for me. I’m confident I will receive a 4.0 in PHILRE1 that eradicates three units of my accumulations. I don’t consider this year as the grandest year of my life, but I would be glad to end it as I put an end my semi-sad affair with Statistics.
While waiting, I have once again resorted to the transitory yet big relief that a drinking binge brings. I went to the C__ Staff party last Monday, where the booze was unlimited. I had to limit myself though, because I had to bring the car along. I didn’t exactly have the grandest time of my life, but the party was all right. I am not sure if I am it looking at it in the right angle, but a lot of people in this staff has a certain kind of oddball quality in them. Of course, they probably find even more of that oddball quality in me, as I do frequently consider myself eccentric. But perhaps I should not judge people I have not known well.

The tragedy of my college life is over. I passed Statistics under Prof. D___, otherwise known as the most difficult professor in Statistics. I have failed the subject under another professor almost a year ago because I only attended the first four meetings. I also received a 4.0 in Thesis 1, after taking it twice. On both my terms taking thesis 1, I absolutely did nothing about it. These are trifling concerns, of course. But I must admit that they really are the major setbacks of my college life. For a measure of time, these setbacks had made me feel like a failure. I literally have passed my failures.
From Midnight’s Children, “Some afflictions, at least, are capable of being conquered.”
People are always fond of the people who appreciate them.

Ironically enough, I am supposed to be celebrating one of the last Friday nights of this year, or treating myself for my conquest over this small-time academic hurdle. But I'm not. I have not recovered from last night’s and the previous night’s hangover (at the terrific Harvard Café with their rather skillful dancers). Instead, I have spent the night driving my Mother and her Bunny Bunch Angels around CCP and Roxas Boulevard. I go home and read Salman Rushdie, who provides me with a quote (the last line I read before I stopped) too apt for my so-called conquest. Conquest, eh? I am laughing at myself.

I am hearing “Contessa” by Mozart through Winamp. Fantastic. It sounds appropriate when reading something like Lolita, and the kind of music Nabakov would listen when he's thinking Humbert Humbert.

I am hearing “Bye Bye Blackbird” by John Coltrane and Miles Davis through Napster.

Despite other afflictions that remain unconquered, I am able to say that at least, life is good for now.

H.’s Christmas text greeting goes: “How does it feel for an agnostic to celebrate Christmas? Easy, you hope that other people’s feigned and hollow happiness somehow rubs on you and in the process, hope that the happiness somehow becomes real, no longer feigned, no longer hollow. This is the most depressing ‘celebration’ of the year.”
H. is witty and eloquent as usual. I am not sure whether any of that “feigned and hollow happiness” really rubbed on me, but I did feel (as always) a bit happy --- without coercing myself to feign and pretend. But we do not measure the quantity, or the quality of happiness with yardsticks and paper cups. I just know that I felt happy somehow, and it was real.
This year’s celebration, however, is really a sadder one, with nation in crisis because of the impeachment trial. I barely noticed even a fake glint of the Christmas spirit that used to be there before. The country did not seem to be celebrating this Christmas, but country seemed mourning it.
Thus, I should no longer be surprised that __'s Christmas text greeting goes: I find no reason to celebrate the most superficial of occasions. I do not hope to absorb the artificial hope and happiness because it never becomes real… this is the most sickening sweetener to the bitter and absurd life we live out. So I’m not even going to greet you.
This was our first Christmas without my older Brother, who, as he has become a gentleman of intelligence and his own means, now works and lives in Singapore. My younger brother goes senti about him most of the time. And I miss asking him out for a drink, or him acting out his comical behavior, or our swapping of stories. In a more touchy occasion, when he called us while we were all eating with the terrific food cooked here at home, told me one time to leave ulam for him because he’s coming home for dinner. He's always had the redeeming kind of humor. Perhaps Kuya will find himself, his honest thoughts, his aspirations and his happy solitude, as he endures in a foreign land.

The year ended with a perfect irony --- in a time when fireworks light up the sky and the city at midnight is supposed to be bright as a star going supernova, the lights in our house went out. There was a brownout. Media Noche was had the perfect milieu. We had ham, wine, cheese, and candlelight.
Everyone had his/her new year’s wish, as my Father’s was for Estrada to Resign, and mine: that we may always be capable of conquering the most terrible of afflictions.