heartshape

I withdrew even deeper into the world of language, cleaving the diamonds of verbs and nouns, plunging into the brilliant light of poetry’s regenerative mystery. Words gave off rings of white energy, radar signals from powers beyond me that infused me with truth. I believe what I wrote, because I wrote what was true. My words did not come from books or textual formulas, but from a deep faith in the voice of my heart. ---Jimmy Baca


Who would’ve thought that a ninth grade drop-out could come up with these exquisite lines with words only imagined to have come from the minds of the most educated writers? For someone who did not know how to read and write until his late teens, Jimmy Baca has pawed his way through the labyrinths of the English language, and endured Life’s punishments in prison – his unofficial classroom where he obeyed his thirst for language. No one knew of the experiences – good or bad, memorable or not – he had undergone while pursuing his goal of conquering words, molding paragraphs out of phrases, and eventually mastering the English language. I came across one of his works, detailing his struggles before “coming into language,” and realized that it is never too late to learn.

At times when I feel angry or frustrated about getting my homework done, I would look at the computer screen or stare at my poster-filled wall and utter, “Why, oh why, do I have to do this?” Then a tiny voice would emanate from the depths of my head, slowly but surely enumerating all the reasons why I need to do all my assignments.Math problems were never a problem. Sure, there was the traditional mind-boggling showcase of equations one needs to simplify in order to extract an answer. But that’s it: there is only one final answer. However, if one gets bombarded with reaction papers, essays, or research papers to be completed within the next few weeks, chances of procrastination are quite high, unless of course one adores writing as much as he or she loves a favorite pet.

I used to write poems and compose short stories that never went unnoticed. Back in high school, my teachers would encourage me to “edit” my work not because it needed improvement but because it had to be changed completely.What was I thinking? Why was I trying to become a literary disciple when I couldn’t even distinguish one right prose from a series of wrong ones; when I couldn’t even master my tenses? Hadn’t I learned my lesson when a teacher who I still despise humiliated me in front of the class for writing “plotform” instead of “platform”?

Essay writing contests would become a source of great anticipation only to have my works neglected; only to be condescended upon.“You’re compositions are not contest material.” I remember them say. Daunted, I abandoned my short stories, locking away my imaginations and hiding them in a chest full of disappointments, and found comfort in my journals. I remember writing about my rebellious escapades at fourteen, my turning points at fifteen and the seemingly endless quest for a better life at eighteen. I found a partner in my journal where I can write whatever I want heedless of parallelism, tenses, or focus.

From the moment I open my journal my imaginations fly free, as if knowing their places in every page. All these years I seek refuge in my journals that until now, I lighten up after thirty minutes worth of writing. But what started as a hobby didn’t exactly evolve into passion. To coin a phrase from Jimmy Baca’s story, it helped me “come into language.” Baca’s story made me realize that huge mistake I made about giving up and giving in to my fears. My teachers thought my stories were trash so I retreated, leaving them victorious. Regrets are not really sweet but how I wish (clichés, clichés) I had practiced…how I wished I were strong enough to go on.I wish I had discipline, just enough to slap my face once in a while. I admit to being an impatient person, and am contented with my hasty disposition.

I go into details and make sure I’m doing things efficiently, but when it comes to writing I tend to float and just blab it all away on paper. I wanted to create a prose that could move my readers, one that is contest material. I wanted to organize phrases into paragraphs that blend reality with fantasy. But somehow, my soaring imagination remains stuck in my journal waiting to be unleashed. Right now I can’t seem to get my head on the right words. I feel that whenever I start with a few lines, pen dangling between my fingers, and paper waiting to be doodled on, I seem to forget what I was supposed to write. You see, I like writing but it clearly finds ways of evading me.

This is probably why I ask myself “Why, oh why, do I have to do this?” when showered with reaction papers and writing projects to be submitted in the next few days.Who would’ve thought someone with more than ten years of education could easily get intimidated by small things like a bunch of English assignments? Who would’ve thought someone who once dreamed of creating a poignant story would just trash those dreams out of fear of being rejected?

I know Baca’s hurdles were nothing compared to mine, but he succeeded! His work transcends ordinary achievement, all because he worked hard to pursue his dreams. I’m currently dancing to the tunes of college pressure, and am learning to dwell on my strengths. I may not possess the gift of words but a vision of me finishing an inspiring novel lingers in my mind. My compositions may not be “contest material” but I know they are true.

Like Baca, I want to write “the way I wept, and danced, and made love” and think I would succeed.One way or another, I know I shouldn’t be afraid because the words I put on paper, the computer, or the wall, are words that resonate from the crevices of my heart.




---this was originally submitted to the author's EL 33 professor.

I can't pretend to write something nice for the sake of updating obcompfreak. I can't pretend to have run out of things to say for fear of hurting anyone's feelings. I can't compel myself to be all bubbly and cheerful when I'm bleeding inside.

Why maintain a blog that only shows half of me?

So, as a tribute to my first Obcompfreak blog, I've decided to transfer choice posts that actually matter to me...



Posted Wednesday,Oct. 11, 2006

Love never considers...
You're wrapped in it all your life
yet still feel something amiss
You bask in its radiant glory
yet know it could blind you with pain
You take the road hesitantly traveled
yet the wheels burst and you're not even half way there
You dream at night, dawn, and day
yet your nightmares' promises keep you at bay
Your smile tames even the most daring of tempests
yet your tears signal the world's last bliss
You offer your heart - whole, half, a portion
yet the gnawing of your soul comes undiscovered
You're trapped in silly poems and giggles
yet still wail upon a chanced escape
Your heart paves way for passion
yet you shut the curtains just as the show begins
Love never considers
simply because fear rests on your shoulders

(I know I'm not much of a poet and I can only laugh at myself)

Posted Saturday, November 11, 2006

When I looked at the mirror
and saw an untamed expression,
I touched its silver surface and shivered
How long has it been since I saw that last ray of glee?
How long has it been since I smiled away my anxiety?
I tried to grasp what the glowing glass said
But the unadorned plane simply stared back
How could I have let indifference reign?

(another poetic suckfest...i promise this is the last...)

Unsay concept sa Koreano for NOT ordering our food upon submission of the snacks requisition? Hadn't I made it clear that his job entails, aside from managing tws transactions, purchasing snacks for post mortem meetings? unsay concept niya for asking - no, more like telling - me to just get what I want to eat?haller!

With the exception of this pitiful internet connection, everything seems to be competing with the rush hour. Enrolment felt like yesterday and whaddya know it's almost July. My father was just telling me things about Silliman and here I am, about to graduate (that is, if I get my Econ 21 grade).

I sometimes can't grasp why moments have to change rapidly leaving me stranded in a season to ponder. Why, as it prepares to float slowly, absorbing history with careful baby steps, it immediately grows, leaving me helpless and regretful.

I'm not sure whether I trust myself to wade in even ankle-deep waters anymore. My mind can't work without my heart and that's the problem.

I joined the tour for the first time in 2 months two days ago and it was far from exceptional. I guess I'm not fit for speaking engagements and tour guiding and everything that involves, well, speaking in front of people. Apparently I get criticized for the same mistakes over and over again which just proves my inability (and stupidity) to learn from bloopers.

The campus ambassadors were tapped by the OIP and Tao Corporation for a city tour. We were briefed by the mighty Lanie Chua (she takes OCD to the next level) and "warned" that in our "hands" lie the success of their tour.

Hello? this is Pressure speaking...

Although I wasn't pressured at all, given the experiences I've had with Man-pigs in the past. Poor Luz, Ressa, and Karen took it deeply to heart and come tour, Luz was on the brink of vomiting. I think.

To make the looong and boring story short, Mrs. Chua wasn't impressed with Luz and my performance. Probably because it was informal and disorganized, or that we kind of deviated from the original plan of selling the historical significance of all the buildings and the city itself.

Who cares about history anyway. I mean, I do...but it was a tour for crying out loud. It was supposed to be interactive. And people can't expect us to know everything, especially when we're not from Dumaguete...grrr...

And Mrs. Chua, we're not God, you know.

And one more thing. An elderly gentleman who fortunately was Ressa's kabsi corrected us by saying "getting off" instead of "getting down" the bus...

haha haha haha...

Oh well, at least I learned something.

It doesn't feel like a Maundy Thursday. If I didn't have any sense, I'd think it's just another boring afternoon with me in the internet cafe, listening to some secular love songs that are clearly not appropriate for the occasion.

I would've been sitting in a movie theater right this very minute had it not for the fear of creepy crawly things that made me dash and forget the 45 pesos I paid to amuse myself. I should well be appreciating Will Smith's portrayal of a homeless ex-con turned Wall Street genius right now. If only I hadn't brought my Jollibee goodies inside...tsk tsk tsk...

I should ask myself what my problem is. I am not comfortable being in the same room with you know who and never have I reprimanded myself for a bad decision. This morning (more like noon), I was really awake while she was talking with another friend but somehow I couldn't find it in my heart to "join the fun" and be silly like I used to be.

But it doesn't mean that I don't love her anymore though. I mean, she is one of my closest friends and she practically knows me and I her. Or so she says. We used to be close - like sisters or like mother and daughter but it seems that being the "mother" had taken its toll. I can't go home to my room and not be stressed. Imagine that, a stressful day in school should be soothed by an air conditioned home away from home but that isn't the case in our humble - and messy - abode.

*sigh* I just need a break, that's all.