Freezing… rests his head in a pillow made of concrete, again
Oh, feeling… maybe he’ll see a little better set of days
Oh, hand out…. faces that he sees time and again, ain’t that familiar
Oh, girlfriend… he can’t have when he’s happy, he looks insane.
- Pearl Jam, “Even Flow” Ten, Epic Records (1992)
It wasn’t depressing; it’s still one of those normal sights whenever I go back to my apartment late at night. She sleeps there, along with her very few possessions and the pile of junk she has collected from the afternoon. Perhaps she’s made of sterner, sturdier stuff than most of us do; very few of us ever had to have to sleep on a pile of cardboard boxes and plastic sheets. Amidst the noise of tricycles and jeepneys still plying their routes in the wee hours of the morning, she sleeps, gathering what energy she can when the Sun rises.
She’s the kind of person, I guess, who would take both the high road and the low road at the same time. She would be picking up recyclables like cans and plastic from trash bins and gutters and garbage piles, but she probably would be the kind who would tug at your sleeve at the Andok’s outlet just by the corner.
Whose is this horrifying face
This putrid flesh, discolored, flayed,
Fed on by flies, scorched by the Sun?
Whose are this hollow red-filmed eyes
And thorn-spiked head and spear-struck side?
Behold the Man; He is Man’s Son.
“Congratulations,” the e-mail read; I got accepted for a writing fellowship to the 48th National Writers’ Workshop, scheduled for next month at Silliman University. Those weeks I spent locked up in my room writing on an empty stomach, those days I spent roaming the streets looking for a story to tell, those mornings I fell sick, and those evenings I typed furiously and desperately, came down to the letter from Silliman. That it meant something more than just taking a potshot at a pipe dream (I love the pun). In a small way, I’m a step closer to realizing my dream of becoming a writer.
I’m not a writer. To be a writer, my name has to be on a book. My room has sort of become a wreck of books with the names of writers I admire; writers like Jorge Luis Borges, Alexandre Dumas, Upton Sinclair, Emile Zola, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Joseph Conrad, the list goes on. To call myself a “writer” would be to put myself on the same league as they are. I like to think that I’m an office worker who happens to have a fellowship, an opportunity to learn from – and to learn with – some of the best writers in the country. That’s kind of a big thing if you’re an office worker whose sole goal in life is to write just one book. That’s kind of a big thing if you’ve got wrecked hands from writing every day.
That’s kind of a big thing if that’s what you always wanted to do, if that’s the one reason why you’re so far away from home. Why you’d sacrifice a lot of things, if not everything, in the name of the written word. That, and the promise it holds.
For the first time in quite a while, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know what to say, or what to write down in the way of epiphanies.
Somewhere there, though, are people who believed in me when I became my own best non-believer. To them, I offer my sincerest thanks and appreciation. Those who encouraged, those who inspired, those who pushed and shoved to make me do what I have to do, even if it hurts. Those who believe can now count me in.
I can be a writer. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…
OK, let’s make this quick. For whatever an opinion on a certain “blog controversy” is worth, lemme just say what I have to say. Here goes.
I believe that society is divided into two kinds of people: geniuses and idiots. Society has geniuses, society has its fair share of idiots. These idiots pay taxes, these idiots are protected by the very rights that are guaranteed to tax-paying, rights-protected geniuses. With that said, even the most idiotic opinions from the most idiotic of people are entitled to have the same space as geniuses to rant, to rave, and to frustrate themselves. It may not be the most sophisticated of opinions. It may not be the most agreeable of opinions. It may be the kind of opinion that would make you say, “Hey, genius!”
I believe that democracy is all about free speech, even for the dumb. The only reason why we’re still relatively free is because each idiot and each genius in this country is entitled to one voice each. The only other reason why we’re still relatively free is because in this country, we still treat the opinions of idiots and geniuses on the same level plane. Not because of educational attainment, not because of wealth, and certainly not because of marketing. Two words: free speech.
Some smartass out there invented wonderful things like common sense, the Constitution, and the inalienable right of freedom of speech. Wonderful, beautiful things that allow all of us to rant and rave and blog. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it would be nothing short of pissing on those rights, and what they stand for, to say that your opinions in a free and open and democratic society count more because you’re a genius. The world, this society, unfortunately, counts idiots among its population and if these idiots have something to say, you freaking listen.
Not because you expect a terrific idea, not because you expect a stroke of genius, or because the idiot is the burden of the genius. The fact to the matter is this: the very same democracy that gives a genius the right to say what he or she has to say is the very same democracy that makes this essential freedom available to idiots.
Thomas Jefferson once said that the tree of life must be constantly replenished with the blood of patriots and tyrants. In the same vein, ladies and gentlemen, the field of our freedoms must be constantly replenished with the bullshit of geniuses and idiots. If a free society cannot defend the right of an idiot to say what he or she has to say within its confines and spaces, then that society must deny that very same right to a genius.
Inhale… exhale…
I will not defend what you have to say, but I will defend your right to say it.
Oh, you missed the lyrics translations? I did, too.
For this long weekend, I decided to take a pop music playlist from my iTunes library (yes, I use ten-year-old technology to play my music) and took note of the first ten songs that played. It was rather unfortunate, since all ten songs are translate-able.
OK, I’m not a very good political blogger, entertainment blogger, events blogger… but I’m the best fuckin’ lyrics translator on the Internet today and ain’t nobody gonna take that out of me, dammit. Oh yes, I may rant about how sucky my writing is, but I’m that damn fuckin’ good when it comes to lyrics translations. Which means that:
I have a wicked-A library of songs.
I have too much free time on my hands.
There may be truth to the rumor that I’m psychologically unstable.
So here we go… and since I’m a little rusty not doing this for a while, I can only do eight.
