The high school prom was something many of my classmates were eager to attend. But since I did come from a semi-conservative Jesuit school, many steps were taken to “educate” us in the proper way of behaving in such an event. One of them was attending an orientation, and one of the speakers was a father. He told us that he wanted us to go home on time and bring home our dates on the agreed upon time. “It’s not that we don’t trust you. It’s the sons-of-bitches out there that we don’t trust.” At the time, it made perfect sense: our parents were worried about us and there are many random factors out there in the world that could present a danger to us. However, after hearing that line several times over the years, used in different contexts, that statement is flawed at best, and at worst, an outright lie.
The statement above could be paraphrased as such: “It’s not you but rather everyone else that I don’t trust.” It’s been used by people concerned about us: our parents, our significant other, sometimes even our friends. For the sake of argument, I’ll tackle first the situation where the people saying that statement actually believe it.
Obviously, we shouldn’t trust everyone. A lot of people are capable of deceiving and hurting other people, after all; that’s why we have thieves, con artists, robbers, rapists, murderers, etc. However, the opposite isn’t true as well. We cannot distrust everything and everyone. People with that kind of behavior are called paranoid. If everyone didn’t offer some level of trust, no one would be friends with each other, since each one is expecting the other to make a show of trust without offering it themselves. To some extent, we trust other people; we trust our cook not to poison our food, we trust our teachers to educate, we trust our accountants to manage our finances, etc. We cannot go on living our lives thinking that everyone else will be hostile to us, except in really dire situations (i.e. war, a recent catastrophe, etc.). And even then, as social beings, we need some level of trust to coexist with other people. Without that, I can’t “live”. I mean if I truly believed that the world is hostile, I wouldn’t come out of my house. Or if I did, I’d come out wearing a bullet-proof vest, a space-suit to ward off biological weapons, and carry a machine gun to shoot anyone I see. But we don’t do that. Rather, we come out of our houses dressed in plain clothes (sometimes even less) and carry our expensive accessories (i.e. jewelry, mobile phones, watches, etc.). But as reality would prove it, not everyone gets mugged everyday. Sure, there are incidents of theft and murder, but it’s not a regular occurrence to any particular person. I’m not saying that we don’t take precautions against it, but rather that we really don’t expect it to happen to us every single day. As much as we trust the people we know, we also do extend a certain amount of trust to the people we don’t know and they in turn extend it to us as well. That’s how we managed to coexist with others.
Should we be worried about our children, significant other, and friends? Of course! But we can’t cradle them nor treat them like fragile glass. Life is difficult and in the end, we can’t always be there to watch over them. Everyone needs to learn to be independent, at least to a certain extent. Yes, it is entire possible they will get into trouble. And sometimes, they do get into trouble. But people truly lose themselves when they allow traumatic events to conquer them. We can recover. Don’t let an incident or two ruin your whole life; it won’t happen everyday. We only breed distrust which leads only to further distrust when we use the excuse “we don’t trust other people” as an excuse. The eventual outcome to that would be the recipient asking the dictator “why should we trust you?”
Of course the other scenario we have is that people merely use that statement as an excuse rather than genuinely believing it. And why not, it’s the easiest thing to say, isn’t it? I’m not putting blame to the person I’m talking to yet I have a valid excuse to restrict the person. What they fail to see is that when they use this statement, it’s not a statement they believe in: they’re lying, whether to themselves or to the other person. The only person they don’t trust is either the person they’re talking to or themselves. This is usually the case with worried parents who don’t think that their children will behave appropriately when not supervised, or by jealous lovers who think that their significant other will leave them for a more “worthy” lover.
Again, to impose such a thing is flawed. We are neither omniscient nor omnipotent. We cannot know everything that the other person will do. There will come a time when we are not watching. When that happens, there’s not much we can do to make a demand from them. All we can do is to trust that the other person won’t disappoint us. And in the end, that’s all we can do. I mean if a child is really rebellious or if a lover is really unfaithful, we can’t really change that (we can attempt to do so and it might work temporarily but in the long run, they will do what they will). The moment they’re free of us, they will do as their will dictates.
Perhaps what’s worse is that we show a lack of faith and trust in the other person, even if it’s not warranted. I mean a son or daughter doesn’t really want to disappoint his or her parents. If they’ve behaved well so far, what reason do they have to rebel? Or if they do, then there’s probably a good reason why they did it. People, after all, don’t change overnight. Similarly, those with significant others have the same kind of problem. If they’ve made a commitment with you, then it’s most likely they’ll stick to it, unless they have a previous record of not doing so. In the bigger picture, the lack of faith here is not at the other person but towards the self. People with low self-esteem usually make this kind of mistake. They think that they’re not worthy of the other person or that everything’s working out too well that something must go wrong, and it’ll probably come from the other person. What they fail to see that it is this kind of mentality that brings them to ruin, and probably what drives off other people.
To trust is a delicate issue. Sometimes, it’s not merely a matter of trusting the other person or not. We often forget that the person we should trust also includes ourselves. If I didn’t trust myself, I wouldn’t be writing this entire essay. And if I didn’t trust my readers, I’d be committing social suicide by publishing this.
Friday, September 24, 2004
Thursday, September 23, 2004
All I Need to Know I Learned from Magic: The Gathering
Even though it's been four years since I last played (well, played extremely competitively that is) Magic: The Gathering (although I've learned and played nearly a dozen other CCGs in between), there's a number of things that I learned from the game that is still very applicable to my daily life. Here they are:
1) Play with the hand you're dealt with: much like playing Poker and other conventional card games, the only options worth considering are those in front of you--namely what you drew. It's really useless to think of what-ifs and other possibilities when in reality, the only actions you can really take are those that involve the cards that you have. Similarly, in real life, it's useless to bitch about how you could have been more fortunate or luckier. Deal with it and make the most out of it. Sure, I may have a terrible hand, but that doesn't mean I can never win the game. It all depends on how I plan my next moves, which brings me to my next point.
2) Plan ahead and familiarize yourself with your deck: your deck determines what you can do, and whether you can win the game or not. If you don't know your deck, then you can't really plan for the future since you don't know what to expect from your own cards (it's already bad enough that you don't know what you're opponent is going to play next but being unable to plan your succeeding moves is just plain stupid). Similarly, know your own strengths and weaknesses as a person, and plan ahead using that as a starting point. If you don't know what you're capable of, then you can't make a good plan. For example, someone who knows he is horrible at math will either avoid occassions (such as taking a course that involves statistics) that involve higher math or will do some intensive studying in order to cope. If you don't know what you're capable of, you might find yourself way out of your league, and end up embarassing yourself to say the least.
3) Do your research: no matter what kind of game you're playing, it pays to do research. Some of the best Magic: The Gathering players are people who do research, whether it's the rules of the game, the meta-game environment (i.e. the popular decks people use in a certain area), or the spoiler list for the upcoming prerelease tournament. Similarly, if you plan to excel in whatever venture you plan to do, do your homework! While it's possible to succeed with sheer talent and luck, your chances of succeeding are better when you know what you're up against. It also gives you more info to formulate a better plan or strategy.
4) Synergy is good: certain cards work well when combined with other cards. When building a deck, keeping in mind your end goals makes it more efficient and useful. A counterspell deck, for example, has lots of counterspell cards. Certain cards also make great combos (i.e. a "Channel" card, which gives you mana, and "Fireball", a spell that is powered by your available mana, is a deadly combination). Similarly, some of the actions we take are better suited than others when we look at it from a larger perspective. Enrolling in a writing class, for example, is good if we want to improve our writing skills, but what would make it even better would be spending our weekends joining a workshop or two, and writing something everyday just to make it a habit. Dieting is also a good example: eating less in one particular meal is less effective than a diet planned out for the entire week, which involves not only eating the right foods but proper exercise and healthy habits as well.
5) There's no such thing as a perfect deck: not all decks or cards are equal. Some do better against particular cards, while others are optimized towards a different goal. The same goes with real life. That doesn't mean that you're inferior to a particular person: merely that he or she is optimized for certain situations. Accepting that painful fact helps you recognize your own strengths and weaknesses, and lets you know when to adjust your strategy.
6) Know when to give up: sometimes, you'll be put in a situation where you can't win the current game. Sometimes, it's best to concede (so that you don't reveal the rest of your strategy to the opponent), while at other times, it's best to fight on (whether it's because you still have an actual chance of winning or whether you want your opponent to reveal more of his strategy and cards). The same goes with real life. There are moments when we need to move on, while there are times when struggling on helps us reach our goal eventually. Knowing the difference is pivotal and sometimes it's pretty difficult to differentiate between the two, which is why research and planning is important.
7) You don't need to have all the cards to build a good deck, just know where to get them: no one has infinite resources so trading becomes an essential tool for any CCG player. Finding the best deals, whether it's purchasing cards at single prices, trading for them, or buying booster packs in bulk, becomes a key element. Similarly, I don't need to have "everything" before I start any venture. Knowing how to maximize my existing resources, exchange it for other services, or plainly knowing how to avail of other options, is an essential element. For example, if I want to be a scientist, I don't need to memorize everything in the text book. All I need to know is not how to learn all the information but rather how to find and discover specific information that I will need.
8) Be friendly and courteous to other people: CCGs are social games--you need someone else to play with, and you're most likely getting your supply of cards from a living being. Giving the other person respect and courtesy is essential. The same goes with life, since you can hardly excel if anything if you make too many enemies. I'm not saying you should be a wallflower and let everyone push you around, but that unless provoked, it's suitable to be on your best behavior. You also might get the best deals because of that.
9) Learn to bluff: knowing what the other person is thinking is a decisive factor in games. In order to catch your opponent off-guard, you sometimes have to bluff. This usually means thinking of doing something with your cards even if they're all useless, or pretending to do a stupid move because you have a surprise in store for the opponent. In life, this usually means saying things not necessarily untruthfully, but with confidence. For example, when making a presentation in front of other people, say it with conviction, even if you're unsure of half of what you said. This might also mean not revealing all your options to other people, merely mentioning the obvious ones.
10) Work hard, feel confident, and just do it: you may be the best player in the world but unless you join tournaments or events, you won't be recognized. Life's like that as well: we're "theoretically" good at something, but unless we exert effort at it, feel that we can actually do it, and actually perform it, all will be for naught. In the end, it's our actions that count. All the planning in the world will come to no end if don't manage to execute it effectively.
1) Play with the hand you're dealt with: much like playing Poker and other conventional card games, the only options worth considering are those in front of you--namely what you drew. It's really useless to think of what-ifs and other possibilities when in reality, the only actions you can really take are those that involve the cards that you have. Similarly, in real life, it's useless to bitch about how you could have been more fortunate or luckier. Deal with it and make the most out of it. Sure, I may have a terrible hand, but that doesn't mean I can never win the game. It all depends on how I plan my next moves, which brings me to my next point.
2) Plan ahead and familiarize yourself with your deck: your deck determines what you can do, and whether you can win the game or not. If you don't know your deck, then you can't really plan for the future since you don't know what to expect from your own cards (it's already bad enough that you don't know what you're opponent is going to play next but being unable to plan your succeeding moves is just plain stupid). Similarly, know your own strengths and weaknesses as a person, and plan ahead using that as a starting point. If you don't know what you're capable of, then you can't make a good plan. For example, someone who knows he is horrible at math will either avoid occassions (such as taking a course that involves statistics) that involve higher math or will do some intensive studying in order to cope. If you don't know what you're capable of, you might find yourself way out of your league, and end up embarassing yourself to say the least.
3) Do your research: no matter what kind of game you're playing, it pays to do research. Some of the best Magic: The Gathering players are people who do research, whether it's the rules of the game, the meta-game environment (i.e. the popular decks people use in a certain area), or the spoiler list for the upcoming prerelease tournament. Similarly, if you plan to excel in whatever venture you plan to do, do your homework! While it's possible to succeed with sheer talent and luck, your chances of succeeding are better when you know what you're up against. It also gives you more info to formulate a better plan or strategy.
4) Synergy is good: certain cards work well when combined with other cards. When building a deck, keeping in mind your end goals makes it more efficient and useful. A counterspell deck, for example, has lots of counterspell cards. Certain cards also make great combos (i.e. a "Channel" card, which gives you mana, and "Fireball", a spell that is powered by your available mana, is a deadly combination). Similarly, some of the actions we take are better suited than others when we look at it from a larger perspective. Enrolling in a writing class, for example, is good if we want to improve our writing skills, but what would make it even better would be spending our weekends joining a workshop or two, and writing something everyday just to make it a habit. Dieting is also a good example: eating less in one particular meal is less effective than a diet planned out for the entire week, which involves not only eating the right foods but proper exercise and healthy habits as well.
5) There's no such thing as a perfect deck: not all decks or cards are equal. Some do better against particular cards, while others are optimized towards a different goal. The same goes with real life. That doesn't mean that you're inferior to a particular person: merely that he or she is optimized for certain situations. Accepting that painful fact helps you recognize your own strengths and weaknesses, and lets you know when to adjust your strategy.
6) Know when to give up: sometimes, you'll be put in a situation where you can't win the current game. Sometimes, it's best to concede (so that you don't reveal the rest of your strategy to the opponent), while at other times, it's best to fight on (whether it's because you still have an actual chance of winning or whether you want your opponent to reveal more of his strategy and cards). The same goes with real life. There are moments when we need to move on, while there are times when struggling on helps us reach our goal eventually. Knowing the difference is pivotal and sometimes it's pretty difficult to differentiate between the two, which is why research and planning is important.
7) You don't need to have all the cards to build a good deck, just know where to get them: no one has infinite resources so trading becomes an essential tool for any CCG player. Finding the best deals, whether it's purchasing cards at single prices, trading for them, or buying booster packs in bulk, becomes a key element. Similarly, I don't need to have "everything" before I start any venture. Knowing how to maximize my existing resources, exchange it for other services, or plainly knowing how to avail of other options, is an essential element. For example, if I want to be a scientist, I don't need to memorize everything in the text book. All I need to know is not how to learn all the information but rather how to find and discover specific information that I will need.
8) Be friendly and courteous to other people: CCGs are social games--you need someone else to play with, and you're most likely getting your supply of cards from a living being. Giving the other person respect and courtesy is essential. The same goes with life, since you can hardly excel if anything if you make too many enemies. I'm not saying you should be a wallflower and let everyone push you around, but that unless provoked, it's suitable to be on your best behavior. You also might get the best deals because of that.
9) Learn to bluff: knowing what the other person is thinking is a decisive factor in games. In order to catch your opponent off-guard, you sometimes have to bluff. This usually means thinking of doing something with your cards even if they're all useless, or pretending to do a stupid move because you have a surprise in store for the opponent. In life, this usually means saying things not necessarily untruthfully, but with confidence. For example, when making a presentation in front of other people, say it with conviction, even if you're unsure of half of what you said. This might also mean not revealing all your options to other people, merely mentioning the obvious ones.
10) Work hard, feel confident, and just do it: you may be the best player in the world but unless you join tournaments or events, you won't be recognized. Life's like that as well: we're "theoretically" good at something, but unless we exert effort at it, feel that we can actually do it, and actually perform it, all will be for naught. In the end, it's our actions that count. All the planning in the world will come to no end if don't manage to execute it effectively.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Reserved
When people look at me, what they see is… blandness. Let’s face it, I appear to be boring. I’m not the type of person you expect excitement, laughter, or even anger. I’m a modern day ad for stoicism. Not that doing so doesn’t have its benefits. I mean I’m the last person you expect to be angry, for example. Yet how did this all happen? Was I born a reserved person?
For me, perhaps the strongest emotion that incites people is probably anger. Anyone can feign a smile. Pretending to be angry, on the other hand, is more difficult. As a child, I was quite angry with a lot of people. Unfortunately, my enemies were everywhere: my parents, my siblings, my relatives, my classmates, even my neighbors. To reveal my anger would get me bruises all over my body, and I considered verbal abuse getting off easy.
My mother loved to spank. Of course she’s not the person I see most of the day. It’s usually the other people, such as the maid who takes care of me and finds it too much of a hassle so she punishes me. There’s also the driver who pulls my ear and shouts all the time. My older brother is easily irritable, and has been known to publicly humiliate and injure his teachers because they annoy him; guess what more he does to his little brother? And there will always be a long line of bullies at school. When you’re a small, skinny boy, you’re a target for a lot of people.
It probably would have been okay if things got resolved. Unfortunately, they didn’t. The maids and my brother continued to abuse me despite my complaints to my parents, and the bullies continued to bully even if you stood up to them. Worse, sometimes other people even blamed you for the incident. So in order to survive my childhood, one of the first things I learned was to curb my anger.
When you don’t have anger as an emotional weapon, what else is left to you? I discovered that pity was an involuntary response, although it did save me once in awhile. I was a crybaby, despite my vehement denials of it at the time. It’s difficult to be taken seriously when there’s tears leaking out of your eyes and snot out of your nose, and you keep on saying that everything’s fine and that you’re not crying. That didn’t stop the teasing by kids my age, but it did draw attention to me. During our frequent trips abroad, my first resort when getting lost was to cry. Aloud. That would draw in my family, or a helpful stranger at the very least.
Unfortunately, I live in the Philippines where machismo rules, and crying was seen as weakness. If I was able to control my anger, I was easily able to control my tears. However, that didn’t stop other people from hurting me, such as the bullies at school, or the less-than-friendly people at home. Since we’re going for masochism, I might as well ignore the pain, or at least appear to ignore the pain. Chairs in grade school were made of metal and wood, and I really wish they were made out of the plastic ones which are light and easy to carry. I even wish they’re the type that gets used on TV wrestling. At least those chairs were small and foldable. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. But when you’re able to take a hit at the back and immediately recover, people start respecting you. Suddenly, I had dreams of becoming a stuntman. I mean when you’re constantly getting hit by things made of wood and metal, receiving punches and kicks didn’t look threatening anymore.
I was also buck-toothed when I was a kid, due to a certain accident that involves me landing on the ground with my mouth open. My smile was far from perfect, and my classmates loved to point that out. I think you pretty much get the picture I’m driving at. If I appear to lack a certain range when it comes to facial expressions, it’s not because of a lack of learning.
Stoicism has its benefits though. I mean bullies remain bullies because of the pain they inflict on others. When they stop seeing you suffer, they grow bored. The same goes for the teasing. When the subject of your taunts doesn’t looked annoyed, what’s the point in continuing? In the end, the whole experience also taught me two important things: one is to listen, because when you stop dwelling on your pitiful life, you realize that others have something to teach you, even if they’re unaware of it. The bully, for example, reveals his insecurities by his taunts. The other thing I learned was sympathy. When you’re usually at the receiving end of most injuries, you realize how other people feel as well. One becomes sensitive to pain, not just of one’s self, but of other’s as well. I know what it feels like to be the underdog, to be the scapegoat of society. But because of that, I also know how to comfort, how to aid others.
I didn’t come out unscathed from the whole experience. The fact that I am who I am now shows that events in my childhood have changed me. However, I did learn wisdom from the entire ordeal, and for me, that’s a worthy tradeoff (at least I still have my eye, unlike a certain Norse deity).
For me, perhaps the strongest emotion that incites people is probably anger. Anyone can feign a smile. Pretending to be angry, on the other hand, is more difficult. As a child, I was quite angry with a lot of people. Unfortunately, my enemies were everywhere: my parents, my siblings, my relatives, my classmates, even my neighbors. To reveal my anger would get me bruises all over my body, and I considered verbal abuse getting off easy.
My mother loved to spank. Of course she’s not the person I see most of the day. It’s usually the other people, such as the maid who takes care of me and finds it too much of a hassle so she punishes me. There’s also the driver who pulls my ear and shouts all the time. My older brother is easily irritable, and has been known to publicly humiliate and injure his teachers because they annoy him; guess what more he does to his little brother? And there will always be a long line of bullies at school. When you’re a small, skinny boy, you’re a target for a lot of people.
It probably would have been okay if things got resolved. Unfortunately, they didn’t. The maids and my brother continued to abuse me despite my complaints to my parents, and the bullies continued to bully even if you stood up to them. Worse, sometimes other people even blamed you for the incident. So in order to survive my childhood, one of the first things I learned was to curb my anger.
When you don’t have anger as an emotional weapon, what else is left to you? I discovered that pity was an involuntary response, although it did save me once in awhile. I was a crybaby, despite my vehement denials of it at the time. It’s difficult to be taken seriously when there’s tears leaking out of your eyes and snot out of your nose, and you keep on saying that everything’s fine and that you’re not crying. That didn’t stop the teasing by kids my age, but it did draw attention to me. During our frequent trips abroad, my first resort when getting lost was to cry. Aloud. That would draw in my family, or a helpful stranger at the very least.
Unfortunately, I live in the Philippines where machismo rules, and crying was seen as weakness. If I was able to control my anger, I was easily able to control my tears. However, that didn’t stop other people from hurting me, such as the bullies at school, or the less-than-friendly people at home. Since we’re going for masochism, I might as well ignore the pain, or at least appear to ignore the pain. Chairs in grade school were made of metal and wood, and I really wish they were made out of the plastic ones which are light and easy to carry. I even wish they’re the type that gets used on TV wrestling. At least those chairs were small and foldable. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. But when you’re able to take a hit at the back and immediately recover, people start respecting you. Suddenly, I had dreams of becoming a stuntman. I mean when you’re constantly getting hit by things made of wood and metal, receiving punches and kicks didn’t look threatening anymore.
I was also buck-toothed when I was a kid, due to a certain accident that involves me landing on the ground with my mouth open. My smile was far from perfect, and my classmates loved to point that out. I think you pretty much get the picture I’m driving at. If I appear to lack a certain range when it comes to facial expressions, it’s not because of a lack of learning.
Stoicism has its benefits though. I mean bullies remain bullies because of the pain they inflict on others. When they stop seeing you suffer, they grow bored. The same goes for the teasing. When the subject of your taunts doesn’t looked annoyed, what’s the point in continuing? In the end, the whole experience also taught me two important things: one is to listen, because when you stop dwelling on your pitiful life, you realize that others have something to teach you, even if they’re unaware of it. The bully, for example, reveals his insecurities by his taunts. The other thing I learned was sympathy. When you’re usually at the receiving end of most injuries, you realize how other people feel as well. One becomes sensitive to pain, not just of one’s self, but of other’s as well. I know what it feels like to be the underdog, to be the scapegoat of society. But because of that, I also know how to comfort, how to aid others.
I didn’t come out unscathed from the whole experience. The fact that I am who I am now shows that events in my childhood have changed me. However, I did learn wisdom from the entire ordeal, and for me, that’s a worthy tradeoff (at least I still have my eye, unlike a certain Norse deity).
Sunday, August 01, 2004
Vampire Orchid
Eating is a social act as much as it is a biological act. While it is possible to eat alone, people usually prefer eating with company. It is usually during this time that people bond with each other. That’s why there are usually family dinners. Or why students share a table at the school cafeteria. Or even why coworkers invite you to eat out with them. Not joining them usually ostracizes you from the group. I’m speaking from personal experience. Because I’m a deviant, and people usually don’t see me eat, at least not in public.
That’s not to say that I don’t eat at all. That would be impossible. I’m not an orchid that directly converts light to energy. Nor am I a vampire that doesn’t feel physical hunger. I am, however, a person with a small body, and I do need less quantities of food than the average person. I have proven in the past that gorging myself in food would only lead me to involuntarily vomit it. So pacing myself is quite important.
That only partially answers why people don’t see me eat, however. One good motivation for me not to eat out is that it costs money. Given that I am working with a finite budget, I try to save money as possible for those other tangible stuff that’s still there once you’re done using it (food, while it is tangible, is gone once you’ve eaten it… the only proof that you ate is either the food that you vomit, or whatever you shit). Since I don’t want to spend money, I usually eat at home, where my parents spend for the food. And because one third of my life is spent at home at the very least, I do make it a point to eat at home rather than eat outside. And since I have control over my appetites, I can schedule my eating habits so that I eat before I leave the house, and eat again once I return.
Food is important. And while we can’t live without food, skipping a meal won’t kill us (skipping several meals will do though). This is usually the discipline I invoke when I’m at a restaurant. Because restaurants are really expensive, and I have to ask myself whether I can afford to spend now or not. If it’s the latter, I can always eat at home. All I have to do is wait for everyone else to finish their food, and then I can go home and actually eat.
Another hindrance for me to eat in public is the fact that I have braces. Food do get stuck between my teeth, and getting rid of them involves more than toothpicks. And it really is a bit of a hassle to go to the bathroom every once in awhile just to clean your teeth. So I avoid all of that by simply eating at home, where I can go to my bathroom at leisure and perform all my sanitary precautions there.
Having said all that, I am aware that this is my habit and not everyone else’s. So I do accompany my friends when they eat out. I just don’t eat, and usually stare at them (because I’ll look like a hungry person if I stare at their food). I’ll even treat people out for lunch or dinner, because as I said, they don’t necessarily follow my diet (and while I don’t have a budget for feeding myself, I do have a budget for treating my friends out, and I’m capable of doing so in the first place because I save a lot of money by not eating).
Since it also comes down to a money problem, I’ll usually eat if somebody treats me out. Of course I don’t want to take advantage of people, so I’ll usually decline at first. And if the person is the type that treats people out often, then I’ll surely decline, because I don’t want to perpetually benefit from another person’s constant expenditure (and as someone who treats other people out, I do know how the bills eventually pile up).
Am I a normal person? No, I’m a weird, underweight kid. Do I eat? I’m still human and alive aren’t I? And besides, time spent not chewing food is time spent to listening what other people have to say, especially at the dinner table.
That’s not to say that I don’t eat at all. That would be impossible. I’m not an orchid that directly converts light to energy. Nor am I a vampire that doesn’t feel physical hunger. I am, however, a person with a small body, and I do need less quantities of food than the average person. I have proven in the past that gorging myself in food would only lead me to involuntarily vomit it. So pacing myself is quite important.
That only partially answers why people don’t see me eat, however. One good motivation for me not to eat out is that it costs money. Given that I am working with a finite budget, I try to save money as possible for those other tangible stuff that’s still there once you’re done using it (food, while it is tangible, is gone once you’ve eaten it… the only proof that you ate is either the food that you vomit, or whatever you shit). Since I don’t want to spend money, I usually eat at home, where my parents spend for the food. And because one third of my life is spent at home at the very least, I do make it a point to eat at home rather than eat outside. And since I have control over my appetites, I can schedule my eating habits so that I eat before I leave the house, and eat again once I return.
Food is important. And while we can’t live without food, skipping a meal won’t kill us (skipping several meals will do though). This is usually the discipline I invoke when I’m at a restaurant. Because restaurants are really expensive, and I have to ask myself whether I can afford to spend now or not. If it’s the latter, I can always eat at home. All I have to do is wait for everyone else to finish their food, and then I can go home and actually eat.
Another hindrance for me to eat in public is the fact that I have braces. Food do get stuck between my teeth, and getting rid of them involves more than toothpicks. And it really is a bit of a hassle to go to the bathroom every once in awhile just to clean your teeth. So I avoid all of that by simply eating at home, where I can go to my bathroom at leisure and perform all my sanitary precautions there.
Having said all that, I am aware that this is my habit and not everyone else’s. So I do accompany my friends when they eat out. I just don’t eat, and usually stare at them (because I’ll look like a hungry person if I stare at their food). I’ll even treat people out for lunch or dinner, because as I said, they don’t necessarily follow my diet (and while I don’t have a budget for feeding myself, I do have a budget for treating my friends out, and I’m capable of doing so in the first place because I save a lot of money by not eating).
Since it also comes down to a money problem, I’ll usually eat if somebody treats me out. Of course I don’t want to take advantage of people, so I’ll usually decline at first. And if the person is the type that treats people out often, then I’ll surely decline, because I don’t want to perpetually benefit from another person’s constant expenditure (and as someone who treats other people out, I do know how the bills eventually pile up).
Am I a normal person? No, I’m a weird, underweight kid. Do I eat? I’m still human and alive aren’t I? And besides, time spent not chewing food is time spent to listening what other people have to say, especially at the dinner table.
Wednesday, July 28, 2004
"Normal"
Have you ever wondered what life would be like if one aspect of you was changed? One of people’s biggest complaints about me (but not the only one) is the fact that I’m skinny and underweight. Which, of course, is true, but I’ve been that way for most of my life. I’ve known no other lifestyle except the one I’m currently living. For me, being skinny is normal. The Charles that you know wouldn’t be the same Charles if he wasn’t the skinny, underweight kid you knew.
For some strange reason, me and my immediate family are all skinny people, even if our cousins and other relatives are all big, fat, and probably weigh thrice as me. Not that my parents didn’t try to change that fact. If there was anyone who wasn’t content with who I was, it’s my parents. As early as three, they’d (or rather, the maids) fed me everything that was on the kitchen table. Even when I said I was already full, they didn’t believe me. So it really isn’t my fault when I vomited the food that I ate afterwards, and this would go on for five times a week. Because as early as three, my family never listens to me, even if I knew best.
When I was five years old, we transferred houses and I moved to a village where my neighbors actually had kids who played on the streets. I’d join them and would pass through their gates despite the bars. I thought that it was fun that I could sneak past their houses, and of course, this was possible because of my small size. Of course it was also at this time that I realized people pitying me didn’t only extend to my family but to everyone else. People who saw me would comment on how skinny I was and would offer me food, as if I wasn’t being fed at home.
If you want to survive the heat, try losing some weight. I was never a fan of electric fans of air conditioners, mainly because I didn’t feel hot. I obviously don’t have enough fat to generate heat for my body, but that isn’t a bad thing in a tropical country such as the Philippines. Unfortunately, I slept with my parents and they needed air-conditioning. I told them I was feeling cold (and actually had the snot and sneezes to prove it) but they still refused to believe me. Even during the days I was sick, I was nonetheless confined to an air-conditioned room. Never mind the fact that part of the reason I was sick was because I was freezing.
Several years later, I won partial independence from my family by moving out of my parent’s room and moving into the guest room, where I could live with neither electric fan nor air conditioner, and I could eat at the rate I wanted. I didn’t really need the three-meals a day which is average for most people, but I could subsist on two, and have some snacks in between. Life in high school consisted of eating breakfast at home, begging money from my classmates during lunchtime so I could purchase that P9.00 donut (approximately $0.20), and then going home to eat dinner. Did it work? Hey, I’m still alive right now aren’t I?
In college, one of my sports was running. I was a fast runner (although definitely not the fastest) despite my lack of previous experience or training. Of course part of it can be attributed to my weight. And even before that, I would walk several kilometers carrying my heavy bag in hopes of saving money (rather than pay for commuting). Now, when most friends think of me, they usually associate me with my big bag, and walking great distances to get to my destination. Oh, and they rarely see me eat as well.
I don’t see myself as disadvantaged. In fact, part of my strength is the fact that I’m underweight, and I’ve maximized that to my advantage. It’s not a handicap and I’ve lived my life no other way. If anyone has a complaint about my figure, they’re probably insecure. My weight doesn’t bother me so it really shouldn’t bother you.
For some strange reason, me and my immediate family are all skinny people, even if our cousins and other relatives are all big, fat, and probably weigh thrice as me. Not that my parents didn’t try to change that fact. If there was anyone who wasn’t content with who I was, it’s my parents. As early as three, they’d (or rather, the maids) fed me everything that was on the kitchen table. Even when I said I was already full, they didn’t believe me. So it really isn’t my fault when I vomited the food that I ate afterwards, and this would go on for five times a week. Because as early as three, my family never listens to me, even if I knew best.
When I was five years old, we transferred houses and I moved to a village where my neighbors actually had kids who played on the streets. I’d join them and would pass through their gates despite the bars. I thought that it was fun that I could sneak past their houses, and of course, this was possible because of my small size. Of course it was also at this time that I realized people pitying me didn’t only extend to my family but to everyone else. People who saw me would comment on how skinny I was and would offer me food, as if I wasn’t being fed at home.
If you want to survive the heat, try losing some weight. I was never a fan of electric fans of air conditioners, mainly because I didn’t feel hot. I obviously don’t have enough fat to generate heat for my body, but that isn’t a bad thing in a tropical country such as the Philippines. Unfortunately, I slept with my parents and they needed air-conditioning. I told them I was feeling cold (and actually had the snot and sneezes to prove it) but they still refused to believe me. Even during the days I was sick, I was nonetheless confined to an air-conditioned room. Never mind the fact that part of the reason I was sick was because I was freezing.
Several years later, I won partial independence from my family by moving out of my parent’s room and moving into the guest room, where I could live with neither electric fan nor air conditioner, and I could eat at the rate I wanted. I didn’t really need the three-meals a day which is average for most people, but I could subsist on two, and have some snacks in between. Life in high school consisted of eating breakfast at home, begging money from my classmates during lunchtime so I could purchase that P9.00 donut (approximately $0.20), and then going home to eat dinner. Did it work? Hey, I’m still alive right now aren’t I?
In college, one of my sports was running. I was a fast runner (although definitely not the fastest) despite my lack of previous experience or training. Of course part of it can be attributed to my weight. And even before that, I would walk several kilometers carrying my heavy bag in hopes of saving money (rather than pay for commuting). Now, when most friends think of me, they usually associate me with my big bag, and walking great distances to get to my destination. Oh, and they rarely see me eat as well.
I don’t see myself as disadvantaged. In fact, part of my strength is the fact that I’m underweight, and I’ve maximized that to my advantage. It’s not a handicap and I’ve lived my life no other way. If anyone has a complaint about my figure, they’re probably insecure. My weight doesn’t bother me so it really shouldn’t bother you.
Monday, July 26, 2004
In Man's Image
It has always worried me that many zealous Christians usually refer to human superiority by quoting a certain passage in the Bible: “God created man in his image…” To me, that statement, while possibly containing several theological truths, only proves the humanity (in both a positive and negative way) of the writer. Because such a philosophy is far from unique. Or rather, it’s a juxtaposition of our innate wishes.
What I mean by our “innate wishes” is that within each and every person is a sense of pride. And along with that pride contains to one degree or another a certain narcissism. To put it in another way, the closer something resembles us, the more appealing we find it to be. In the case of Christianity, our God appears to be like us. The only difference between Christianity’s God and the Greek’s gods is that we resemble the latter not through the power of the deities but rather plainly assumes it to be so. Of course there is a big development from the latter to the former. Greek gods, after all, are pretty much like super-powered humans, with all the flaws and weaknesses that go along with humanity. That’s not present with Christianity’s God, although following along those lines, it really shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that in order for us to be saved, God took on a human form. Jesus could be understood as a reconciliation between what we wanted our God to be and our innate form. God did not create man in his image but rather we created God in the image we wanted to fashion.
So humanity is a narcissist society. It is not only reflected in our religion but in the way we live life. One has to merely look around our surroundings to find that we usually associate with people who have, at the very least, one thing in common with us. It could take the form of blood (because like it or not, we do share characteristics with our ancestors, siblings, and most probably, descendants) in the case of family, or land or an ideal, in the case of country. Some people even have loyalty to their alma matter, and form a certain kinship with complete strangers upon the utterance that they came from the same school (or suffered under the hands of the same teacher).
Taking it to another level, what people usually look for in their husbands or wives is something that resembles them. The most stated characteristic (at least in my experience) of the traits we want in our boyfriends or girlfriends is understanding. And someone similar to us, at the very least in attitude and perspective, is in the best position to tolerate and understand our needs and habits. We’re attracted to people who are more like us than not. That’s why people usually start off with common interests in introducing themselves. Because anything common usually paves the way for close bonds. Even common adversity (such as a common enemy or being stuck in an elevator with no way out) can be a stepping stone for relationships.
Of course the other attitude we could take is that we’re not looking for people who have common traits as us but people who fulfill our wishes or fantasies. I mean the Christian God is like that. We’re not perfect, so we want him to be perfect. But in that relationship, we’re still inevitably relating to ourselves since a part of God is what we want ourselves to be. Similarly, that’s also something that could happen in the pursuit of our partners. We’re not looking for someone like our flawed selves but someone who can transcend us, someone who can solve our problems. In other words, we want to change, but since a particular change is beyond us, we hope to find it in someone else. Yet in the end, that trait is only important because it’s important to us. Once, say, we’ve gained a certain characteristic we previously did not have (such as being popular in college when you were unpopular in high school), that trait in the other person seems less attractive and exotic. At the very least, that shared experience becomes a common ground for you and someone else.
The interplay of who we are and who we want to be is carried over to our offspring. Parents usually have two mentalities when it comes to their child: either their child becomes like them (such as the pride one feels when your son or daughter takes up the same profession as you did), or that their child becomes someone they aren’t (such as a poor man wanting his son to become a rich doctor, or the housewife wishing that her daughter won’t get pregnant at an early age). Again, it really isn’t surprising that this is the stance most people take. The greatest hurdle of empathizing with other people is that for even just a few moments, we must feel what the other person is feeling rather than feel what we are feeling (of course the talent of the best empathic people is that there is no “other”; what the other person feels, they feel). And raising a child is a full-time job, and the only experiences we can draw upon are those we’ve personally experienced.
I’m not really condemning our tendency to gravitate towards what’s similar to us. In fact, a probable reason that we’re still alive on this Earth and haven’t blown up each other is the fact that we associate ourselves with humanity as a whole and find something similar in one another. We all have shared experiences; each and everyone of us, for example, knows what it is to laugh, what it is to cry. But as much as we share something in common, our differences sometimes gets the better of us. We wage wars because the other nation is different from ours. We ostracize people because they’re strange and queer. We even don’t get along with other people because they have an opinion. What we forget is that while there are things that can’t be changed, there are still lots of things that can be. We have free will and can overcome hurdles. If we killed someone just because they’re different, then we’d truly be alone in the world. And in the end, that is a narcissist’s greatest fear, to realize that you’re alone in the world not because you’re unique, but because other people found you to be repellant.
What I mean by our “innate wishes” is that within each and every person is a sense of pride. And along with that pride contains to one degree or another a certain narcissism. To put it in another way, the closer something resembles us, the more appealing we find it to be. In the case of Christianity, our God appears to be like us. The only difference between Christianity’s God and the Greek’s gods is that we resemble the latter not through the power of the deities but rather plainly assumes it to be so. Of course there is a big development from the latter to the former. Greek gods, after all, are pretty much like super-powered humans, with all the flaws and weaknesses that go along with humanity. That’s not present with Christianity’s God, although following along those lines, it really shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that in order for us to be saved, God took on a human form. Jesus could be understood as a reconciliation between what we wanted our God to be and our innate form. God did not create man in his image but rather we created God in the image we wanted to fashion.
So humanity is a narcissist society. It is not only reflected in our religion but in the way we live life. One has to merely look around our surroundings to find that we usually associate with people who have, at the very least, one thing in common with us. It could take the form of blood (because like it or not, we do share characteristics with our ancestors, siblings, and most probably, descendants) in the case of family, or land or an ideal, in the case of country. Some people even have loyalty to their alma matter, and form a certain kinship with complete strangers upon the utterance that they came from the same school (or suffered under the hands of the same teacher).
Taking it to another level, what people usually look for in their husbands or wives is something that resembles them. The most stated characteristic (at least in my experience) of the traits we want in our boyfriends or girlfriends is understanding. And someone similar to us, at the very least in attitude and perspective, is in the best position to tolerate and understand our needs and habits. We’re attracted to people who are more like us than not. That’s why people usually start off with common interests in introducing themselves. Because anything common usually paves the way for close bonds. Even common adversity (such as a common enemy or being stuck in an elevator with no way out) can be a stepping stone for relationships.
Of course the other attitude we could take is that we’re not looking for people who have common traits as us but people who fulfill our wishes or fantasies. I mean the Christian God is like that. We’re not perfect, so we want him to be perfect. But in that relationship, we’re still inevitably relating to ourselves since a part of God is what we want ourselves to be. Similarly, that’s also something that could happen in the pursuit of our partners. We’re not looking for someone like our flawed selves but someone who can transcend us, someone who can solve our problems. In other words, we want to change, but since a particular change is beyond us, we hope to find it in someone else. Yet in the end, that trait is only important because it’s important to us. Once, say, we’ve gained a certain characteristic we previously did not have (such as being popular in college when you were unpopular in high school), that trait in the other person seems less attractive and exotic. At the very least, that shared experience becomes a common ground for you and someone else.
The interplay of who we are and who we want to be is carried over to our offspring. Parents usually have two mentalities when it comes to their child: either their child becomes like them (such as the pride one feels when your son or daughter takes up the same profession as you did), or that their child becomes someone they aren’t (such as a poor man wanting his son to become a rich doctor, or the housewife wishing that her daughter won’t get pregnant at an early age). Again, it really isn’t surprising that this is the stance most people take. The greatest hurdle of empathizing with other people is that for even just a few moments, we must feel what the other person is feeling rather than feel what we are feeling (of course the talent of the best empathic people is that there is no “other”; what the other person feels, they feel). And raising a child is a full-time job, and the only experiences we can draw upon are those we’ve personally experienced.
I’m not really condemning our tendency to gravitate towards what’s similar to us. In fact, a probable reason that we’re still alive on this Earth and haven’t blown up each other is the fact that we associate ourselves with humanity as a whole and find something similar in one another. We all have shared experiences; each and everyone of us, for example, knows what it is to laugh, what it is to cry. But as much as we share something in common, our differences sometimes gets the better of us. We wage wars because the other nation is different from ours. We ostracize people because they’re strange and queer. We even don’t get along with other people because they have an opinion. What we forget is that while there are things that can’t be changed, there are still lots of things that can be. We have free will and can overcome hurdles. If we killed someone just because they’re different, then we’d truly be alone in the world. And in the end, that is a narcissist’s greatest fear, to realize that you’re alone in the world not because you’re unique, but because other people found you to be repellant.
Sunday, July 25, 2004
Damned If You Do, Damned If You Don't
It’s been my experience that many Filipinos are afraid to directly hurt other people. It can be something as simple as declining to go to a person’s birthday party (and saying something like “I’ll come late” instead) to something as complex as breaking up a relationship (“I’ll stay with him/her even if I don’t love him/her anymore since his/her grades have dropped whenever I’m away from him/her”). It doesn’t matter that in the long run, the other person will get hurt, just as long as it doesn’t originate from them.
What’s wrong with this kind of mentality is that the other person will inevitably get hurt. In the case of the person who invited you to their birthday party, he/she will be hurt just as much when he/she doesn’t see you around when the occasion arrives. Yes, you won’t be there to see the other person get hurt, but he/she will get hurt nonetheless (and because he/she suffers from the same mentality as you, he/she won’t mention it the next time you meet). With the other situation, you’re giving the other person false hope. When you finally get fed up with him/her and break up, the other person will suffer the more grievous wound. You can rationalize that you’ve been the martyr all this time by staying in the relationship even when you’ve already given up on the person at an earlier date. Unfortunately, your former significant other doesn’t have the same kind of rationalization to blunt the blow.
With the former situation, you’re just being plain selfish. You’re not removing the other person’s pain, merely moving yourself away from the scene so that you don’t see it. It’s a kind of self-delusion. You think that “if I don’t see it, it doesn’t happen”. Unfortunately, that’s not how the world works. You’re merely lying to yourself.
With the latter situation, there is a kind of concern for the well-being of the other person. Unfortunately, it’s a short-sighted view of things. It’s short-sighted in the sense that it only concerns the present, as if the future will solve its own problems. And since you’re concerned with the short term, you take the easy route, the one that has no immediate consequences. Unfortunately, as I said before, you nurture a sense of false hope with the other person. Usually, the longer you associate with a certain person, the more difficult it is to severe your connection with him/her. In this case, the other person will love you more as time passes by, increasing the pain he/she will feel when you inevitably break up. At this point, it’s a “damned if you, damned if you don’t” situation. You’ll hurt the other person irregardless of when you break up. Since inflicting pain stops being an issue here, the real question is how much pain are you willing to inflict. If you break up with the other person sooner (or even not agreeing to get into the relationship in the first place), sure, it’ll hurt the other person, but not as much when he/she has gotten quite acquainted with you. If you make the break up later, the pain you’ll inflict will be much, much more, although such repercussions aren’t immediately apparent at the time you made the decision.
Of course that’s not to say that all our roads of action lead to pain and suffering. However, there is truth to the cliché saying “you can’t please everybody”. And similarly, you will end up hurting other people inevitably (since we are human after all, and not perfect creatures). That being the case, we should stop being afraid of hurting other people, especially if it comes at the expense not only of our lives but of the other person’s as well. True friends will forgive you for your directness and flaws, while with less-forgiving people, it’s only a matter of time before they get mad at you for one reason or another. It’s always been my philosophy “better now rather than later” because I do form bonds with people the longer I get acquainted with them. If they can’t take me as I am right now, then they’ll probably be less tolerant of the skeletons I keep in my closet.
What’s wrong with this kind of mentality is that the other person will inevitably get hurt. In the case of the person who invited you to their birthday party, he/she will be hurt just as much when he/she doesn’t see you around when the occasion arrives. Yes, you won’t be there to see the other person get hurt, but he/she will get hurt nonetheless (and because he/she suffers from the same mentality as you, he/she won’t mention it the next time you meet). With the other situation, you’re giving the other person false hope. When you finally get fed up with him/her and break up, the other person will suffer the more grievous wound. You can rationalize that you’ve been the martyr all this time by staying in the relationship even when you’ve already given up on the person at an earlier date. Unfortunately, your former significant other doesn’t have the same kind of rationalization to blunt the blow.
With the former situation, you’re just being plain selfish. You’re not removing the other person’s pain, merely moving yourself away from the scene so that you don’t see it. It’s a kind of self-delusion. You think that “if I don’t see it, it doesn’t happen”. Unfortunately, that’s not how the world works. You’re merely lying to yourself.
With the latter situation, there is a kind of concern for the well-being of the other person. Unfortunately, it’s a short-sighted view of things. It’s short-sighted in the sense that it only concerns the present, as if the future will solve its own problems. And since you’re concerned with the short term, you take the easy route, the one that has no immediate consequences. Unfortunately, as I said before, you nurture a sense of false hope with the other person. Usually, the longer you associate with a certain person, the more difficult it is to severe your connection with him/her. In this case, the other person will love you more as time passes by, increasing the pain he/she will feel when you inevitably break up. At this point, it’s a “damned if you, damned if you don’t” situation. You’ll hurt the other person irregardless of when you break up. Since inflicting pain stops being an issue here, the real question is how much pain are you willing to inflict. If you break up with the other person sooner (or even not agreeing to get into the relationship in the first place), sure, it’ll hurt the other person, but not as much when he/she has gotten quite acquainted with you. If you make the break up later, the pain you’ll inflict will be much, much more, although such repercussions aren’t immediately apparent at the time you made the decision.
Of course that’s not to say that all our roads of action lead to pain and suffering. However, there is truth to the cliché saying “you can’t please everybody”. And similarly, you will end up hurting other people inevitably (since we are human after all, and not perfect creatures). That being the case, we should stop being afraid of hurting other people, especially if it comes at the expense not only of our lives but of the other person’s as well. True friends will forgive you for your directness and flaws, while with less-forgiving people, it’s only a matter of time before they get mad at you for one reason or another. It’s always been my philosophy “better now rather than later” because I do form bonds with people the longer I get acquainted with them. If they can’t take me as I am right now, then they’ll probably be less tolerant of the skeletons I keep in my closet.
Tuesday, July 13, 2004
The Many Faces of Charles
“Hi! My name is Charles.” When making introductions, that’s usually as far as I go. Because elaborating further would reveal that I am not a normal person, at least to most people’s standards. Take, for example, one of my hobbies: reading. When asked to elaborate, I state fantasy or science fiction. The common reaction I get? “So you read something like Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings?” While to a certain extent that’s true, I really want to elaborate that there’s more to fantasy and science-fiction than Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, in much the same way that there’s more to the Philippines than manila envelopes and Muslim terrorists. But doing so takes a lot of time and I might offend the person, so I just shut up and show them my expressionless face.
If I really want to be memorable, I’ll introduce myself as a stalker. There’s nothing like seeing the expression on a person’s face when you mention that you’re a stalker, since it’s the last thing they expect. A person introduces his good traits, not his bad ones. Of course I use this technique sparingly. Some people might take me too seriously, after all, and there are laws against stalking. While the reactions are varied, one thing that remains constant is that I’m remembered. It’s not everyday, after all, that someone introduces themselves as a stalker.
More often than not, I let other people introduce me. I’d appear less arrogant that way, and it’s interesting to hear what other people have to say about me. I mean it’s one thing to claim that you’re this type of person and it’s another to hear another person describe you. Sometimes, they use the traits I provided earlier. Other times, it’s something entirely different, with varying results. I mean I’m grateful when I’m praised. When I’m criticized, well, I can always laugh and pretend it’s a joke.
Why go through all these complexities? Because I do care about public opinion, especially when it concerns me. There are many ways to earn a reputation. Some reputations can be bought. I want mine to be earned. While I’m quick to claim credit for an accomplishment of mine, I decline just as fast any compliments or criticisms that’s not warranted or does not have a basis. In fact, I’ll be the first person to note what my strengths and weaknesses are (no matter how humiliating they can be). What’s important to me is the truth, and that first and foremost, they should come from me.
Of course having said that, there’s a huge part of me that’s hidden. For every fact I reveal, there’ll be ten secrets concealed. I mean we can’t be totally transparent to everyone. Some might use the excuse that we might be taken advantaged of or that if other people knew who we truly were, they’d stop caring about us. While to a certain extent those are true, my stance is this: we honestly can’t show everything to someone because it’s physically impossible to do so. In the attempt, we might appear too self-centered. Some of our traits are relevant to the situation, while at other times, it’s not. Learning when to say something and when not to say something is quite important. And as much as I want to talk about myself, it’s also just as vital to learn when to listen, to hear what others have to say about themselves as well as myself. Sometimes, my personal life doesn’t even matter; what counts is the dialogue between two social beings.
In the end, it doesn’t bother me that I live all these duplicitous lives. I mean as a human being, we all have different roles, whether it be as a friend, a lover, a parent, a child, a student, a teacher, or a confidant. We’re not stuck in one role but rather fulfill these characteristics all at once (of course it goes without saying that usually only one or two is reflected in our personality at any one time). It’s not a crime to be a multi-faceted person, just as it’s not a crime to specialize in several fields, to have several hobbies, or to even have varied friends and relatives. I’m not a tool that has only one function, I’m a human being with all the complexities that go along with it. Charles is a complicated entity, with truths and lies enshrouding his true self. In the end, you can’t even trust the very words you are reading. After all, even this is a form of introduction, and who can say how far I’m revealing myself through words that constantly elude the true meaning of humanity.
If I really want to be memorable, I’ll introduce myself as a stalker. There’s nothing like seeing the expression on a person’s face when you mention that you’re a stalker, since it’s the last thing they expect. A person introduces his good traits, not his bad ones. Of course I use this technique sparingly. Some people might take me too seriously, after all, and there are laws against stalking. While the reactions are varied, one thing that remains constant is that I’m remembered. It’s not everyday, after all, that someone introduces themselves as a stalker.
More often than not, I let other people introduce me. I’d appear less arrogant that way, and it’s interesting to hear what other people have to say about me. I mean it’s one thing to claim that you’re this type of person and it’s another to hear another person describe you. Sometimes, they use the traits I provided earlier. Other times, it’s something entirely different, with varying results. I mean I’m grateful when I’m praised. When I’m criticized, well, I can always laugh and pretend it’s a joke.
Why go through all these complexities? Because I do care about public opinion, especially when it concerns me. There are many ways to earn a reputation. Some reputations can be bought. I want mine to be earned. While I’m quick to claim credit for an accomplishment of mine, I decline just as fast any compliments or criticisms that’s not warranted or does not have a basis. In fact, I’ll be the first person to note what my strengths and weaknesses are (no matter how humiliating they can be). What’s important to me is the truth, and that first and foremost, they should come from me.
Of course having said that, there’s a huge part of me that’s hidden. For every fact I reveal, there’ll be ten secrets concealed. I mean we can’t be totally transparent to everyone. Some might use the excuse that we might be taken advantaged of or that if other people knew who we truly were, they’d stop caring about us. While to a certain extent those are true, my stance is this: we honestly can’t show everything to someone because it’s physically impossible to do so. In the attempt, we might appear too self-centered. Some of our traits are relevant to the situation, while at other times, it’s not. Learning when to say something and when not to say something is quite important. And as much as I want to talk about myself, it’s also just as vital to learn when to listen, to hear what others have to say about themselves as well as myself. Sometimes, my personal life doesn’t even matter; what counts is the dialogue between two social beings.
In the end, it doesn’t bother me that I live all these duplicitous lives. I mean as a human being, we all have different roles, whether it be as a friend, a lover, a parent, a child, a student, a teacher, or a confidant. We’re not stuck in one role but rather fulfill these characteristics all at once (of course it goes without saying that usually only one or two is reflected in our personality at any one time). It’s not a crime to be a multi-faceted person, just as it’s not a crime to specialize in several fields, to have several hobbies, or to even have varied friends and relatives. I’m not a tool that has only one function, I’m a human being with all the complexities that go along with it. Charles is a complicated entity, with truths and lies enshrouding his true self. In the end, you can’t even trust the very words you are reading. After all, even this is a form of introduction, and who can say how far I’m revealing myself through words that constantly elude the true meaning of humanity.
Monday, July 05, 2004
A Lifetime of Pain
In life, there are experiences which plainly can’t be avoided. One of them involves pain. Of course having said that, some experiences are more painful than others. As human beings, we often opt for the choices that bestow upon us the least suffering. But telling which is which is not often so easy. As my grade school tutor once told me, “it’s often the smallest pinpricks that sting the most.”
Obviously, there are many levels of suffering. As I am writing this, I am undergoing many unpleasant reactions. First and foremost are the mosquitoes that have bitten me in every part of my body (except my private parts, which is why I don’t run around naked). That’s probably the best example I can give that lends credence to my tutor’s statement. Because if my wounds were inflicted by much larger creatures, the pain would be distributed over a larger part of my body. But mosquitoes being tiny creatures with penetrating teeth, the smallest wound they inflict causes me the most distraction and it leaves marks and sometimes, scars.
Of course not all injuries scar. At least not visually. In grade school and high school, I was bullied. The former left me bruises on body parts which were covered by my clothes (because children are smarter than they look, and the last thing they want is to get caught by the school authorities). But the latter inflicted upon me wounds that no medicine could cure. Because they were wounds that struck a person’s psyche, each blow shaving off a portion of an individual’s soul. First came the ostracism and the taunts. At first, they didn’t hurt. One holds to the phrase “sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me.” But over time, the words became sharp as steel, and I soon found myself impaled upon a bed of blades. When you’re taunted on the first day of class, they call it an initiation into high school life. When you’re taunted and ostracized over the span of several years, one looks into the past, and realizes that things won’t change for the better. I stopped hoping that the bullies would go away, that somebody would pity me and befriend me. Coming to terms with that actually made the pain hurt a little less. Because that also meant that if I wanted things to change, I would have to be the one who changed it rather than hope that some cosmic being or adult would make things better for me.
While the bullying hurt me, the pain that cuts deep into my heart is that of isolation. Our friends are often people whom we can relate to and vice versa. When you don’t have friends, all you have to say might as well be jibberish. All the actions that you perform might as well be some arcane ritual. And when that occurs, you might as well be living alone. Because we humans are blessed with mouths so that we can communicate. Reading and writing is a mere extension of that. But they’re all meaningless if there’s no one to comprehend it all (what is the sound of a tree falling with no one to hear?). There was a point in time when I was a walking pariah, someone everybody avoided (and since this is the Philippines, all the while feigning friendship and amicability). And that is perhaps the most grievous hurt one can feel. Granted, there are no visible wounds on your body. Granted, one can be in a perfect state of health. But the underlying factor there is that there’s no one you can talk to, no one that relates to you. And while as adults we claim to be independent, no person is truly independent from the world around him. He needs succor from his loved ones, respite from loneliness. Perhaps that’s why amidst all the war and suffering we inflict upon others, in the end, we all come back to each other and unite with what we call “humanity” or the human race.
As for me, I’ve learned that the most grievous of wounds aren’t necessarily the ones that are visible, or the ones that can heal naturally. If there’s anything I can be grateful for, it’s that pain has heightened my senses, and made me more aware of the people around me. And grateful for the people that are actually capable of hurting me, because that only means I care for them enough that they can inflict such wounds on my person.
Obviously, there are many levels of suffering. As I am writing this, I am undergoing many unpleasant reactions. First and foremost are the mosquitoes that have bitten me in every part of my body (except my private parts, which is why I don’t run around naked). That’s probably the best example I can give that lends credence to my tutor’s statement. Because if my wounds were inflicted by much larger creatures, the pain would be distributed over a larger part of my body. But mosquitoes being tiny creatures with penetrating teeth, the smallest wound they inflict causes me the most distraction and it leaves marks and sometimes, scars.
Of course not all injuries scar. At least not visually. In grade school and high school, I was bullied. The former left me bruises on body parts which were covered by my clothes (because children are smarter than they look, and the last thing they want is to get caught by the school authorities). But the latter inflicted upon me wounds that no medicine could cure. Because they were wounds that struck a person’s psyche, each blow shaving off a portion of an individual’s soul. First came the ostracism and the taunts. At first, they didn’t hurt. One holds to the phrase “sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me.” But over time, the words became sharp as steel, and I soon found myself impaled upon a bed of blades. When you’re taunted on the first day of class, they call it an initiation into high school life. When you’re taunted and ostracized over the span of several years, one looks into the past, and realizes that things won’t change for the better. I stopped hoping that the bullies would go away, that somebody would pity me and befriend me. Coming to terms with that actually made the pain hurt a little less. Because that also meant that if I wanted things to change, I would have to be the one who changed it rather than hope that some cosmic being or adult would make things better for me.
While the bullying hurt me, the pain that cuts deep into my heart is that of isolation. Our friends are often people whom we can relate to and vice versa. When you don’t have friends, all you have to say might as well be jibberish. All the actions that you perform might as well be some arcane ritual. And when that occurs, you might as well be living alone. Because we humans are blessed with mouths so that we can communicate. Reading and writing is a mere extension of that. But they’re all meaningless if there’s no one to comprehend it all (what is the sound of a tree falling with no one to hear?). There was a point in time when I was a walking pariah, someone everybody avoided (and since this is the Philippines, all the while feigning friendship and amicability). And that is perhaps the most grievous hurt one can feel. Granted, there are no visible wounds on your body. Granted, one can be in a perfect state of health. But the underlying factor there is that there’s no one you can talk to, no one that relates to you. And while as adults we claim to be independent, no person is truly independent from the world around him. He needs succor from his loved ones, respite from loneliness. Perhaps that’s why amidst all the war and suffering we inflict upon others, in the end, we all come back to each other and unite with what we call “humanity” or the human race.
As for me, I’ve learned that the most grievous of wounds aren’t necessarily the ones that are visible, or the ones that can heal naturally. If there’s anything I can be grateful for, it’s that pain has heightened my senses, and made me more aware of the people around me. And grateful for the people that are actually capable of hurting me, because that only means I care for them enough that they can inflict such wounds on my person.
Sunday, June 20, 2004
Who's Your Idol?
When I was thirteen years old, my friend Randall came up to me and asked, “Charles, who’s your idol?” I hesitated, although I already knew deep inside what my answer would be. Seeing my hesitation, Randall blurted out his own idol, as if his admission would make it easier to mention my own. It was tempting to lie, especially since my answer was unconventional, and would probably alienate me from others. But Randall was my friend, after all, so I told him the truth. “I don’t idolize anyone,” I said. I saw in his expression the unasked questions: not even your parents? Or a celebrity? Or even a superhero? Seeing that I had nothing further to say, he turned his back on me and said “Ang yabang mo naman!” (You’re so arrogant!)
When I was thirteen, adversity at home and at school had taught me wisdom. And part of that wisdom told me that other people, whether they be celebrities or not, are just like ourselves, complete with flaws as well as strengths. They are, at their core, human beings just like ourselves. That meant that while they have accomplishments worth admiring, they also have their own skeletons in the closet. But it also means that we, insignificant as we may appear to be, are also capable of just as much. Just because I was an insecure thirteen year old did not mean I could not become, say, president of the Philippines.
To idolize someone means to want to become like them. It’s easy to fall prey to that kind of syndrome. That’s why celebrities advertising certain products (such as Michael Jordan being the spokesperson for Nike) prove to be popular. But to me that path is filled with peril. I did not want to become someone else. I wanted to be me. To copy someone would not be true to me. In copying someone, sure, I might inherit their strengths, but I also might inherit their weaknesses (which is a concern of some celebrities, such as a host for a children’s program getting caught drinking beer in public). That is not to say that I don’t have flaws of my own. But I honestly think it’s wrong if we blindly mimic someone else. And some people do just that, because it’s the simplest route. Rather than take the time to assess what’s good for ourselves and what’s bad, we just start following orders from someone else or zealously copy everything that they do. In my opinion, we’re given a brain and free will for a reason. Take in the good and filter out the bad. More importantly, take the time to identify what’s good and what’s bad, what can be achieved by our limitations and what can’t be. Because as far as we’re all capable people, no one is capable of everything (and we all aren’t equally gifted).
Just because I don’t have an idol does not mean I don’t admire other people. Admiration is not the same as idolization. With the former, I can like a certain person or their particular actions, and not necessarily want to emulate their whole persona. Admiration, in my book, is good. And to be truthful, we all have people we admire, even though at times we may not necessary like them all the time (such as our parents, while they have the best intentions for us, usually rely on actions that might not be beneficial to us). With admiration, we’re selective about it, and we don’t even necessarily make attempts to emulate what we admire.
Another lesson I learned from all this is to have confidence in myself as well. Because as much as we have the potential to mold ourselves to who we want to become, it won’t matter if we don’t actually exert the effort to do so. And people seldom exert effort if they don’t think they can achieve something. But the truth is, we can! Granted, some things are beyond our reach. But we’ll never know for certain unless we try. After all, we lose nothing in the attempt (except probably pride). And if we succeed, well, that’s something to be grateful, isn’t it?
When I was thirteen, adversity at home and at school had taught me wisdom. And part of that wisdom told me that other people, whether they be celebrities or not, are just like ourselves, complete with flaws as well as strengths. They are, at their core, human beings just like ourselves. That meant that while they have accomplishments worth admiring, they also have their own skeletons in the closet. But it also means that we, insignificant as we may appear to be, are also capable of just as much. Just because I was an insecure thirteen year old did not mean I could not become, say, president of the Philippines.
To idolize someone means to want to become like them. It’s easy to fall prey to that kind of syndrome. That’s why celebrities advertising certain products (such as Michael Jordan being the spokesperson for Nike) prove to be popular. But to me that path is filled with peril. I did not want to become someone else. I wanted to be me. To copy someone would not be true to me. In copying someone, sure, I might inherit their strengths, but I also might inherit their weaknesses (which is a concern of some celebrities, such as a host for a children’s program getting caught drinking beer in public). That is not to say that I don’t have flaws of my own. But I honestly think it’s wrong if we blindly mimic someone else. And some people do just that, because it’s the simplest route. Rather than take the time to assess what’s good for ourselves and what’s bad, we just start following orders from someone else or zealously copy everything that they do. In my opinion, we’re given a brain and free will for a reason. Take in the good and filter out the bad. More importantly, take the time to identify what’s good and what’s bad, what can be achieved by our limitations and what can’t be. Because as far as we’re all capable people, no one is capable of everything (and we all aren’t equally gifted).
Just because I don’t have an idol does not mean I don’t admire other people. Admiration is not the same as idolization. With the former, I can like a certain person or their particular actions, and not necessarily want to emulate their whole persona. Admiration, in my book, is good. And to be truthful, we all have people we admire, even though at times we may not necessary like them all the time (such as our parents, while they have the best intentions for us, usually rely on actions that might not be beneficial to us). With admiration, we’re selective about it, and we don’t even necessarily make attempts to emulate what we admire.
Another lesson I learned from all this is to have confidence in myself as well. Because as much as we have the potential to mold ourselves to who we want to become, it won’t matter if we don’t actually exert the effort to do so. And people seldom exert effort if they don’t think they can achieve something. But the truth is, we can! Granted, some things are beyond our reach. But we’ll never know for certain unless we try. After all, we lose nothing in the attempt (except probably pride). And if we succeed, well, that’s something to be grateful, isn’t it?
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
The Stalker’s Paradox
What makes a good stalker? In general, a stalker is someone who can stealthily follow someone without getting noticed. He is also able to acquire lots of information about his target. Yet he must all do all of this without drawing attention to himself, and the less that’s known about him, the better. In other words, a good stalker is like a wraith—present yet undetected, knowledgeable but silent.
But what motivates a stalker? The object of a stalker’s obsession is usually (if not always) another human being. He secretly longs to be with this person, yet for reasons of his own (whether it’s fear, timidity, or a disability), cannot seem to confront this person directly. But he constantly yearns for this person, and resolves this by the act of stalking.
Unfortunately it is in the act of stalking that a stalker betrays his vocation. A hunter might stalk an animal and the animal would not realize it until the last moment, when the hunter finally reveals himself and delivers the killing blow. Unfortunately for the stalker, there is no killing blow. He wants to nurture his prey rather than to destroy it (at least not at first). There is no final strike that will make sure the prey can never speak of the stalker to anyone, but instead, the opposite: revelation.
The stalker, unable to restrain himself any longer, makes his presence known. He secretly knows that what he has been doing is illogical. He was invisible to the person before he became a stalker and becoming a stalker doesn’t bring him any closer to getting attention from his intended target. So under the guise of anonymity, a stalker starts drawing attention to himself. He establishes himself in the conscious mind of his prey through secret letters, phone calls, or notes (and perhaps in this day and age, a text message or email). But being acknowledged isn’t enough for the stalker. He eventually wants to come in contact, or to have a dialogue. His poor substitute for this is theft of either material possessions or knowledge regarding the person. And the greatest mistake he makes is dangling his recently acquired prize to the intended victim. This takes the form of a note ranging from “I know what you did...” to leaving the said item attached with a note saying it came from the stalker.
At this point, the stalker has divulged himself almost completely. He has revealed that he has been following the person for quite some time, and that he knows secrets about him or her. In either case, the stalker has lost whatever edge he has. I mean a hunter does not scream at his prey telling it he’s there. The prey would either run away or fight him. Anonymity and secrecy is a stalker’s tool. If he wanted confrontation, he would have introduced himself to the person in question in the first place rather than this elaborate set-up of cat and mouse. A huntsman is more akin to this approach: he comes hunting his prey with dogs and a rifle, making no attempt to hide his presence but outdoing his prey through determination and stamina rather than stealth and secrecy. The stalker at this point has a half-baked plan. He begins with a hunter’s technique, but in the end, discards the advantage he has managed to acquire and opts for an approach which is counterintuitive to what he has done so far.
In the end, the stalker’s longing for the person is replaced by a longing for power. The stalker has deluded himself in thinking that he is still invisible even after all he’s revealed. He eventually confronts his intended victim, not out of yearning, but more for the satisfaction that he could do it. He forgets the reasons for being unable to do so before he became a stalker. At this point, he is no longer a stalker but an exhibitionist of sorts. His secret cry for attention has transformed into a blatant scream into the world that he exist and because he exist, he can do whatever he wants. Only two possibilities result once this happens: either his prey confronts him and defeats him (either through evasion or physical coercion), or the stalker succeeds (and destroys either the ideal in his mind or the person) and realizing his loss, begins the cycle again.
The stalker yearns for other people but his methods doesn’t bring him any closer to fulfilling this goal, so he eventually resorts to the destruction of his intended one, to the detriment not only of the victim but the stalker himself.
What makes a good stalker? In general, a stalker is someone who can stealthily follow someone without getting noticed. He is also able to acquire lots of information about his target. Yet he must all do all of this without drawing attention to himself, and the less that’s known about him, the better. In other words, a good stalker is like a wraith—present yet undetected, knowledgeable but silent.
But what motivates a stalker? The object of a stalker’s obsession is usually (if not always) another human being. He secretly longs to be with this person, yet for reasons of his own (whether it’s fear, timidity, or a disability), cannot seem to confront this person directly. But he constantly yearns for this person, and resolves this by the act of stalking.
Unfortunately it is in the act of stalking that a stalker betrays his vocation. A hunter might stalk an animal and the animal would not realize it until the last moment, when the hunter finally reveals himself and delivers the killing blow. Unfortunately for the stalker, there is no killing blow. He wants to nurture his prey rather than to destroy it (at least not at first). There is no final strike that will make sure the prey can never speak of the stalker to anyone, but instead, the opposite: revelation.
The stalker, unable to restrain himself any longer, makes his presence known. He secretly knows that what he has been doing is illogical. He was invisible to the person before he became a stalker and becoming a stalker doesn’t bring him any closer to getting attention from his intended target. So under the guise of anonymity, a stalker starts drawing attention to himself. He establishes himself in the conscious mind of his prey through secret letters, phone calls, or notes (and perhaps in this day and age, a text message or email). But being acknowledged isn’t enough for the stalker. He eventually wants to come in contact, or to have a dialogue. His poor substitute for this is theft of either material possessions or knowledge regarding the person. And the greatest mistake he makes is dangling his recently acquired prize to the intended victim. This takes the form of a note ranging from “I know what you did...” to leaving the said item attached with a note saying it came from the stalker.
At this point, the stalker has divulged himself almost completely. He has revealed that he has been following the person for quite some time, and that he knows secrets about him or her. In either case, the stalker has lost whatever edge he has. I mean a hunter does not scream at his prey telling it he’s there. The prey would either run away or fight him. Anonymity and secrecy is a stalker’s tool. If he wanted confrontation, he would have introduced himself to the person in question in the first place rather than this elaborate set-up of cat and mouse. A huntsman is more akin to this approach: he comes hunting his prey with dogs and a rifle, making no attempt to hide his presence but outdoing his prey through determination and stamina rather than stealth and secrecy. The stalker at this point has a half-baked plan. He begins with a hunter’s technique, but in the end, discards the advantage he has managed to acquire and opts for an approach which is counterintuitive to what he has done so far.
In the end, the stalker’s longing for the person is replaced by a longing for power. The stalker has deluded himself in thinking that he is still invisible even after all he’s revealed. He eventually confronts his intended victim, not out of yearning, but more for the satisfaction that he could do it. He forgets the reasons for being unable to do so before he became a stalker. At this point, he is no longer a stalker but an exhibitionist of sorts. His secret cry for attention has transformed into a blatant scream into the world that he exist and because he exist, he can do whatever he wants. Only two possibilities result once this happens: either his prey confronts him and defeats him (either through evasion or physical coercion), or the stalker succeeds (and destroys either the ideal in his mind or the person) and realizing his loss, begins the cycle again.
The stalker yearns for other people but his methods doesn’t bring him any closer to fulfilling this goal, so he eventually resorts to the destruction of his intended one, to the detriment not only of the victim but the stalker himself.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Gemini (Second Draft)
Fables. Legends. Myths. It does not matter to me how different they are from each other; they're all one and the same as far as I'm concerned: they're stories. If there's one thing I enjoy more than listening to them, it's telling them. And perhaps that's why I find myself as a bard. But enough about me. As much as I love to prattle about myself, the story I'm about to tell is not about me. At least not at first.
Several years ago, I was drawn to the realm of Twin Peaks. It was originally named after the two valleys that surrounded the place, but some people speculate that the reason for its name is because of the frequency of twins that are birthed in the area. That being the case, it was not surprising that the king and queen of the realm gave birth to twins two decades earlier.
My story revolves around them, the twin princes as they were called. Some kind of conflict had arisen when the king and queen had passed away, and the one who now sits on the throne is Jason, the younger of the twins. I had ventured far from my home to hear his story, that I might add a new tale to my repertoire. I thought myself fortunate when King Jason approved my request for an audience with him.
I will skip the details of how I lodged in a nearby inn (paying for my board with song) and how I covered quite a distance to reach the castle. Suffice to say, I was escorted by guards to the throne room, which had purple drapes covering the walls and a crimson carpet leading to the actual throne. With the exception of the two guards escorting me, the king was alone, comfortably sitting in his throne, his eyes somewhat eager to see me. King Jason was far from what you'd expect a hero would look like. He was skinny and bony, his overflowing robes exaggerating the thinness of his body. His skin was dark and parched, totally unexpected coming from royalty. And then he stood up.
Whatever King Jason lacked in his physic, he made up for in body language and confidence. His poise was firm and his gaze never wavered. He was assessing me just as I was assessing him, that much I was certain. With a quick wave of his hand, the guards beside me nodded and left the room. I was now alone with him, which was strange since kings usually take more precautions than this.
"Greetings," he said. "I am glad you have made the journey safely."
"Thank you for your concern, my lord. I am used to long travels and I am eager to ask for a certain boon from someone such as yourself."
"And what might that be, hmmm?"
"A story, my lord. Your story to be exact."
"And might I ask why you are interested in just a story? Why not ask for gold, or perhaps an artifact I had obtained from my quest?"
"I am but a bard and stories are my way of earning a living. I am sure many people would be interested in hearing your tale. As far as everyone is concerned, you left your kingdom while it was in the hands of your brother, arrived several weeks later, revealed your brother to be an impostor, and ruled the realm ever since. As much as it leaves much room for embellishment, I'd rather have the details so as to give the story a ring of truth."
"And what if you do not find the story I have to tell pleasing?"
"I am a bard, my lord. Making it sound pleasing is what I do best, no matter how unlikely that might be."
King Jason merely smiled at my reply and returned to his seat.
"Very well then. I will begin with where it all started, the birth of my twin."
***
"My parents wanted an heir to the throne. But fate intervened when you least expect it and so my mother had given birth to twins. I was later told by my mother that I was originally supposed to be the eldest, crawling out of her womb first. But my brother grabbed my leg and pulled me before I could get out entirely. Thus it was he who had emerged first and proclaimed the eldest. He was then named Jacob."
"I do not know whether it was because of chance or because Jacob had been proclaimed the heir to the throne, but several days after we were placed in a cradle, someone abducted my brother and replaced him with a creature that looked identically like him. It was just as plump and pale as Jacob, or so I remember. I wailed but when the wet nurse had arrived, it was too late. No one could distinguish the impostor from my real brother. I obviously could not speak at the time and the only way I managed to express my distress was through my screams and tears. The impostor merely mimicked me and started crying as well."
"I would only find out later, after some thorough research, that the impostor was a changeling, a creature that takes the place of newly born babes to be raised by a family that was not its own. The legends say that it would grow to be a mischievous and ugly creature. Unfortunately, only the former was true. The changeling was as handsome as Jacob would have been: golden locks, smooth skin, a firm build—all accented by his confident demeanor. As for me, I would grow to be a pale shadow of him. Mind you, I wasn't as confident as I am now. I was the meek and shy one, the one who would hide in a corner whenever guests would arrive, or the type that would look at his feet whenever someone would stare. The impostor, however, would play tricks on the maids, charm the maidens, and banter insults with the other boys. But whenever we were alone, Jacob would threaten me, and none too often hurt me, just to scare me even if I didn't dare tell anyone about my childhood memory."
"It was on our nineteenth birthday that the impostor had been proclaimed king. Father was ill at the time and was confined to his bed. Mother was too much in distress. Everyone agreed it was the right time for ‘Jacob' to assume his place as king. I, on the other hand, was relegated to court duties. Honestly, I did not want to be king. But I chafe at the idea of the creature pretending to be my brother as ruler of the land. And so on that day, I set out to look for a magical talisman that would reveal the falsehood of the impostor."
***
"I was told by an oracle, after making a huge donation, that beyond Twin Peaks lay a mirror that would show a person's true form. However, I was warned that there were three challenges I had to overcome. The first lay in a hall near the mountains. I must pass through it in order to get to the second challenge. And so I went there, fending off wild animals and brigands on the way. I finally got there but all I saw before me was a huge marble hall shrouded in darkness."
"I entered and was consumed by the putrid smell of rotten bodies. I could not see where the stench came from though because of the darkness. I fumbled through my belongings to get a torch and lit it. I saw the corpses of men still garbed in their armor, a torch in one hand, a blade in the other. There did not appear to be signs of a struggle, only a gaping expression on their faces. And then from the corner of my eye I saw something move in the darkness. A silhouette of my size and shape appeared, creeping out of the fringes of the light. It encircled me, moving from the floors to the walls which was lighted by my torch. It made no sound and all I heard as the crackling of the flames of my torch. And then it slowly drew its sword from its sheath, preparing to thrust its immaterial blade at my beating heart."
"It was actually my folly that saved me. Instead of drawing my own sword, I got frightened and dropped my torch. The shadow suddenly lunged at me, a quick change in tactics considering it was taking its time the other moment. But the light gave out before it could reach me and when I expected its blade to pierce my heart, all I felt was the cold darkness around me and the stench of dead men."
"I hesitated to pick up my torch and reflected on what had just happened. Was the shadow a mere illusion or a real threat? If it was the former, that would not explain the corpses. Of course I wondered why I didn't join the fate of the others if that was the case. And then I remembered the torches and swords the men were holding. Swords would be ineffective against incorporeal monsters such as the shadow I just encountered. The men needed the torches to see their foe, but shadows need light as well to exist. That was their error, and I considered myself lucky that my torch had gone out in time."
"Groping in the darkness, I eventually found my way out. I do not know how much time I spent in that hall and the only way I managed to track my progress was through the fading smell of the corpses I left behind. You also cannot imagine how tempted I was to light a torch even for just a moment; a man can go crazy at not seeing the light. But I remembered the gaping expressions of the dead men and I did not want to share their fate."
***
"The second challenge I faced was something more mundane, albeit just as strange as the first. After exiting the hall I had emerged into a courtyard. Tress and shrubs surrounded me and best of all, I finally saw light. After wandering in the courtyard for some time, I was finally greeted by a two-headed giant garbed in wolf's skin and carrying a pair of wooden clubs."
"The giant approached me and one of the giant's heads introduced himself; the other head appeared to be sleeping. He told me that he had not always been like this. He too was a prince but was born with two personalities. People could not tell the difference between him and his ‘other self' until his other self had committed murder, and was cursed into this form by a wizard as punishment for his crime. To atone, he has been guarding this place ever since."
"I thanked him for his story and asked where I could find the magic mirror. He told me that it was ahead but that he was guarding the mirror and could not let me go any further. It was his duty to protect it, after all, and waved the club he was holding in his left hand to make sure I got the point. He did not sound threatening and in fact said it with a smile, and I did feel his reluctance in having to harm me."
"But the giant's other head seemed to be waking and the head that I was currently conversing with told me to run away. I honestly would have if it were not for the fact that I thought this was probably some kind of test as well as feeling ashamed for not standing my ground in the first trial. The other head finally stirred and the first thing he did was swing his club at me. I managed to dodge it but my courage wavered at that moment. It was strange, hearing from one head to run, while the other was muttering curses and told me to stand still. My sword was not drawn out yet so I thought it would be best to do as the kinder head said."
"The two-headed giant chased me, his stride significantly longer than mine. I did not expect such an abrupt change in my situation but I had to think fast. I headed back to the hall, knowing that the giant would not enter the place. I managed to get there before he could reach me but he guarded the exit, waiting for me to come out. I took a deep breath and planned my next move. I would not win over the giant with strength so I had to do it with guile. Unlike most foes, he had two personalities, hence the personification of two heads. It seems that the two heads were not cooperating with each other and perhaps that is where the giant's weakness lay."
"I drew out my sword, went out, and charged at the giant. One of the giant's faces looked sad and did not even bother to raise his club. The other was eager, his club raised and ready to smash me when I came into range. But I halted before that came to pass and asked the giant a question. I asked which of the two was the strongest. The ferocious one laughed and told me it was him. I then asked both of them what their names were and they both blurted out the same name. As I suspected, no one ever acknowledged them as individuals so the concept of two different names never came up. This caused some confusion between the two as they quarreled over their names, each one wanting the other to choose a different one. I offered to parley between the two, me being a neutral party in their conflict. In exchange for arbitrating, they would not harm me and allow me to continue my quest. I rationalized that there would still be a third challenge awaiting me so letting me pass would not mean automatically failing in their duty to protect the mirror. After all, if I did manage to succeed in conquering the first and third challenge, would it not be logical that I would have succeeded in the second? At least this way, we did not have to slaughter each other and at least they would have one of their problems solved. Either I was more persuasive than I thought or they were quite dim-witted, but the two heads agreed to my proposal."
***
"I left, giving the two-headed giant totally different names altogether. The more violent one I gave the name of Strength, appeasing both his ego and attitude. The other I named Gentle, for I thought he was a kind person at heart. I sheathed my blade and continued on my way until I found a shrine housing the mirror I was looking for. My quest seemed at an end as I gazed into the mirror and saw my reflection."
"Behind the mirror though was a doppelganger, a creature with the ability to take on my shape as well as my memories. As I was looking at the mirror, the doppelganger was assuming my form and prepared to strike me dead with his copy of my sword."
"Suffice to say, I came home with the mirror in tow. I revealed that the changeling was actually not my brother but a foul creature masquerading as him. Everyone saw in the mirror that the creature's reflection was that of a malformed creature, its eyes bulging from their sockets, ears sharp and pointy, skin greenish and pale. The changeling was slain on the spot by the guards, and I eventually took his place as king."
"My father eventually died of his sickness. An investigation showed that the changeling had poisoned my father to hasten his death. I had a proper funeral for both my father and long-gone brother, while the changeling's body I had it burned and the ashes blown to the winds. My mother is currently residing in a monastery, mourning the demise of my father and brother. The mirror is in the treasury and that is the end of my story."
***
I committed to memory King Jason's narrative. He was grinning at me after finishing the story and I felt somewhat uncomfortable as he peered at me.
"My lord, I am concerned at your tale of the third challenge. For the most part, you skipped narrating your conflict with the doppelganger. And judging from how you conquered the previous two challenges, fighting is melee is not your best ability, if I might say so, my lord."
"How perceptive of you. But I know of the way you bards exaggerate your stories and how the commoners do love a dramatic battle at the end. I will leave the embellishments to your discretion." The king smiled at me as he said those words. Again, I felt uncomfortable, but I pressed on knowing this might be the only chance I might have to satisfy my curiosity.
"I appreciate your trust in me, my lord, but I would be much more content if you obliged me in narrating what happened in the shrine between you and the doppelganger."
"Do you really want me to tell you?" The king was smiling when he asked me that question, and as a reflex, I started looking around, observing that all the guards were outside. There was only myself and him.
"I peddle in stories, my lord. But I am just a bard and at the disposal of the king."
"Do you know that names have power? Names are part of a person's identity and for a creature such as the doppelganger, naming himself confines his power. The changeling, for example, once it adopted the name Jacob and introduced himself as Jacob, could no longer alter his shape. He was locked in the identity of ‘Jacob' even though it originally was not his own."
"I have just noticed, my lord, that you have not introduced yourself to me."
"It's funny that while everyone has seen the changeling's reflection in the mirror, no one has ever seen mine."
The man before me just smiled as his laughter echoed around the room.
Fables. Legends. Myths. It does not matter to me how different they are from each other; they're all one and the same as far as I'm concerned: they're stories. If there's one thing I enjoy more than listening to them, it's telling them. And perhaps that's why I find myself as a bard. But enough about me. As much as I love to prattle about myself, the story I'm about to tell is not about me. At least not at first.
Several years ago, I was drawn to the realm of Twin Peaks. It was originally named after the two valleys that surrounded the place, but some people speculate that the reason for its name is because of the frequency of twins that are birthed in the area. That being the case, it was not surprising that the king and queen of the realm gave birth to twins two decades earlier.
My story revolves around them, the twin princes as they were called. Some kind of conflict had arisen when the king and queen had passed away, and the one who now sits on the throne is Jason, the younger of the twins. I had ventured far from my home to hear his story, that I might add a new tale to my repertoire. I thought myself fortunate when King Jason approved my request for an audience with him.
I will skip the details of how I lodged in a nearby inn (paying for my board with song) and how I covered quite a distance to reach the castle. Suffice to say, I was escorted by guards to the throne room, which had purple drapes covering the walls and a crimson carpet leading to the actual throne. With the exception of the two guards escorting me, the king was alone, comfortably sitting in his throne, his eyes somewhat eager to see me. King Jason was far from what you'd expect a hero would look like. He was skinny and bony, his overflowing robes exaggerating the thinness of his body. His skin was dark and parched, totally unexpected coming from royalty. And then he stood up.
Whatever King Jason lacked in his physic, he made up for in body language and confidence. His poise was firm and his gaze never wavered. He was assessing me just as I was assessing him, that much I was certain. With a quick wave of his hand, the guards beside me nodded and left the room. I was now alone with him, which was strange since kings usually take more precautions than this.
"Greetings," he said. "I am glad you have made the journey safely."
"Thank you for your concern, my lord. I am used to long travels and I am eager to ask for a certain boon from someone such as yourself."
"And what might that be, hmmm?"
"A story, my lord. Your story to be exact."
"And might I ask why you are interested in just a story? Why not ask for gold, or perhaps an artifact I had obtained from my quest?"
"I am but a bard and stories are my way of earning a living. I am sure many people would be interested in hearing your tale. As far as everyone is concerned, you left your kingdom while it was in the hands of your brother, arrived several weeks later, revealed your brother to be an impostor, and ruled the realm ever since. As much as it leaves much room for embellishment, I'd rather have the details so as to give the story a ring of truth."
"And what if you do not find the story I have to tell pleasing?"
"I am a bard, my lord. Making it sound pleasing is what I do best, no matter how unlikely that might be."
King Jason merely smiled at my reply and returned to his seat.
"Very well then. I will begin with where it all started, the birth of my twin."
***
"My parents wanted an heir to the throne. But fate intervened when you least expect it and so my mother had given birth to twins. I was later told by my mother that I was originally supposed to be the eldest, crawling out of her womb first. But my brother grabbed my leg and pulled me before I could get out entirely. Thus it was he who had emerged first and proclaimed the eldest. He was then named Jacob."
"I do not know whether it was because of chance or because Jacob had been proclaimed the heir to the throne, but several days after we were placed in a cradle, someone abducted my brother and replaced him with a creature that looked identically like him. It was just as plump and pale as Jacob, or so I remember. I wailed but when the wet nurse had arrived, it was too late. No one could distinguish the impostor from my real brother. I obviously could not speak at the time and the only way I managed to express my distress was through my screams and tears. The impostor merely mimicked me and started crying as well."
"I would only find out later, after some thorough research, that the impostor was a changeling, a creature that takes the place of newly born babes to be raised by a family that was not its own. The legends say that it would grow to be a mischievous and ugly creature. Unfortunately, only the former was true. The changeling was as handsome as Jacob would have been: golden locks, smooth skin, a firm build—all accented by his confident demeanor. As for me, I would grow to be a pale shadow of him. Mind you, I wasn't as confident as I am now. I was the meek and shy one, the one who would hide in a corner whenever guests would arrive, or the type that would look at his feet whenever someone would stare. The impostor, however, would play tricks on the maids, charm the maidens, and banter insults with the other boys. But whenever we were alone, Jacob would threaten me, and none too often hurt me, just to scare me even if I didn't dare tell anyone about my childhood memory."
"It was on our nineteenth birthday that the impostor had been proclaimed king. Father was ill at the time and was confined to his bed. Mother was too much in distress. Everyone agreed it was the right time for ‘Jacob' to assume his place as king. I, on the other hand, was relegated to court duties. Honestly, I did not want to be king. But I chafe at the idea of the creature pretending to be my brother as ruler of the land. And so on that day, I set out to look for a magical talisman that would reveal the falsehood of the impostor."
***
"I was told by an oracle, after making a huge donation, that beyond Twin Peaks lay a mirror that would show a person's true form. However, I was warned that there were three challenges I had to overcome. The first lay in a hall near the mountains. I must pass through it in order to get to the second challenge. And so I went there, fending off wild animals and brigands on the way. I finally got there but all I saw before me was a huge marble hall shrouded in darkness."
"I entered and was consumed by the putrid smell of rotten bodies. I could not see where the stench came from though because of the darkness. I fumbled through my belongings to get a torch and lit it. I saw the corpses of men still garbed in their armor, a torch in one hand, a blade in the other. There did not appear to be signs of a struggle, only a gaping expression on their faces. And then from the corner of my eye I saw something move in the darkness. A silhouette of my size and shape appeared, creeping out of the fringes of the light. It encircled me, moving from the floors to the walls which was lighted by my torch. It made no sound and all I heard as the crackling of the flames of my torch. And then it slowly drew its sword from its sheath, preparing to thrust its immaterial blade at my beating heart."
"It was actually my folly that saved me. Instead of drawing my own sword, I got frightened and dropped my torch. The shadow suddenly lunged at me, a quick change in tactics considering it was taking its time the other moment. But the light gave out before it could reach me and when I expected its blade to pierce my heart, all I felt was the cold darkness around me and the stench of dead men."
"I hesitated to pick up my torch and reflected on what had just happened. Was the shadow a mere illusion or a real threat? If it was the former, that would not explain the corpses. Of course I wondered why I didn't join the fate of the others if that was the case. And then I remembered the torches and swords the men were holding. Swords would be ineffective against incorporeal monsters such as the shadow I just encountered. The men needed the torches to see their foe, but shadows need light as well to exist. That was their error, and I considered myself lucky that my torch had gone out in time."
"Groping in the darkness, I eventually found my way out. I do not know how much time I spent in that hall and the only way I managed to track my progress was through the fading smell of the corpses I left behind. You also cannot imagine how tempted I was to light a torch even for just a moment; a man can go crazy at not seeing the light. But I remembered the gaping expressions of the dead men and I did not want to share their fate."
***
"The second challenge I faced was something more mundane, albeit just as strange as the first. After exiting the hall I had emerged into a courtyard. Tress and shrubs surrounded me and best of all, I finally saw light. After wandering in the courtyard for some time, I was finally greeted by a two-headed giant garbed in wolf's skin and carrying a pair of wooden clubs."
"The giant approached me and one of the giant's heads introduced himself; the other head appeared to be sleeping. He told me that he had not always been like this. He too was a prince but was born with two personalities. People could not tell the difference between him and his ‘other self' until his other self had committed murder, and was cursed into this form by a wizard as punishment for his crime. To atone, he has been guarding this place ever since."
"I thanked him for his story and asked where I could find the magic mirror. He told me that it was ahead but that he was guarding the mirror and could not let me go any further. It was his duty to protect it, after all, and waved the club he was holding in his left hand to make sure I got the point. He did not sound threatening and in fact said it with a smile, and I did feel his reluctance in having to harm me."
"But the giant's other head seemed to be waking and the head that I was currently conversing with told me to run away. I honestly would have if it were not for the fact that I thought this was probably some kind of test as well as feeling ashamed for not standing my ground in the first trial. The other head finally stirred and the first thing he did was swing his club at me. I managed to dodge it but my courage wavered at that moment. It was strange, hearing from one head to run, while the other was muttering curses and told me to stand still. My sword was not drawn out yet so I thought it would be best to do as the kinder head said."
"The two-headed giant chased me, his stride significantly longer than mine. I did not expect such an abrupt change in my situation but I had to think fast. I headed back to the hall, knowing that the giant would not enter the place. I managed to get there before he could reach me but he guarded the exit, waiting for me to come out. I took a deep breath and planned my next move. I would not win over the giant with strength so I had to do it with guile. Unlike most foes, he had two personalities, hence the personification of two heads. It seems that the two heads were not cooperating with each other and perhaps that is where the giant's weakness lay."
"I drew out my sword, went out, and charged at the giant. One of the giant's faces looked sad and did not even bother to raise his club. The other was eager, his club raised and ready to smash me when I came into range. But I halted before that came to pass and asked the giant a question. I asked which of the two was the strongest. The ferocious one laughed and told me it was him. I then asked both of them what their names were and they both blurted out the same name. As I suspected, no one ever acknowledged them as individuals so the concept of two different names never came up. This caused some confusion between the two as they quarreled over their names, each one wanting the other to choose a different one. I offered to parley between the two, me being a neutral party in their conflict. In exchange for arbitrating, they would not harm me and allow me to continue my quest. I rationalized that there would still be a third challenge awaiting me so letting me pass would not mean automatically failing in their duty to protect the mirror. After all, if I did manage to succeed in conquering the first and third challenge, would it not be logical that I would have succeeded in the second? At least this way, we did not have to slaughter each other and at least they would have one of their problems solved. Either I was more persuasive than I thought or they were quite dim-witted, but the two heads agreed to my proposal."
***
"I left, giving the two-headed giant totally different names altogether. The more violent one I gave the name of Strength, appeasing both his ego and attitude. The other I named Gentle, for I thought he was a kind person at heart. I sheathed my blade and continued on my way until I found a shrine housing the mirror I was looking for. My quest seemed at an end as I gazed into the mirror and saw my reflection."
"Behind the mirror though was a doppelganger, a creature with the ability to take on my shape as well as my memories. As I was looking at the mirror, the doppelganger was assuming my form and prepared to strike me dead with his copy of my sword."
"Suffice to say, I came home with the mirror in tow. I revealed that the changeling was actually not my brother but a foul creature masquerading as him. Everyone saw in the mirror that the creature's reflection was that of a malformed creature, its eyes bulging from their sockets, ears sharp and pointy, skin greenish and pale. The changeling was slain on the spot by the guards, and I eventually took his place as king."
"My father eventually died of his sickness. An investigation showed that the changeling had poisoned my father to hasten his death. I had a proper funeral for both my father and long-gone brother, while the changeling's body I had it burned and the ashes blown to the winds. My mother is currently residing in a monastery, mourning the demise of my father and brother. The mirror is in the treasury and that is the end of my story."
***
I committed to memory King Jason's narrative. He was grinning at me after finishing the story and I felt somewhat uncomfortable as he peered at me.
"My lord, I am concerned at your tale of the third challenge. For the most part, you skipped narrating your conflict with the doppelganger. And judging from how you conquered the previous two challenges, fighting is melee is not your best ability, if I might say so, my lord."
"How perceptive of you. But I know of the way you bards exaggerate your stories and how the commoners do love a dramatic battle at the end. I will leave the embellishments to your discretion." The king smiled at me as he said those words. Again, I felt uncomfortable, but I pressed on knowing this might be the only chance I might have to satisfy my curiosity.
"I appreciate your trust in me, my lord, but I would be much more content if you obliged me in narrating what happened in the shrine between you and the doppelganger."
"Do you really want me to tell you?" The king was smiling when he asked me that question, and as a reflex, I started looking around, observing that all the guards were outside. There was only myself and him.
"I peddle in stories, my lord. But I am just a bard and at the disposal of the king."
"Do you know that names have power? Names are part of a person's identity and for a creature such as the doppelganger, naming himself confines his power. The changeling, for example, once it adopted the name Jacob and introduced himself as Jacob, could no longer alter his shape. He was locked in the identity of ‘Jacob' even though it originally was not his own."
"I have just noticed, my lord, that you have not introduced yourself to me."
"It's funny that while everyone has seen the changeling's reflection in the mirror, no one has ever seen mine."
The man before me just smiled as his laughter echoed around the room.
Friday, May 23, 2003
The Librarian (Fourth Draft)
Years of research and not even a hint. The closest historical record I could find alludes to the Library of Alexandria, but even that is just a mere shadow. No, the library I am interested in is not limited to any structure built by man.
I do not remember how I had stumbled upon it. I was not even looking for it at the time. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or suffering the effects of hallucinogens. Had I crossed a rift in reality? Or attained the state of nirvana while meditating? Whatever the case, my entry into The Library has been clouded by memory and attempts to re-enter had failed.
I am sure though that at one point, I was in The Library. It cannot be classified as a place in the fullest sense of the word for it does not occupy any space, or time, for that matter. The Library exists outside of our world yet is still accessible to some. One of my theories is that it lies in the nexus between temporality and eternity, still a part of reality yet ignoring its limitations.
The Library is vast. It has no center and all around are endless corridors of bookshelves, each twice the size of any man. At first, I thought it was an optical illusion. Maybe something out of Borges. But there were no mirrors, just shelves and the books they contained. I do not know how long it took me, perhaps the equivalent of an hour in the real world, to verify that. I passed several dozen bookcases only to find that I still had further to go in either direction.
The shelves seemed to be made of wood, dark and thick. There was nothing distinguishing about them, except for the fact that they all looked identical and one could not tell one bookshelf from another. Even the books they stored all looked bland and uniform, each sharing the same size, cover, and paper. I wondered how one files the books.
I tried scratching the shelves to leave a mark, my trail of breadcrumbs in this wooden wilderness. But the shelf resisted and looked no different from the one beside it. I fumbled my pockets for a knife or even a pen but they were empty. Strange, considering I never leave home without a pen.
I was about to grab a book, using the shelf with an empty slot as a reference when I heard a voice. This voice was not something my ears heard but rather something that echoed in my mind, an idea that does not seem to leave your memory. One could mistake it for one’s own thoughts but there was something that separated me from "it". I knew that what I was "hearing" wasn’t my idea for I was determined in navigating this labyrinth through any means possible.
And then it occurred to me. What if this library that seemed to have no end contained all the books in the world? Not just the books that have been written but are being written and have yet to be written. If that was so, what place could hold such an infinite collection?
I realized that I was beyond space and beyond time. Even more mysterious than the place I was in was the source of these thoughts. Who could be here aside from me? But every library has its librarian, the caretaker of knowledge, the guide of souls.
Was it a him or a her? I do not know. As far as I was concerned, the librarian was a voice in my mind, a presence that defied all logic. Not all logic, just my logic. There are scientific journals that explore the possibility of telepathy. And one of the debates of philosophy is the ability of man to communicate directly with the other without requiring a medium.
At this point, the distinction between my thoughts and the librarian’s thoughts became blurred.
Lost histories, forgotten tomes, sacred scriptures, unfound journals, burned books, banned manuscripts, apocrypha, encyclopedias, compendiums, anthologies, best-sellers, short stories, vignettes, novels, classics, sonnets, free verse, litanies, essays, plays, scripts, tragedies, comedies, translations, myths, legends, epics, codices, literature of unborn civilizations – all these were available. I knew where each book was, its subject matter, and which shelf it lay. I merely had to choose. One.
Why one? Such a small number compared to the thousands of books published every year, such a small number compared to the authors born in my lifetime, such a small number compared to the translations of The Iliad and The Odyssey.
Tick. Tock. No clock was ticking for I exist out of time. But my heart was pounding, my brain racing for answers. Breath deeply. Again. Yes, things are becoming clearer now. Which book to read?
Surely not history for even the accounts of what happened on November 22, 1963 are too numerous to be contained in merely one book. And an account is only as truthful as its author. The Library, after all, does not discriminate. There is a twinge of curiosity about the future but this library is not limited by the physical laws of the world. A text written in the future I might read but who can say that what it contains will actually occur? All the possible futures, as well as all the possible pasts, are documented.
How about books on empirical data? Somewhere in this library is the formula that will convert lead into gold. But would I really care to know what that formula is? Would I even remember it once I leave this place? Would I risk the answer to one of the many questions that plague my life for something as trivial as this?
I think The Library is playing a cruel game on me. I could spend the equivalent of years in this place and still not decide. I am Althea and Meleager both at once, holding my fate before me. Choose and I regain my mortality. Not choose and I will be trapped in despair. I envy the All-father who was able to exchange one of his eyes for a draught in the Well of Wisdom.
Wait! This place is a library, even if it is the result of some cosmic machination. There is one person who would be able to read all the books in The Library for that person is as much a part of The Library as its books.
Who art thou, librarian? You have neither name nor gender, merely is. You know where all the books lie, what each one contains. Surely one must have been tempted? Ah, I see. Every treasure has its own safeguards against its caretakers. Did the Egyptians not bury the architects of the pyramids with the structures they themselves designed? Yours is a harsh existence. You know where all the books are but you are blind. You cannot read the very works you guard. The irony. I wonder what kind of life you live.
Perhaps it is actually possible to know. A biography of the librarian. That is the book I want to read. Unfortunately that is the one book that does not exist. There is no one to write about the librarian, no soul to narrate your existence.
What if I write a book about the librarian? But the nature of The Library is to have all the books, including that which has not yet been written. All the books except one is a contradiction. Would I create a paradox? There is a book on paradoxes.
A book I have written. Yes, that is a more plausible request.
Immediately, I knew the exact location of the book I was interested in. I passed a few shelves, turned a few corners, and then passed several more shelves. There was this book that looked plain and no different from the rest but I knew its pages contained my name. I held its leather covering and started turning the pages. I saw the title and I saw my name. It was indeed the book I had written, or rather will write.
In my hand was a book about The Library and its librarian. A paradox it seems. I wonder what would happen next. I turned the pages. And turned. And turned—
Years of research and not even a hint. The closest historical record I could find alludes to the Library of Alexandria, but even that is just a mere shadow. No, the library I am interested in is not limited to any structure built by man.
I do not remember how I had stumbled upon it. I was not even looking for it at the time. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or suffering the effects of hallucinogens. Had I crossed a rift in reality? Or attained the state of nirvana while meditating? Whatever the case, my entry into The Library has been clouded by memory and attempts to re-enter had failed.
I am sure though that at one point, I was in The Library. It cannot be classified as a place in the fullest sense of the word for it does not occupy any space, or time, for that matter. The Library exists outside of our world yet is still accessible to some. One of my theories is that it lies in the nexus between temporality and eternity, still a part of reality yet ignoring its limitations.
The Library is vast. It has no center and all around are endless corridors of bookshelves, each twice the size of any man. At first, I thought it was an optical illusion. Maybe something out of Borges. But there were no mirrors, just shelves and the books they contained. I do not know how long it took me, perhaps the equivalent of an hour in the real world, to verify that. I passed several dozen bookcases only to find that I still had further to go in either direction.
The shelves seemed to be made of wood, dark and thick. There was nothing distinguishing about them, except for the fact that they all looked identical and one could not tell one bookshelf from another. Even the books they stored all looked bland and uniform, each sharing the same size, cover, and paper. I wondered how one files the books.
I tried scratching the shelves to leave a mark, my trail of breadcrumbs in this wooden wilderness. But the shelf resisted and looked no different from the one beside it. I fumbled my pockets for a knife or even a pen but they were empty. Strange, considering I never leave home without a pen.
I was about to grab a book, using the shelf with an empty slot as a reference when I heard a voice. This voice was not something my ears heard but rather something that echoed in my mind, an idea that does not seem to leave your memory. One could mistake it for one’s own thoughts but there was something that separated me from "it". I knew that what I was "hearing" wasn’t my idea for I was determined in navigating this labyrinth through any means possible.
And then it occurred to me. What if this library that seemed to have no end contained all the books in the world? Not just the books that have been written but are being written and have yet to be written. If that was so, what place could hold such an infinite collection?
I realized that I was beyond space and beyond time. Even more mysterious than the place I was in was the source of these thoughts. Who could be here aside from me? But every library has its librarian, the caretaker of knowledge, the guide of souls.
Was it a him or a her? I do not know. As far as I was concerned, the librarian was a voice in my mind, a presence that defied all logic. Not all logic, just my logic. There are scientific journals that explore the possibility of telepathy. And one of the debates of philosophy is the ability of man to communicate directly with the other without requiring a medium.
At this point, the distinction between my thoughts and the librarian’s thoughts became blurred.
Lost histories, forgotten tomes, sacred scriptures, unfound journals, burned books, banned manuscripts, apocrypha, encyclopedias, compendiums, anthologies, best-sellers, short stories, vignettes, novels, classics, sonnets, free verse, litanies, essays, plays, scripts, tragedies, comedies, translations, myths, legends, epics, codices, literature of unborn civilizations – all these were available. I knew where each book was, its subject matter, and which shelf it lay. I merely had to choose. One.
Why one? Such a small number compared to the thousands of books published every year, such a small number compared to the authors born in my lifetime, such a small number compared to the translations of The Iliad and The Odyssey.
Tick. Tock. No clock was ticking for I exist out of time. But my heart was pounding, my brain racing for answers. Breath deeply. Again. Yes, things are becoming clearer now. Which book to read?
Surely not history for even the accounts of what happened on November 22, 1963 are too numerous to be contained in merely one book. And an account is only as truthful as its author. The Library, after all, does not discriminate. There is a twinge of curiosity about the future but this library is not limited by the physical laws of the world. A text written in the future I might read but who can say that what it contains will actually occur? All the possible futures, as well as all the possible pasts, are documented.
How about books on empirical data? Somewhere in this library is the formula that will convert lead into gold. But would I really care to know what that formula is? Would I even remember it once I leave this place? Would I risk the answer to one of the many questions that plague my life for something as trivial as this?
I think The Library is playing a cruel game on me. I could spend the equivalent of years in this place and still not decide. I am Althea and Meleager both at once, holding my fate before me. Choose and I regain my mortality. Not choose and I will be trapped in despair. I envy the All-father who was able to exchange one of his eyes for a draught in the Well of Wisdom.
Wait! This place is a library, even if it is the result of some cosmic machination. There is one person who would be able to read all the books in The Library for that person is as much a part of The Library as its books.
Who art thou, librarian? You have neither name nor gender, merely is. You know where all the books lie, what each one contains. Surely one must have been tempted? Ah, I see. Every treasure has its own safeguards against its caretakers. Did the Egyptians not bury the architects of the pyramids with the structures they themselves designed? Yours is a harsh existence. You know where all the books are but you are blind. You cannot read the very works you guard. The irony. I wonder what kind of life you live.
Perhaps it is actually possible to know. A biography of the librarian. That is the book I want to read. Unfortunately that is the one book that does not exist. There is no one to write about the librarian, no soul to narrate your existence.
What if I write a book about the librarian? But the nature of The Library is to have all the books, including that which has not yet been written. All the books except one is a contradiction. Would I create a paradox? There is a book on paradoxes.
A book I have written. Yes, that is a more plausible request.
Immediately, I knew the exact location of the book I was interested in. I passed a few shelves, turned a few corners, and then passed several more shelves. There was this book that looked plain and no different from the rest but I knew its pages contained my name. I held its leather covering and started turning the pages. I saw the title and I saw my name. It was indeed the book I had written, or rather will write.
In my hand was a book about The Library and its librarian. A paradox it seems. I wonder what would happen next. I turned the pages. And turned. And turned—
Wednesday, May 21, 2003
The Librarian
Years of research and not even a hint. The closest historical record I could find alludes to the Library of Alexandria, but even that is just a mere shadow. No, the library I am interested in is not limited by any structure built by man.
I do not remember how I had stumbled upon it. If I remember correctly, I was not even looking for it at the time. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or suffering the effects of hallucinogens. Had I crossed a rift in reality? Or attained the state of nirvana while meditating? Whatever the case, my entry into The Library has been clouded by memory and attempts to re-enter had failed.
I am sure though that at one point, I was in The Library. It cannot be classified as a place in the fullest sense of the word for it does not occupy any space, or time, for that matter. The Library exists outside of our world yet is still accessible to some. One of my theories is that it lies in the nexus between temporality and eternity, still a part of reality yet ignoring its conditions.
The Library is vast. It has no center and all around are endless corridors of bookshelves, each twice the size of any man. At first, I thought it was an optical illusion. Maybe something out of Borges's The Library of Babel. But there were no mirrors, just shelves and the books they contained. It took me perhaps an hour (I cannot really say for there is no time in The Library) to verify that. I passed several dozen bookcases only to find that I still had further to go in either direction.
The shelves seemed to be made of wood, dark and thick. There was nothing distinguishing about them, except for the fact that they all looked identical and one could not tell one bookshelf from another. Even the books they stored all looked bland and uniform, each sharing the same size, cover, and paper. I wondered how one files the books.
I tried scratching the shelves to leave a mark, my trail of breadcrumbs in this wooden wilderness. But the shelf resisted and looked no different from the one beside it. I fumbled my pockets for a knife or even a pen but they were empty. Strange, considering I never leave home without a pen.
I was about to grab a book, using the shelf with an empty slot as a reference when I heard a voice. This voice was not something my ears heard but rather something that echoed in my mind, an idea that does not seem to leave your memory. One could mistake it for one's own thoughts but there was something that separated me from "it". I knew that what I was "hearing" wasn't my idea for I was determined in navigating this labyrinth through any means possible.
And then it occurred to me. What if this library that seemed to have no end contained all the books in the world? Not just the books that have been written but are being written and have yet to be written. If that was so, what place could hold such an infinite collection?
I realized that I was beyond space and beyond time. Even more mysterious than the place I was in was the source of these thoughts. Who could be here aside from me? But every library has its librarian, the caretaker of knowledge, the guide of souls.
Was it a him or a her? I do not know. As far as I was concerned, the librarian was a voice in my mind, a presence that defied all logic. Not all logic, but merely my logic. There are scientific journals that explore the possibility of telepathy. And one of the debates of philosophy is the ability of man to communicate directly with the other without requiring a medium.
At this point, the distinction between my thoughts and the librarian's thoughts became blurred. I had questions and I thought of the answers. Who is this mysterious librarian? A librarian, having neither name nor gender but merely is. Who built this place? If I really wanted to know, I should read one of the books. What's stopping me from reading that book? Finding that book. How can I find that book? I will know where it is located if I should choose to read that book. Why should I not choose that book? Because of one condition. What condition is that? That I can only choose and read one book before returning to the world. What other books might I be interested in? Books from various topics are available, from the lost histories of various civilizations to epics yet to be written. Could I read about what really happened on November 22, 1963? Only the accounts of various people, some true and some false, for The Library does not discriminate. Could I read about empirical knowledge such as the formula to turn lead into gold? Yes, but I would not remember it once I left this place. Could I read about the future? Perhaps, but The Library has documents on all the possible futures so any account I read may or may not actually happen. Can I read a book that will teach me how to obtain riches? A book is only as credible as its author. Can I read a book that will be the next Odyssey? Yes but I must first choose a language and a culture. How much time do I have before I must choose? As much as I want for time is not a factor here. Am I immortal? As long as I am in The Library, I am outside of time. What happens if I try to kill myself here? Trying is not necessarily equated with success. What happens if I tear a page from a book? I must first attempt it. Is it possible to succeed? No. Can I steal a book? I can only take with me what I brought with me. Does that include knowledge? Yes. Then what is the point of reading? Understanding, appreciation, pleasure, and all the other values associated with the human experience. Does the librarian read? No, for the librarian is the caretaker of The Library and every treasure has its own safeguards against its caretaker. What is stopping the librarian from reading? The librarian is blind. Then how does the librarian know where all the books are? The librarian simply does. What if someone reads to the librarian? One must first find the librarian in order to do so. Where is the librarian? Inside The Library. Where in The Library is the librarian? In a place one would never find. How long have I been having these thoughts? The question is irrelevant for time has no meaning here. What book should I read? Only I can answer that question.
I've had questions all my life and I was given the opportunity to find the answer to at least one of them. I could not choose though. My questions were either trivial or could not be answered because of The Library's condition. And then a thought occurred to me.
Is there a book about the librarian? No. Why not? Because there is no one to write about the librarian. What if I write about the librarian? Then there will be a paradox for The Library has all the books and all the books except one is a contradiction. What will happen if there is a paradox? There is a book on paradoxes.
I took a deep breath before resuming my train of thought. Does The Library have a book that I have written? Yes. Can I read it? Yes.
Immediately, I knew the exact location of the book I was interested in. I passed a few shelves, turned a few corners, and then passed several more shelves. There was this book that looked plain and no different from the rest but I knew its pages contained my name. I held its leather covering and started turning the pages. I saw the title and I saw my name. It was indeed the book I had written, or rather will write.
In my hand was a book about The Library and its librarian. I had caused a paradox. I wonder what would happen next. I turned the pages. And turned. And turned. Nothing happened. And that is the problem. I am forever trapped reading my book I will never get to write.
?
Years of research and not even a hint. The closest historical record I could find alludes to the Library of Alexandria, but even that is just a mere shadow. No, the library I am interested in is not limited by any structure built by man.
I do not remember how I had stumbled upon it. If I remember correctly, I was not even looking for it at the time. Perhaps I was dreaming. Or suffering the effects of hallucinogens. Had I crossed a rift in reality? Or attained the state of nirvana while meditating? Whatever the case, my entry into The Library has been clouded by memory and attempts to re-enter had failed.
I am sure though that at one point, I was in The Library. It cannot be classified as a place in the fullest sense of the word for it does not occupy any space, or time, for that matter. The Library exists outside of our world yet is still accessible to some. One of my theories is that it lies in the nexus between temporality and eternity, still a part of reality yet ignoring its conditions.
The Library is vast. It has no center and all around are endless corridors of bookshelves, each twice the size of any man. At first, I thought it was an optical illusion. Maybe something out of Borges's The Library of Babel. But there were no mirrors, just shelves and the books they contained. It took me perhaps an hour (I cannot really say for there is no time in The Library) to verify that. I passed several dozen bookcases only to find that I still had further to go in either direction.
The shelves seemed to be made of wood, dark and thick. There was nothing distinguishing about them, except for the fact that they all looked identical and one could not tell one bookshelf from another. Even the books they stored all looked bland and uniform, each sharing the same size, cover, and paper. I wondered how one files the books.
I tried scratching the shelves to leave a mark, my trail of breadcrumbs in this wooden wilderness. But the shelf resisted and looked no different from the one beside it. I fumbled my pockets for a knife or even a pen but they were empty. Strange, considering I never leave home without a pen.
I was about to grab a book, using the shelf with an empty slot as a reference when I heard a voice. This voice was not something my ears heard but rather something that echoed in my mind, an idea that does not seem to leave your memory. One could mistake it for one's own thoughts but there was something that separated me from "it". I knew that what I was "hearing" wasn't my idea for I was determined in navigating this labyrinth through any means possible.
And then it occurred to me. What if this library that seemed to have no end contained all the books in the world? Not just the books that have been written but are being written and have yet to be written. If that was so, what place could hold such an infinite collection?
I realized that I was beyond space and beyond time. Even more mysterious than the place I was in was the source of these thoughts. Who could be here aside from me? But every library has its librarian, the caretaker of knowledge, the guide of souls.
Was it a him or a her? I do not know. As far as I was concerned, the librarian was a voice in my mind, a presence that defied all logic. Not all logic, but merely my logic. There are scientific journals that explore the possibility of telepathy. And one of the debates of philosophy is the ability of man to communicate directly with the other without requiring a medium.
At this point, the distinction between my thoughts and the librarian's thoughts became blurred. I had questions and I thought of the answers. Who is this mysterious librarian? A librarian, having neither name nor gender but merely is. Who built this place? If I really wanted to know, I should read one of the books. What's stopping me from reading that book? Finding that book. How can I find that book? I will know where it is located if I should choose to read that book. Why should I not choose that book? Because of one condition. What condition is that? That I can only choose and read one book before returning to the world. What other books might I be interested in? Books from various topics are available, from the lost histories of various civilizations to epics yet to be written. Could I read about what really happened on November 22, 1963? Only the accounts of various people, some true and some false, for The Library does not discriminate. Could I read about empirical knowledge such as the formula to turn lead into gold? Yes, but I would not remember it once I left this place. Could I read about the future? Perhaps, but The Library has documents on all the possible futures so any account I read may or may not actually happen. Can I read a book that will teach me how to obtain riches? A book is only as credible as its author. Can I read a book that will be the next Odyssey? Yes but I must first choose a language and a culture. How much time do I have before I must choose? As much as I want for time is not a factor here. Am I immortal? As long as I am in The Library, I am outside of time. What happens if I try to kill myself here? Trying is not necessarily equated with success. What happens if I tear a page from a book? I must first attempt it. Is it possible to succeed? No. Can I steal a book? I can only take with me what I brought with me. Does that include knowledge? Yes. Then what is the point of reading? Understanding, appreciation, pleasure, and all the other values associated with the human experience. Does the librarian read? No, for the librarian is the caretaker of The Library and every treasure has its own safeguards against its caretaker. What is stopping the librarian from reading? The librarian is blind. Then how does the librarian know where all the books are? The librarian simply does. What if someone reads to the librarian? One must first find the librarian in order to do so. Where is the librarian? Inside The Library. Where in The Library is the librarian? In a place one would never find. How long have I been having these thoughts? The question is irrelevant for time has no meaning here. What book should I read? Only I can answer that question.
I've had questions all my life and I was given the opportunity to find the answer to at least one of them. I could not choose though. My questions were either trivial or could not be answered because of The Library's condition. And then a thought occurred to me.
Is there a book about the librarian? No. Why not? Because there is no one to write about the librarian. What if I write about the librarian? Then there will be a paradox for The Library has all the books and all the books except one is a contradiction. What will happen if there is a paradox? There is a book on paradoxes.
I took a deep breath before resuming my train of thought. Does The Library have a book that I have written? Yes. Can I read it? Yes.
Immediately, I knew the exact location of the book I was interested in. I passed a few shelves, turned a few corners, and then passed several more shelves. There was this book that looked plain and no different from the rest but I knew its pages contained my name. I held its leather covering and started turning the pages. I saw the title and I saw my name. It was indeed the book I had written, or rather will write.
In my hand was a book about The Library and its librarian. I had caused a paradox. I wonder what would happen next. I turned the pages. And turned. And turned. Nothing happened. And that is the problem. I am forever trapped reading my book I will never get to write.
?
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
A Chinese Education (May 20, 2003)
I was three years old, surrounded by relatives and friends of my parents. They were all babbling in this strange language I could not decipher. And then one of them approached me and babbled a few words. I merely shook my head and said in English I didn’t understand what they were saying.
“Doesn’t he know Chinese? Well, he should.”
My parents would then look disappointed and approach me, asking me to talk in Chinese, a language they never bothered to teach but expected me to speak just the same. I just merely looked at them with wondering eyes.
A year later, I was sent to Xavier, a “prestigious” all-boys private school that had Chinese as part of its curriculum. Of course never mind the fact that they were teaching Chinese Mandarin but my relatives expected me to speak Chinese Fookien, two different dialects.
The first thing that was taught to me was my name. Yang Te Tsa. All Chinese names comprise three characters, each having only one symbol. It was difficult to memorize at first since my name had complex and numerous strokes. My mother used to joke that one of her friends wanted to be named Ee Er San, which is translated as one two three, because each character had the same number of strokes as the number it represented. That was in nursery.
Our formal foray into the Chinese language began in grade one, where we started memorizing Chinese characters aside from our names. Learning to write “a” went side by side with learning how to write “mu”, the character for tree.
Over the years, we would tackle more complex characters as our knowledge of the language began to grow. But in actuality, it didn’t. Most sessions involved mindless memorization of words and their meaning which will soon be forgotten by the end of the quarter. We didn’t even know our seatmate’s Chinese name so that whenever the teacher would call someone, only that person would know that he was being called. Our Chinese names were as unknown as the money hidden in our piggy bank. To top it off, even our ineptitude was laughed at. During exams, the teacher would write on the blackboard the entries that needed to be filled out, such as the year and section. Under the name, he would put “ta pen niyow” or big cow as an example. Some students would write “ta pen niyow” on their test papers.
As for me, my parents and relatives still expected me to speak Fookien, even though no one was teaching it to me. They reasoned that I was being taught Chinese in school. But my rebuttal of being taught Mandarin and not Fookien fell on deaf ears.
I don’t know when it happened but sometime during grade school I realized an anomaly in my name. My last name was Tan but the first character of my Chinese name (which usually serves as the clan name) didn’t correspond with the other Tan’s in my class. And I did ask around so that I knew that last names correspond to a particular Chinese character. So why was mine different?
Apparently, it’s because Tan isn’t my real family name but Yu. Me and my siblings were using my mother’s last name instead of my father’s, at least legally. When I confronted them with this, they merely shrug and blamed it on paperwork.
By the time I was in grade five, Chinese became the subject everyone dreaded. No one understood it except one or two students in class, which is mainly attributed not to studiousness but more to the fact that they came from a Taiwanese family thus the language they were using at home was Mandarin and not the typical Fookien. At this point, cheating became rampant. Whether it was copying from your seatmate, scribbling notes on your hand or handkerchief, or taking a look at the book when the teacher wasn’t looking, we call became familiar with it. It even reached the point that students who don’t normally cheat in other subjects cheat in Chinese. And of course, the excuse was this. “It’s only Chinese. There’s no point in learning it. We won’t use it anyway.”
I only took my Chinese seriously (meaning an effort to actually retain what I had learned) in grade six because anime dubbed in Chinese was showing on cable. I’d stay awake until 10 pm just to watch these shows. It surprised me that I was able to apply, even if it was just a little, my knowledge of Chinese Mandarin.
And then in high school, I found out we had it easy. In Xavier, you only had one Chinese class per day. In other Chinese schools, you also had Math in Chinese, History in Chinese, even Science in Chinese. Compared to students of those schools, we might as well have been mute.
But our Chinese ineptitude stayed the same because the all-girls school right next to ours suffered the same fate as we. Xaverians and ICAns didn’t really speak Chinese even if it was part of their school curriculum. The best we could come up with is Chi-tag-lish, a combination of Chinese, Filipino, and English. Or if they do speak Chinese, it’s with the Fookien dialect rather than Mandarin.
So here I am, after suffering thirteen years of education in Xavier, still unable to engage in a conversation in Chinese. My parents and relatives are disappointed in me and still expect me to speak Fookien out of the blue.
I was three years old, surrounded by relatives and friends of my parents. They were all babbling in this strange language I could not decipher. And then one of them approached me and babbled a few words. I merely shook my head and said in English I didn’t understand what they were saying.
“Doesn’t he know Chinese? Well, he should.”
My parents would then look disappointed and approach me, asking me to talk in Chinese, a language they never bothered to teach but expected me to speak just the same. I just merely looked at them with wondering eyes.
A year later, I was sent to Xavier, a “prestigious” all-boys private school that had Chinese as part of its curriculum. Of course never mind the fact that they were teaching Chinese Mandarin but my relatives expected me to speak Chinese Fookien, two different dialects.
The first thing that was taught to me was my name. Yang Te Tsa. All Chinese names comprise three characters, each having only one symbol. It was difficult to memorize at first since my name had complex and numerous strokes. My mother used to joke that one of her friends wanted to be named Ee Er San, which is translated as one two three, because each character had the same number of strokes as the number it represented. That was in nursery.
Our formal foray into the Chinese language began in grade one, where we started memorizing Chinese characters aside from our names. Learning to write “a” went side by side with learning how to write “mu”, the character for tree.
Over the years, we would tackle more complex characters as our knowledge of the language began to grow. But in actuality, it didn’t. Most sessions involved mindless memorization of words and their meaning which will soon be forgotten by the end of the quarter. We didn’t even know our seatmate’s Chinese name so that whenever the teacher would call someone, only that person would know that he was being called. Our Chinese names were as unknown as the money hidden in our piggy bank. To top it off, even our ineptitude was laughed at. During exams, the teacher would write on the blackboard the entries that needed to be filled out, such as the year and section. Under the name, he would put “ta pen niyow” or big cow as an example. Some students would write “ta pen niyow” on their test papers.
As for me, my parents and relatives still expected me to speak Fookien, even though no one was teaching it to me. They reasoned that I was being taught Chinese in school. But my rebuttal of being taught Mandarin and not Fookien fell on deaf ears.
I don’t know when it happened but sometime during grade school I realized an anomaly in my name. My last name was Tan but the first character of my Chinese name (which usually serves as the clan name) didn’t correspond with the other Tan’s in my class. And I did ask around so that I knew that last names correspond to a particular Chinese character. So why was mine different?
Apparently, it’s because Tan isn’t my real family name but Yu. Me and my siblings were using my mother’s last name instead of my father’s, at least legally. When I confronted them with this, they merely shrug and blamed it on paperwork.
By the time I was in grade five, Chinese became the subject everyone dreaded. No one understood it except one or two students in class, which is mainly attributed not to studiousness but more to the fact that they came from a Taiwanese family thus the language they were using at home was Mandarin and not the typical Fookien. At this point, cheating became rampant. Whether it was copying from your seatmate, scribbling notes on your hand or handkerchief, or taking a look at the book when the teacher wasn’t looking, we call became familiar with it. It even reached the point that students who don’t normally cheat in other subjects cheat in Chinese. And of course, the excuse was this. “It’s only Chinese. There’s no point in learning it. We won’t use it anyway.”
I only took my Chinese seriously (meaning an effort to actually retain what I had learned) in grade six because anime dubbed in Chinese was showing on cable. I’d stay awake until 10 pm just to watch these shows. It surprised me that I was able to apply, even if it was just a little, my knowledge of Chinese Mandarin.
And then in high school, I found out we had it easy. In Xavier, you only had one Chinese class per day. In other Chinese schools, you also had Math in Chinese, History in Chinese, even Science in Chinese. Compared to students of those schools, we might as well have been mute.
But our Chinese ineptitude stayed the same because the all-girls school right next to ours suffered the same fate as we. Xaverians and ICAns didn’t really speak Chinese even if it was part of their school curriculum. The best we could come up with is Chi-tag-lish, a combination of Chinese, Filipino, and English. Or if they do speak Chinese, it’s with the Fookien dialect rather than Mandarin.
So here I am, after suffering thirteen years of education in Xavier, still unable to engage in a conversation in Chinese. My parents and relatives are disappointed in me and still expect me to speak Fookien out of the blue.
Saturday, May 10, 2003
This was originally written for a magazine but got rejected because it didn't fit the tone they were looking for.
Not Just Harry Potter... or Hardy Boys... or Nancy Drew
By Charles Tan
It's easy to immediately mention Harry Potter when we talk about books for children (and adults). Such is its popularity that when we talk about books we want kids to read, it's the title usually mentioned, along with household names like Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, or Sweet Valley High. But if there's anything reading has taught us, it's that the world is vast, and there are other books out there. And what better time than the summer to start investing in a book or two? Whether you're tired of the usual reading list or looking to expand your horizon, there are a number of titles that are not only entertaining and easy to read but stories that adults can share in as well.
Coraline by Neil Gaiman. Coraline is a little girl who just moved in to a new house. Her parents are far from perfect, but she loves them nonetheless. Which is why when they are abducted, it is up to Coraline to rescue them. But Coraline is just a child, and how can a child stand up to the horrors that confront her? Award-winning author Neil Gaiman (known for his comics The Sandman) shows us the courage and wisdom children possess, and how we adults sometimes forget that.
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Once in a while, one might want to rip a book to shreds. Maybe because it suffers from bad writing, maybe it's required of us by our teacher to read, maybe it's a Math textbook… But what if we lived in a world where books didn't exist? Or maybe I should say stopped existing? In Fahrenheit 451, according to the law, books should be burned. For our protagonist, Guy Montag, it is his job to do so. And then one day, he discovers the joy of reading.
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. A friend in her early thirties once approached me and told me that The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe was a book she enjoyed reading. Now, she let's her children read it. She describes it as the “Harry Potter of her time”. It's a book full of Christian influences and a story where you know who the heroes and villains are. And I'm sure it's a book even your parish priest would approve of.
His Dark Materials trilogy (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, The Amber Spyglass) by Philip Pullman. This series is not as easy to read as the previous books but your kids have to grow up some time. And for that fact, there's no other book that I recommend than this. Whereas The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe had clear-cut villains, this trilogy blurs the lines as characters each have their mixture of virtues and vices, and the circumstances they face aren't always a matter of black or white. And while this is categorized as a children's books, it has enough complexities to rival a novel aimed at adults.
The Earthsea Cycle (A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan, The Farthest Shore, Tehanu, The Other Wind) by Ursula K.le Guin. Magic, dragons, dungeons… it might seem like it's your standard fantasy tale but Earthsea is far from that. Ursula le Guin tells the tale of characters like Ged, a wizard, and Arha, a female child. They face various trials, most of which arising from personal demons rather than external threats (although those exist as well). And while a lot of children's books deal with children, Earthsea strays from that as characters grow and develop into men and women. But even then, the encounters they face are just as dangerous as when they were younger.
The Belgariad (Pawn of Prophecy, Queen of Sorcery, Magician's Gambit, Castle of Wizardry, Enchanter's End Game) by David Eddings. Don't let the number of books intimidate you. They're easy to read and highly enjoyable. If you want to introduce people, be it children or adults, into the fantasy genre, this is perhaps the best series to start with. Garion is no ordinary child. He is in fact the future ruler of a nation. But the forces of evil want to kill him before that can happen. Fortunately, Garion is without his protectors. He has many friends and his relatives are powerful sorcerers. It's your typical fantasy quest with a not-so-typical approach.
The Giver by Lois Lowry. Much like Fahrenheit 451, The Giver is our modern world with a certain twist. This time, not everyone feels, not everyone thinks. Imagine a world where only a few people can see, and appreciate, things we take for granted such as color. And while it is also a blessing for those whose few chosen people, it is often a burden as well. Read the life of Jonas, one such person. See his birth, watch his life, and share his dream of giving back something to the human race.
By no means are these books the end-all and be-all of children's literature. In fact, for each book mentioned here, there are probably several other books that are just as good, if not better. One shouldn't be constrained as to which books to buy or not buy. We should also remember that while it's good for kids to read, reading is not limited to them. Let's not take for granted this privilege we have and start reading.
Not Just Harry Potter... or Hardy Boys... or Nancy Drew
By Charles Tan
It's easy to immediately mention Harry Potter when we talk about books for children (and adults). Such is its popularity that when we talk about books we want kids to read, it's the title usually mentioned, along with household names like Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, or Sweet Valley High. But if there's anything reading has taught us, it's that the world is vast, and there are other books out there. And what better time than the summer to start investing in a book or two? Whether you're tired of the usual reading list or looking to expand your horizon, there are a number of titles that are not only entertaining and easy to read but stories that adults can share in as well.
Coraline by Neil Gaiman. Coraline is a little girl who just moved in to a new house. Her parents are far from perfect, but she loves them nonetheless. Which is why when they are abducted, it is up to Coraline to rescue them. But Coraline is just a child, and how can a child stand up to the horrors that confront her? Award-winning author Neil Gaiman (known for his comics The Sandman) shows us the courage and wisdom children possess, and how we adults sometimes forget that.
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury. Once in a while, one might want to rip a book to shreds. Maybe because it suffers from bad writing, maybe it's required of us by our teacher to read, maybe it's a Math textbook… But what if we lived in a world where books didn't exist? Or maybe I should say stopped existing? In Fahrenheit 451, according to the law, books should be burned. For our protagonist, Guy Montag, it is his job to do so. And then one day, he discovers the joy of reading.
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis. A friend in her early thirties once approached me and told me that The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe was a book she enjoyed reading. Now, she let's her children read it. She describes it as the “Harry Potter of her time”. It's a book full of Christian influences and a story where you know who the heroes and villains are. And I'm sure it's a book even your parish priest would approve of.
His Dark Materials trilogy (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, The Amber Spyglass) by Philip Pullman. This series is not as easy to read as the previous books but your kids have to grow up some time. And for that fact, there's no other book that I recommend than this. Whereas The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe had clear-cut villains, this trilogy blurs the lines as characters each have their mixture of virtues and vices, and the circumstances they face aren't always a matter of black or white. And while this is categorized as a children's books, it has enough complexities to rival a novel aimed at adults.
The Earthsea Cycle (A Wizard of Earthsea, The Tombs of Atuan, The Farthest Shore, Tehanu, The Other Wind) by Ursula K.le Guin. Magic, dragons, dungeons… it might seem like it's your standard fantasy tale but Earthsea is far from that. Ursula le Guin tells the tale of characters like Ged, a wizard, and Arha, a female child. They face various trials, most of which arising from personal demons rather than external threats (although those exist as well). And while a lot of children's books deal with children, Earthsea strays from that as characters grow and develop into men and women. But even then, the encounters they face are just as dangerous as when they were younger.
The Belgariad (Pawn of Prophecy, Queen of Sorcery, Magician's Gambit, Castle of Wizardry, Enchanter's End Game) by David Eddings. Don't let the number of books intimidate you. They're easy to read and highly enjoyable. If you want to introduce people, be it children or adults, into the fantasy genre, this is perhaps the best series to start with. Garion is no ordinary child. He is in fact the future ruler of a nation. But the forces of evil want to kill him before that can happen. Fortunately, Garion is without his protectors. He has many friends and his relatives are powerful sorcerers. It's your typical fantasy quest with a not-so-typical approach.
The Giver by Lois Lowry. Much like Fahrenheit 451, The Giver is our modern world with a certain twist. This time, not everyone feels, not everyone thinks. Imagine a world where only a few people can see, and appreciate, things we take for granted such as color. And while it is also a blessing for those whose few chosen people, it is often a burden as well. Read the life of Jonas, one such person. See his birth, watch his life, and share his dream of giving back something to the human race.
By no means are these books the end-all and be-all of children's literature. In fact, for each book mentioned here, there are probably several other books that are just as good, if not better. One shouldn't be constrained as to which books to buy or not buy. We should also remember that while it's good for kids to read, reading is not limited to them. Let's not take for granted this privilege we have and start reading.
Saturday, May 03, 2003
The Filipino Cosplayer: Performing at Conventions
One of the unique trends of anime fandom here in the Philippines is that conventions are usually equated with cosplaying. And sometimes, rightly so since that's usually the event that draws in the crowds. And while it might seem that cosplaying in the Philippines has always been around, it's only recently that cosplayers have started to pop up in anime conventions.
The first anime convention that featured cosplayers was in November of 2000. It works on the premise that fans enter the convention portraying a certain anime/manga character, register for the event, then cross the ramp when it's call time. This basic premise hasn't changed but intricacies abound in this seemingly simple process.
To begin with, creating a costume is difficult in itself and poses problems of its own. Managing to appear at the convention itself with a costume is already a feat of its own. Assuming one manages to snag an outfit in time (the scope of which is beyond this article), there are other problems a cosplayer must face. For starters, arriving at the convention venue is already quite difficult, considering that most conventions are held in malls and other public areas of high visibility. You just don't enter a mall wearing a costume, especially if it's a skimpy outfit or a bulky attire. It not only hampers mobility but gives you unnecessary public attention (and sometimes, proves to be a security hazard). An alternative would be to dress up at the convention area itself but lately, there really isn't any area to don such getups. It's a cosplayer's haven if the convention had a dressing room of its own but more often than not, the best one can come up with is to appropriate a vacant place, which is then used as a site to dump bags. Cosplayers assemble their costume there, usually asking other people to put on their make-up or make do with pocket mirrors. There's also the alternative of using the public restrooms as a place to dress up, but that entails sharing the restroom with the public, as well as getting stares from various people, both inside and outside the restroom.
Registration can also be a hassle. Requirement such as ID pictures or pictures of the characters you're cosplaying as is just at the bottom of the list. For one thing, there are technical problems such as the concept of “pre-registering” via online but in the end, you still have to fill out the form during the event itself. There's also the fact that pre-registration happens a day or two before the event itself but you still have to pay the expensive entrance fee of the convention just to sign up for the cosplay competition. And well, registering on the day itself isn't helpful either because of the tedious process involved, namely lining up in costume and signing the form (hope your costume has opposable thumbs!), as well as the fact that those interested in participating as a group have it harder than individuals because they have to register at the same time if they want to get the right sequence for their catwalk.
Lately, there's the innovation of the pre-judging, which requires cosplayers to present themselves to the judges once they're done registering. Sometimes, this can be a hassle, especially if you're not wearing your complete costume. It's added time on your already restricted schedule, but in the end helps the organizers sort things out, especially when it comes to tallying the actual results of the cosplay competition.
What soon follows is the long hours of waiting before you face the crowd. And this, perhaps, is one of the most arduous experiences a cosplayer will face. It is during this wait that a cosplayer will be in his costume for several hours. And this entails a lot. For one thing, you will get exhausted and tired. Even if you stay put in one place, people will come to you, asking you to pose for their pictures, or even sign autographs. Acting congenial might be trying, especially after numerous hours of entertaining other people and posing for pictures.
Your costume is also your enemy. Let's face it, most costumes either hamper your mobility or make you uncomfortable. The less time you're in it, the better. But in cosplay events, you usually don't have that luxury. Either you can't take off your costume because it's almost your turn, your friends are encouraging you to wear it, or it's just plain too tiresome to remove it and don it once again. Mundane actions such as sitting down may sometimes not be possible because you might ruin the costume. Suddenly, resting is not an option. The same goes for eating, especially if your costume involves your hands being preoccupied. And believe me, eating will be a problem because even if your costume allows you to grasp objects, there is always the risk that you might spill your food on your costume. The fact that registration occurs sometime during lunchtime and the event lasts until well after dinner doesn't help your stomach. There's also the temperature to consider, depending on what your costume is and where you're situated. Heavy coats might make you perspire, while skimpy outfits might leave you freezing. And yes, costumes break down. Waiting for your turn to appear on stage is a walking time bomb; your costume might get ruined before then, either from all the posing, from the mishandling of props, or the wearing out of adhesives and stitches. Impromptu repairs are not unknown, especially to bulky outfits.
The actual presentation is also far from the best of circumstances. While this is the event you've been waiting for, it is also the event you've been dreading. For one thing, there's the line you have to form. Your heart starts pounding as your turn slowly approaches (as if you haven't waited enough). Then when you finally present yourself, you'll be facing a fickle audience. The chances of getting praises and cheers are nearly the same as the jeers and curses. And sometimes, it's out of your control: it might be because of technical difficulties, something the emcee said, the type of crowd you're facing, or even the cosplayers that preceded you. I mean a crowd might dislike a certain character, or you might be the nth person cosplaying a certain character. Some of these factors are out of your hands yet one feels self-conscious in front of a crowd. Don't forget nervousness and pressure, especially when you're performing on stage. One might have rehearsed a complicated stunt only to falter in the actual presentation. Or deliver a punch line that the crowd might find corny or get drowned out by the sound system. A cosplayer must also be wary of the set-up on stage. One might use a broken microphone, or knock it down, or trip on the wires. It can be embarrassing at the least or it could lead to accidents at worst.
Once a cosplayer is done presenting, time seems to stretch like eternity as you wait for the results to come out. At this point, you don't know whether to remove your costume since you're done presenting or to retain it in case you actually win and asked to go up on stage again. But perhaps this is the least stressful of moments since you've done your part and a huge chunk of the pressure is relieved. The rest is up to the judges, and the audiences. You can now relax, mingle with the crowd, and perhaps even eat your dinner.
Not that demand for you has lessened. People will still be around, asking to take pictures of you or to sign autographs. This might even occur once you've exited the convention area. But you know the day is nearly at its end and you've accomplished what you came there to do. You might doubt whether all this trouble has been worth it, or if you'll cosplay again in the next convention, but one thing you're sure of is that you're a cosplayer, and even for the briefest of moments, the world knows you are one.
One of the unique trends of anime fandom here in the Philippines is that conventions are usually equated with cosplaying. And sometimes, rightly so since that's usually the event that draws in the crowds. And while it might seem that cosplaying in the Philippines has always been around, it's only recently that cosplayers have started to pop up in anime conventions.
The first anime convention that featured cosplayers was in November of 2000. It works on the premise that fans enter the convention portraying a certain anime/manga character, register for the event, then cross the ramp when it's call time. This basic premise hasn't changed but intricacies abound in this seemingly simple process.
To begin with, creating a costume is difficult in itself and poses problems of its own. Managing to appear at the convention itself with a costume is already a feat of its own. Assuming one manages to snag an outfit in time (the scope of which is beyond this article), there are other problems a cosplayer must face. For starters, arriving at the convention venue is already quite difficult, considering that most conventions are held in malls and other public areas of high visibility. You just don't enter a mall wearing a costume, especially if it's a skimpy outfit or a bulky attire. It not only hampers mobility but gives you unnecessary public attention (and sometimes, proves to be a security hazard). An alternative would be to dress up at the convention area itself but lately, there really isn't any area to don such getups. It's a cosplayer's haven if the convention had a dressing room of its own but more often than not, the best one can come up with is to appropriate a vacant place, which is then used as a site to dump bags. Cosplayers assemble their costume there, usually asking other people to put on their make-up or make do with pocket mirrors. There's also the alternative of using the public restrooms as a place to dress up, but that entails sharing the restroom with the public, as well as getting stares from various people, both inside and outside the restroom.
Registration can also be a hassle. Requirement such as ID pictures or pictures of the characters you're cosplaying as is just at the bottom of the list. For one thing, there are technical problems such as the concept of “pre-registering” via online but in the end, you still have to fill out the form during the event itself. There's also the fact that pre-registration happens a day or two before the event itself but you still have to pay the expensive entrance fee of the convention just to sign up for the cosplay competition. And well, registering on the day itself isn't helpful either because of the tedious process involved, namely lining up in costume and signing the form (hope your costume has opposable thumbs!), as well as the fact that those interested in participating as a group have it harder than individuals because they have to register at the same time if they want to get the right sequence for their catwalk.
Lately, there's the innovation of the pre-judging, which requires cosplayers to present themselves to the judges once they're done registering. Sometimes, this can be a hassle, especially if you're not wearing your complete costume. It's added time on your already restricted schedule, but in the end helps the organizers sort things out, especially when it comes to tallying the actual results of the cosplay competition.
What soon follows is the long hours of waiting before you face the crowd. And this, perhaps, is one of the most arduous experiences a cosplayer will face. It is during this wait that a cosplayer will be in his costume for several hours. And this entails a lot. For one thing, you will get exhausted and tired. Even if you stay put in one place, people will come to you, asking you to pose for their pictures, or even sign autographs. Acting congenial might be trying, especially after numerous hours of entertaining other people and posing for pictures.
Your costume is also your enemy. Let's face it, most costumes either hamper your mobility or make you uncomfortable. The less time you're in it, the better. But in cosplay events, you usually don't have that luxury. Either you can't take off your costume because it's almost your turn, your friends are encouraging you to wear it, or it's just plain too tiresome to remove it and don it once again. Mundane actions such as sitting down may sometimes not be possible because you might ruin the costume. Suddenly, resting is not an option. The same goes for eating, especially if your costume involves your hands being preoccupied. And believe me, eating will be a problem because even if your costume allows you to grasp objects, there is always the risk that you might spill your food on your costume. The fact that registration occurs sometime during lunchtime and the event lasts until well after dinner doesn't help your stomach. There's also the temperature to consider, depending on what your costume is and where you're situated. Heavy coats might make you perspire, while skimpy outfits might leave you freezing. And yes, costumes break down. Waiting for your turn to appear on stage is a walking time bomb; your costume might get ruined before then, either from all the posing, from the mishandling of props, or the wearing out of adhesives and stitches. Impromptu repairs are not unknown, especially to bulky outfits.
The actual presentation is also far from the best of circumstances. While this is the event you've been waiting for, it is also the event you've been dreading. For one thing, there's the line you have to form. Your heart starts pounding as your turn slowly approaches (as if you haven't waited enough). Then when you finally present yourself, you'll be facing a fickle audience. The chances of getting praises and cheers are nearly the same as the jeers and curses. And sometimes, it's out of your control: it might be because of technical difficulties, something the emcee said, the type of crowd you're facing, or even the cosplayers that preceded you. I mean a crowd might dislike a certain character, or you might be the nth person cosplaying a certain character. Some of these factors are out of your hands yet one feels self-conscious in front of a crowd. Don't forget nervousness and pressure, especially when you're performing on stage. One might have rehearsed a complicated stunt only to falter in the actual presentation. Or deliver a punch line that the crowd might find corny or get drowned out by the sound system. A cosplayer must also be wary of the set-up on stage. One might use a broken microphone, or knock it down, or trip on the wires. It can be embarrassing at the least or it could lead to accidents at worst.
Once a cosplayer is done presenting, time seems to stretch like eternity as you wait for the results to come out. At this point, you don't know whether to remove your costume since you're done presenting or to retain it in case you actually win and asked to go up on stage again. But perhaps this is the least stressful of moments since you've done your part and a huge chunk of the pressure is relieved. The rest is up to the judges, and the audiences. You can now relax, mingle with the crowd, and perhaps even eat your dinner.
Not that demand for you has lessened. People will still be around, asking to take pictures of you or to sign autographs. This might even occur once you've exited the convention area. But you know the day is nearly at its end and you've accomplished what you came there to do. You might doubt whether all this trouble has been worth it, or if you'll cosplay again in the next convention, but one thing you're sure of is that you're a cosplayer, and even for the briefest of moments, the world knows you are one.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)