Thursday, January 25, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Sabbatical
I can wait.
I've done it before.
Three months, with no electricity and all that comes with it, only a garlic field, a kerosene lamp, a notebook, a sketchpad, a pen, five pencils, a broken down scooter, two beaches; one full of rocks, the other full of thorns, and stars at night. Lots and lots and lots of stars. And a sharp knife. Two knives.
The farmers' and fishermen's children brought me food: fish, octopus, seaweeds, rice and the odd greens I did not recognize. Sometimes, they would bring me colorful fish they caught, in rusty cans, or wild orchids and ferns that they would tie to the lone tree outside my little house. I would smile, but barely. They would smile back, and then run away. They rarely spoke to me, and it was good, for I had nothing to say.
Once, sometime between the three weeks when I was sleeping twenty-two hours a day, and the nine weeks when I could finally walk around, there was a typhoon. Their mothers and fathers came to check on me. They made sure I had my cigarettes, and that the roof was firmly tied down, and asked if I needed someone to stay with me. I shook my head, and smiled, and they went back to their homes to wait out the typhoon.
After that, they sent their children to go with me while I climbed the lighthouse, or checked my caves, or soaked in the little lagoon off the rocky beach.
I never wrote, because I could barely look at a pen without vomiting. And I never sketched because I could not look at a pencil without thinking of slamming it down, sharpened point first, into my hand, just to see if I would bleed thick or thin. Sometimes I would read, but often, I would just fall asleep.
Most of the time, I waited.
I can wait.
I've done it before.
It has been seven years since the last time.
I am waiting again. But this time will be different.
The waiting will be shorter now: there are fewer wounds to lick.
This time I will keep my pencils with me, and use them, and draw what I see, because my eyes are a little clearer now.
This time, I will write, because I have something to say, whether it be a copy of a prayer found elsewhere, or a few thoughts that occur in my tired, unused brain. The words, or even the thoughts, may not be important, but I will not think they are worthless, because at the very least, they come from me.
This time I will talk to people, because it is not fair to write off all, just because of a few that have hurt me. And even if the few who did hurt me are the ones who come, I will listen, because that is the way it should be.
This time I will not stop working, because I can see the light at the opening of the cave, and have a vague idea of what I am to do, and where I am to go, and the fact that I am alive.
The difference between this time and the last is small, and yet vast: a kinder boss, more friends, a more mature family, a dog.
And me.
I've done it before.
Three months, with no electricity and all that comes with it, only a garlic field, a kerosene lamp, a notebook, a sketchpad, a pen, five pencils, a broken down scooter, two beaches; one full of rocks, the other full of thorns, and stars at night. Lots and lots and lots of stars. And a sharp knife. Two knives.
The farmers' and fishermen's children brought me food: fish, octopus, seaweeds, rice and the odd greens I did not recognize. Sometimes, they would bring me colorful fish they caught, in rusty cans, or wild orchids and ferns that they would tie to the lone tree outside my little house. I would smile, but barely. They would smile back, and then run away. They rarely spoke to me, and it was good, for I had nothing to say.
Once, sometime between the three weeks when I was sleeping twenty-two hours a day, and the nine weeks when I could finally walk around, there was a typhoon. Their mothers and fathers came to check on me. They made sure I had my cigarettes, and that the roof was firmly tied down, and asked if I needed someone to stay with me. I shook my head, and smiled, and they went back to their homes to wait out the typhoon.
After that, they sent their children to go with me while I climbed the lighthouse, or checked my caves, or soaked in the little lagoon off the rocky beach.
I never wrote, because I could barely look at a pen without vomiting. And I never sketched because I could not look at a pencil without thinking of slamming it down, sharpened point first, into my hand, just to see if I would bleed thick or thin. Sometimes I would read, but often, I would just fall asleep.
Most of the time, I waited.
I can wait.
I've done it before.
It has been seven years since the last time.
I am waiting again. But this time will be different.
The waiting will be shorter now: there are fewer wounds to lick.
This time I will keep my pencils with me, and use them, and draw what I see, because my eyes are a little clearer now.
This time, I will write, because I have something to say, whether it be a copy of a prayer found elsewhere, or a few thoughts that occur in my tired, unused brain. The words, or even the thoughts, may not be important, but I will not think they are worthless, because at the very least, they come from me.
This time I will talk to people, because it is not fair to write off all, just because of a few that have hurt me. And even if the few who did hurt me are the ones who come, I will listen, because that is the way it should be.
This time I will not stop working, because I can see the light at the opening of the cave, and have a vague idea of what I am to do, and where I am to go, and the fact that I am alive.
The difference between this time and the last is small, and yet vast: a kinder boss, more friends, a more mature family, a dog.
And me.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Do not give what is holy to the dogs, and do not cast your pearls before swine lest they trample them under their feet, and then turn and rend you to pieces. (Matthew 7:6)
When you go to a home, give it your blessing of peace. 1If the home is deserving, let your blessing remain with them. But if the home isn't deserving, take back your blessing of peace. If someone does not welcome you or listen to your message, leave their home or town. And shake the dust from your feet at them. (Matthew 10: 12-14)
Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave their town, as a testimony against them. (Luke 9:6)
I finally quit my job yesterday. I'll miss my boss. And the widdle Baobao. And the guards. And the accounting people. And...
Hmm... that's it, I think.
When you go to a home, give it your blessing of peace. 1If the home is deserving, let your blessing remain with them. But if the home isn't deserving, take back your blessing of peace. If someone does not welcome you or listen to your message, leave their home or town. And shake the dust from your feet at them. (Matthew 10: 12-14)
Whatever house you enter, stay there until you leave that town. If people do not welcome you, shake the dust off your feet when you leave their town, as a testimony against them. (Luke 9:6)
I finally quit my job yesterday. I'll miss my boss. And the widdle Baobao. And the guards. And the accounting people. And...
Hmm... that's it, I think.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
I think stupidity is overrated as a sin: It isn't even one. There is no commandment that says "Thou shalt not be stupid, " nor is it in the list of the seven deadlies.
A friend of mine was ranting on and on about the stupidity of some, and I smiled, patted his hand and told him to count his blessings. He was surprised, to say the least. He thinks I've changed. He wondered what happened to the me who "didn't suffer fools gladly."
Not everyone can be a genius, that would wreck the curve. My mom always said, "Anak, kung walang tanga, hindi ka ituturing na matalino." (If no one were stupid, you wouldn't be considered intelligent.)
Foolishness, on the other hand, is different. The bible dictionary defines fools as "scoffers, who act regardless of the consequences of their actions, who do what is wrong and are proud of it. " That's way different from someone who has a low IQ.
So, in answer to my friend's question, no, I still do not suffer fools gladly.
But I do have patience for people who don't know too much.
After all, neither do I.
A friend of mine was ranting on and on about the stupidity of some, and I smiled, patted his hand and told him to count his blessings. He was surprised, to say the least. He thinks I've changed. He wondered what happened to the me who "didn't suffer fools gladly."
Not everyone can be a genius, that would wreck the curve. My mom always said, "Anak, kung walang tanga, hindi ka ituturing na matalino." (If no one were stupid, you wouldn't be considered intelligent.)
Foolishness, on the other hand, is different. The bible dictionary defines fools as "scoffers, who act regardless of the consequences of their actions, who do what is wrong and are proud of it. " That's way different from someone who has a low IQ.
So, in answer to my friend's question, no, I still do not suffer fools gladly.
But I do have patience for people who don't know too much.
After all, neither do I.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Libel, Slander and Character Assassination
The one law in media class I took in college taught that the truth, if you can prove it, is a defense against a libel suit.
Which means if you want to write that J.Lo has a big butt, write away. Publish. Big headlines. Take out ads if you want, although, heaven knows why you'd want to spend money just to say something everyone already knows. After all, it is true, perhaps not by aboriginal standards, but all you really have to do is whip out all the fashion and beauty ads in all the fashion and beauty magazines, and there you are. No libel suit there.
Writing that K-Fed is a loser may be a bit harder, because you'll have to prove it, which might mean hours and hours of billable time for lawyers. Besides, if you career is not going as well as his, or if your wife isn't as hot or as rich as his, then you're the loser, which means that the other guy is the winner. Someone has to be.
Slander, on the other hand, does not necessarily have to be factually untrue to be slander. All that is needed is that it be oral, with malicious intent, perhaps a twisting of the facts aimed at damaging the subject's reputation. If you yell out, "Hey, you S.O.B.!" to someone on the street, you could, theoretically be sued for slander, even if that person's mother is indeed a B**** or not.
Character assassination is similar to slander, but it's something of a misnomer, I think. After all, it isn't your character that dies when others try to assassinate it. All that does is reveal a definite lack of it in those rumormongers and gossips and slanderers and namecallers. No amount of gossip can kill your character if it's there and alive. Unless, of course, you decide to just have it lay down and die, in which case, it's suicide.
But that's only my opinion.
Which means if you want to write that J.Lo has a big butt, write away. Publish. Big headlines. Take out ads if you want, although, heaven knows why you'd want to spend money just to say something everyone already knows. After all, it is true, perhaps not by aboriginal standards, but all you really have to do is whip out all the fashion and beauty ads in all the fashion and beauty magazines, and there you are. No libel suit there.
Writing that K-Fed is a loser may be a bit harder, because you'll have to prove it, which might mean hours and hours of billable time for lawyers. Besides, if you career is not going as well as his, or if your wife isn't as hot or as rich as his, then you're the loser, which means that the other guy is the winner. Someone has to be.
Slander, on the other hand, does not necessarily have to be factually untrue to be slander. All that is needed is that it be oral, with malicious intent, perhaps a twisting of the facts aimed at damaging the subject's reputation. If you yell out, "Hey, you S.O.B.!" to someone on the street, you could, theoretically be sued for slander, even if that person's mother is indeed a B**** or not.
Character assassination is similar to slander, but it's something of a misnomer, I think. After all, it isn't your character that dies when others try to assassinate it. All that does is reveal a definite lack of it in those rumormongers and gossips and slanderers and namecallers. No amount of gossip can kill your character if it's there and alive. Unless, of course, you decide to just have it lay down and die, in which case, it's suicide.
But that's only my opinion.
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