A Journey On Knowledge... Or the Lack of It

There is nothing that I know of certainly, except perhaps that I am conscious, and this even, I got from Descartes and not derived from my own thinking. But that even, is limited. Yes, I am a conscious being, a thinker. I do not know though, for certain, if I even truly have a physical body, and so I proclaim that there are many things I do not know.

Lakbay: Taxi

Paunang Salita: Ito ay isang kwentong hango lamang sa imahinasyon. Ito ay bahagi ng isang literary anthology na sinimulan ko kamakailan. 

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Nakapanlalamig sa pakiramdam ang maisip pagsamantalahan ang isang inosente.

TAXI

Bumi-biyahe noon sa Quezon Avenue ang mama. Ala-una na ng umaga ngunit maliwanag pa

rin ang kahabaan ng daan, sinisilaw ang nakainom na drayber. Papikit-piki ito nang napansin

niyang may pumapara sa ‘di kalayuan.

Ginilid niya ang sasakyan upang isakay ang customer. Magandang babae.

Tila pinapasok na ng alak ang kanyang utak. Nag-init ang kanyang katawan.

“San ka Miss?” tanong ng drayber. Nakangiti.

“Sa Fairview lang kuya. Kaya ba?” patanong na sagot ng babae.

“Kayang-kaya, walang problema,” ‘di nag-aatubiling sagot naman niya.

Sumakay na nga ang babae sa likod ng taxi. Sinulyap-sulyap ng drayber ang babaeng maganda gamit ang salamin sa harap niya.

Tinahak nila ang kahabaan ng Quezon Avenue patungong Commonwealth. Nang dumaan sila sa Philcoa ay nagtaka ang babae kung bakit kumanan sila.

“Kuya, Fairview po ako… Bakit papasok po tayo ng UP?” sambit ng dilag.

“Miss, huwag ka matakot. Hindi ako masama. Kalma ka lang,” sagot naman ng drayber.

Nakapanlalamig sa pakiramdam ang maisip pagsamantalahan ang isang inosente.

Nagtaka ang drayber kung bakit hindi man lang sumagot ang babae. Hindi ito umalma. Hindi ito nag-akmang buksan ang pinto at lumabas sa tumatakbong sasakyan. Mahina, walang magawa. ‘Di na ‘to makakalaban.

Nagulat na lamang ang drayber nang umupo ang babae sa likuran niya. Hinawakan nito ang kanyang braso gamit ang dalawang kamay, sabay himas sa kanyang dibdib, at pababa.

“Ito baa ng gusto mo, kuya?” nang-aakit na sagot ng babae, sabay halik sa nag-iinit na pisngi ng nagmamanehong drayber.

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Paalis na si Claire patungong eskwela nang pinigilan siyang saglit ng kanyang ina.

“Claire, ingat ka pauwi mamaya ah. Huwag ka magta-taxi,” paalala ng kanyang ina. “Oo naman Ma, ‘di naman ako nagtataxi. Mahal. Bakit, ano bang meron?” nagtatakang tanong ng dalaga.

“Heto oh. Basahin mo.” Inabot ng kanyang ina ang nakatuping tabloid. “Basahin mo yung news sa top page. Maikli lang ‘yan.”

“Ok Ma, basahin ko na lang sa bus. Bye!”

Ito ang nilalaman ng balita:

Disyembre 5, 2013

Lalaki, Natagpuang Patay Sa Diliman

Isang lalaki ang natagpuang duguan sa loob ng taxi sa masukal na bahagi ng Diliman alas-sais ng 

umaga kanina. Pinaghihinalaang siya rin ang driver ng taxi kung saan siya nakita.

Kasaluyan ay wala pang suspect para sa nangyaring krimen. Inaalam na ng mga pulis kung may nakaaway ba ang drayber. Tinitingnan na rin ngayon ang anggulong pagpatay ng isang serial killer.

Pinag-iingat ang mga mamayan dahil maaalalang dalawang taxi driver na rin ang natagpuang patay sa kanilang bina-biyaheng taxi sa nakalipas na buwan. Natatalang isang linggo lamang ang pagitan sa mga naganap na

pagpatay.

Singapura

Been so long since I posted photos. Here are some of my shots taken in Singapore during our 'field trip' there.

Marina Bay from afar. Semi-filtered by the glass of the bus I was in.

Boat by the Bay.

'Trees' in the Gardens by the Bay.

My skills are quite rusting. Must get down to this photog business again soon. Haha!

Devotion and In Betweens

I have been to the ‘Pista ng Nazareno’ three times. My first was during 2010, which happens to be my Mama’s first too. We were company to each other, both witnessing firsthand how it was to be in the Black Nazarene Procession. We distanced ourselves from the people surrounding the ‘andas’ of the ‘Poon’ because we knew we might lose our ground anytime we went near. I remember zooming the point-and-shoot camera in my hand, just so I can capture decent photos and videos of the Black Nazarene. It felt like I was watching a movie in 4D; I watched and felt as people moved.

My second visit was during 2011, when Papa joined his mother-daughter duo. It was a better year for my camera. We situated ourselves nearer the procession, and so I needed to zoom less than before. Compared to the last year, it felt like a higher quality 4D movie – the cries of the people were more intense in my ears, the faces of the devotees more vivid, and the vibe of the procession more alive. Along with the crowd I was half-shouting ‘Viva Senor Nazareno’, thinking how it would be one of the people in the ‘andas’ or carrying the rope. However, we still kept our distance from the people directly involved with the procession, as instructed by Papa.

For the next two years I was not able to come; my third and latest visit then commenced this year. I was with Mama again, but this time Miguel (my brother) was with us. We did what we did during the past years – attend mass in the Quiapo Basilica Minor, then walk through Lawton, the Manila City Hall, until we saw the procession. We were more daring this year – we situated ourselves closer to the wave of people pulling the rope of the andas. We were in what may be compared to as VIP seats, just a few feet away from the performing orchestra. The procession drew closer, and a noticeable sea of white towels were being waved by the thousands welcoming the andas.

Then I was in a trance. People from behind me wanted to see what I was witnessing in front, and in the process pushing me forward. On the other hand, people in front of me were being pushed backward – towards me. I was sandwiched between two forces, and my small frame can only muster as much as to maintain balance. Then suddenly, people from the procession went to our direction, asking for help. They were out of breath, and needed to free themselves from the procession. While people from behind me are helping them up, I was pushed backward by the people’s movements, where a bush of a plant I do not know grows. I could not control the movement. As I was keeping my balance, I wounded my legs with the thorns of the plant. I felt like I was going to fall anytime soon. I was crying for help, my voice calling my brother’s name in the midst of the chaos I was in.

I share this not because I want to bring fear to you, or to boast about my experiences. I write this because I want to express feelings that I have towards this devotion. I write this because I want to explain why I did what I did, and hopefully shed some light to questions that even I have on mind.

                The Feast of the Black Nazarene goes beyond devotion. Above all, it is an expression of faith. I have asked myself before: Why do we have to pray to images of God, Jesus? Can’t his image linger in our hearts and minds, and pray to Him in solitude? I received the answer to my question during one of my Theology classes, wrapped in disguise as an answer to another question.*** The Feast of the Black Nazarene also makes one witness brotherhood. ‘Kapatid’ was the term used to another devotee, as if the devotees are bound as a family centered in God. Gestures of kindness were also evident in the urge of people to help those who needed it. The Feast is more than a celebration of belief – it is also a celebration of values.

And this is precisely the reason why it hurts and stings being easily misjudged. During one of my classes (not the Theology class I mentioned), my professor asked who were devotees or regular goers of the Quiapo Church and Baclaran Church were. Only two hands were raised, mine included. I didn’t expect what happened next. In front of our class he flashed a picture taken from the Feast of the Black Nazarene, and said that those people were religious fanatics. And my experience goes far more than this. I would occasionally hear comments of varying degrees from many people regarding this fanaticism.

                I do not deny that some people may be taking the Feast for granted. It has gained its fame during the past years, and I have been witness to the growing number of youngsters flocking the procession, perhaps drawn to it because of bravado. But I cannot judge them, as they cannot judge me. For all I know, they may have their story, a reason why they have chosen to participate in the Feast when they can choose instead to stay home and play couch potato. But how can we be ridiculed when we have not even hurt anyone because of our devotion?

                I do not hope that you join my league in the beliefs I have chosen. However, I hope that we may not be judged, and that our faith be respected. Most of all, I hope and pray that God, or Allah, or the Supreme Being – however you may wish to call it – keep the well-being in you.

By the way, I had the wounds in my legs cleaned and attended, as my faith and devotion were reinforced.

***We were told that the reason for confession was not because we needed to formalize our atonement, but because as humans, we needed a physical proof that we are forgiven. For me, the same goes for devotion to images of Jesus such as the Black Nazarene. The belief to the Black Nazarene is not a form of idolatry; rather, it is a method by which we are able to physically manifest our faith. We also hold a firmer grasp of our faith because somehow, we see a glimpse of the God we believe through His images.

Feelings of Divergence

I am writing this, half-inspired by the book Divergent (which I am currently reading), and half-inspired by nothing but an urge to write.

Or maybe, I'm just making up excuses. Maybe not.

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I know what and how I feel, and that is what taunts me. I feel alone and lonely. I'm unsure how I would fair towards that feeling - if it should comfort knowing I felt alone, or that I should feel worse knowing how I felt... how I'm feeling.

I feel like all the warmth has been emptied from me. Sometimes the memory of me, all smiling and laughing, seems distant and obscure. I seem to forget how it was to be me. I didn't feel like doing anything. I'd rather stare at the night sky, looking for nothing. I'd rather be caressed by the cold January wind, than feel the coldness inside of me.

Many times I would feel like crawling to bed, hiding myself under the sheets. I want to curl just like I did when I was in my Mother's womb. I would rather sleep - it was my escape from conscious thinking. For the first time, it hurt to think. It wasn't stimulating my curiosity; it was stimulating my sadness.

And the worse thing is that I know how to get out of this. I know the solution is to forget and forgive, to go out and celebrate life, to smile and let out. But somehow, I am consumed by the thought of being dragged into this feeling; like opium or drug - it was addicting.

But let me tell you this: I was sane enough to bring myself up, to not fall in this pit of melodrama. I picked myself up, trying my best to contain the little that I have left. I mustered the little happiness and faith that was in me, and I tried to radiate it the best that I can.

But I feel like I was robbed. I was robbed of my friends. I was robbed of honesty. I was robbed of the right to not be judged. I was robbed of the kindness and gentleness I once had, that I wish I still have.

Deep down, I was hurt, hurt to my very core.

I would like to blame, to take revenge, but the thought of it seems so repelling I can't contain it long enough. The pain swells to my throat, making my heart race half a heartbeat quicker than it should. I would want to cry, to release all the pain, but nothing would come out. I hope the time comes that I may let it out.

Now, I barely care if anyone understands me, or tries to. I am starting to get used to being lonely and alone. The prospect of eating by myself, walking in hallowed walls without anyone beside me, doesn't seem to scare me anymore. But I know, sometimes, I would still feel empty.

I'm happy. I'm happy I let this out.