G-xpress: This too, shall pass

Saturday, July 3, 2010

This too, shall pass

Dubai. A place where no one in his right mind would stay forever. Don't get me wrong. It's supposed to harbor the "-ests" of this world... as advertised AND EXXAGERATEDLY SO all over major networks and newspapers all over the world. The first time I came here, a part of me which always craved to be an architect marvelled at the skyscrapers, the neo-designs, the absurd the seemingly impossible but staring at you right before your eyes.

Well maybe, i am just missing home too much. It's warm enough here (are you kidding?) But i miss the soulful warmth of my country. They say that Dubai is a crime-free country... but why did i feel more secure in my homeland? It has been 8 months... and that's all it took for me to see Dubai for what it really is. Sans the magnificent and awe-inspiring artificial mammoths, it still very much what it was, a good 10-15 years ago: A DESERT.

I have always prided myself as a positivist. But i am also a realist. Whenever i find myself in a middle of a crowd, and observe people, i have never seen so many who walked mechanically... whose smiles don't quite reach their eyes... whose inner struggles seem to follow them and flash on their heads like neon lights. Sometimes, i don't want to look at people here anymore for fear of what i'd discover in their eyes.

And i am afraid... not only for myself... but for the people near me. I think, the artificial arms of this place is already snaking thru their minds...claiming their hearts. Oh God, is it just a matter of time before this impending doom claim my being as well? There is one rule that dominates this planet since time immemorial: SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST. I need help. But i have no one to turn to. I dare not speak my thoughts to anyone for fear that they'd mock this weakness.

Somehow, i know, i believe that this too, shall pass. I just hope that when this interim in my life is over...that i still have my values intact.

God, grant us the serenity
to accept the things we cannot change
the courage to change the things we can
and the wisdom
to know the difference.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)

THE FIRST TIME I TRIED TO WRITE an essay, my third grade teacher returned it to me , her normally serene face furrowing in a mixture of consternation and annoyance: “ This isn’t an essay, Gee” she announced in her deceptively soft voice, “ can you do something to turn it into one?” One eyebrow shot up, signaling that she wants it to be done. Pronto. No arguments.

Not that I would have argued. She was right. No one can call a one-sentence piece an essay. The incident struck a deep chord in me, primarily because that was the first time a teacher chastised me. Since then, I resolved to submit only written works that I can be proud of.

As I struggled to improve my craft, I encountered loads of obstacles, mostly streaming from the rigors of language use. But I was lucky. I had a constant inspiration who prodded me to go on , beef up and polish my work: MY FATHER. My late father, Mr Sixto B. Jacome was a prolific writer himself. He was - in every sense of the word- a bookworm . To call him a “fountain of ideas” is an understatement, it would be more apt to dub him as “waterfall of ideas”

My journey towards becoming a real writer kicked off though, when I was selected as the representative of our school in an essay writing contest. I won but it was an empty victory because I submitted a memorized piece. When I did not make it in the regional levels with the same piece, I uttered a deep sigh of relief. Oddly, the failure left me with a feeling of tranquility and silent joy, such refreshing thoughts compared to the guilt of gaining a title which left a bitter taste in my mouth.

The experience did not sour my eagerness to dabble into the world of creative writing. Reading my father’s works egged me to try on several methods and techniques to refine any written work I accomplished, be it a simple haiku or a full-length novel. Having brilliant Communication Arts teachers in highschool and in college facilitated my journey. Having a diary also helped a lot.

Soon, writing became one of the activities I can never do without. It became a source of relaxation, an avenue for expression and an arena for release of tension. It didn’t take much to keep my ballpoint pen rolling. Even the simplest and normally unnoticeable objects can stimulate my motor nerves to flex my fingers….to make my palm itch…. to write.

When my father passed away in 1994, it was as if my writing spirit was maimed. It was only the thought that he would never have wanted to see my disfigured spirit that jabbed me awake to carry on the beautiful legacy that he sowed in me and so I wrote one of the most painful and difficult reflections : “ON DEATH”.
It was largely due to my father that I resolved to impart to my students the therapeutic value of writing. And so, even as I’m not teaching Communication Arts, I have always made it a point to know what’s on my student’s minds thru their essays, poems and other literary works. This mission included encouraging my students to appreciate literary gems written by some of the masters and other contemporary writers.