A week after, or vodka shot

It was an old friend’s saint’s day a week ago. It just so happened, oddly enough, to be the birthday of a few people I knew. It was one of the first times in a long while I took a birthday other than my own or that of a family member very seriously.

Honestly while I felt good about doing what I did, I just couldn’t look at the other person the same way anymore. Wonder if it was worth it. Or if it was, as an old friend used to call it, a moment worthy of a vodka shot.

I haven’t been posting at all this year so far, and it seems sad to begin on a note of regret. But I’m learning. Perhaps I may be wrong about regrets, or right. Or I just wouldn’t want to know. That’s the point of being surprised, even by myself.

 

Flawed and yet

The chief metaphor for human life is a mess, in my case.

A messy life is inevitably a result of the randomness and frailty of human existence, and even with periodic attempts to resolve the trouble by cleaning it up, any act of fixing falls short of the goal.

We often ask whether it takes God’s grace to help “clear the clutter,” if you will. I just came to the conclusion that we may have been looking at it from the wrong direction. We can only do so much with our efforts, but God’s gift is less an intervention–especially the kind that comes with triumphal choruses–than something that, for better or worse, is there, the kind of presence that throws us for a loop. And the mess remains, because it is part of our condition.

Yet it is from that displacement, that being thrown for a loop, where we understand that we aren’t in control, or we can’t just like that make things perfect, or dare I say it, better. Only God can make all things new, and it takes time. We can be overwhelmed both by the effort to change and by the immense grace it takes to help us along. So all that is required of us is the patient, slow work of living, slowly turning about like an ocean liner, correcting our path through the deep, dark sea.

(I am grateful to Emily Scott of St Lydia’s in Brooklyn, NY and Br. Curtis Almquist, SSJE, for their reflections on New Years and conversion, respectively, that helped spur my own reflection.)

 

It was a very good year

It was a very good year.

Perhaps many of us may share this sentiment. Perhaps it may not have been so for some. Yes, there were setbacks and trials and challenges and all those things that would make us think otherwise. Then we are brought to mind of all the disasters that cause death, destruction, and the like. I am remembering Dumaguete, Iligan and Cagayan de Oro, and many other places hit by the recent storms.

Perhaps we may not see it now, but saying “it was a very good year” is an act of faith. We have faith in other people, because they stood with us and made life this 2011 a wonderful one in spite of all that has happened. We have faith in our capacities, frail though they are, to change the world and change the way we see it. We have faith that a Higher Power has been guiding us and the world, even if we sometimes do not notice it.

“It was a very good year”: saying it is an act of love. We know that it is love that has sustained us, and has driven us to generosity, to friendship, to deepen our relationships with each other.

Most of all, it is an act of hope. We may have begun 2011 with the hope that it would be a good year, but as the year ends, it is a hope that no matter what, things have been good for us.

And maybe it was a very good year because we may have become better people in the process. We have become stronger people, wiser people, more loving people, more hopeful people.

If only for that, it was a very good year.

28 December 2011
Holy Innocents Day

 

Beyond the Sea

After reading books about government secrets, I found myself at a mall where a big band was playing standards. One of these was that venerable French ballad “La Mer,” which if I recall correctly was by Jacques Previn. It is better known in the English-speaking world as “Beyond the Sea,” made popular by Bobby Darin. (Pete Lacaba’s Salinawit group wrote a Filipino version, and during one memorable Printemps des Poetes I sang it at intermission while no one was supposedly watching.)

So what do these all have in common? My sister’s erstwhile favorite, The X-Files. FBI Agent Dana Scully, played by Gillian Anderson, had an admiral-father who liked that song very much that it was played at his funeral.

I have not, unlike my sister, bothered seeing anything beyond season three, but my thoughts turned to a classic episode from those early years which featured Peter Boyle as a cantankerous psychic whose reticence to make use of his pretty accurate powers provided much of the episode’s dark comedy. In one scene, Fox Mulder, Scully’s partner ( played by David Duchovny), tests the psychic’s abilities by asking how he, the agent, would die. The answer? “Auto-erotic asphyxiation.”

It was after reading a recent book about Area 51 that I realized that the truth was definitely out there. Of course, the author admits that a lot of stuff about the officially non-existent top-secret military base (which was at one point on Google Maps) has not yet been declassified so my fair advice is to “trust no one.” At least until they get around to telling us the truth about the consequences of Roswell–and yes, Roswell does have something to do with Area 51. (Knowing wink)

And on that note, off to Fete de la WSK’s final night.

 

Not twilight

Now listening: Fuseboxx performing “Twilight” at Hobbit House.

Yes, I was disappointed today.

Perhaps it marked a sea change, the final swerve that started in May when I first met the lead singer of a band who became in many ways a musical inspiration–they did change my mind about music and a few other things.

Well, what did also change was that I knew exactly what another friend meant–between two people, one of them was worth the risk. Taken together, the personal and the professional that is, what is happening as the year ends is that I am learning to regret and, yes, to move forward.

So thanks to the friends I had made in the last year or two, whether or not we will be parting ways or otherwise. In some cases, it will be for a space. In others, it may take far more time.

 

Trust and proof

Last night I discovered that some people were more concerned about maintaining their brand than trusting its future to others who may be able to keep its quality while taking it into the future. That is how I read the situation I am now facing.

I also understood why I am on the wrong side of the fence on some things. It is clear that I should be on the other side, the side that knows better than to confuse brand marketing with egregious self-promotion.

I now know better. It takes a lifetime to build trust. It takes minutes to charm someone. But just one incident, just one, and it’s all bloody over.

If I have misread the situation, I apologize. But it is clear: nothing will ever be the same. And all bets are off.

 

So there

It’s a different story now. I have been given a new responsibility and this time I hope I will not regret it. After all, unlike with before, I am in a position to draw some strands of my life together. And I will be setting more reasonable expectations of what I can and cannot do.

I need to learn that because with every surprise comes more surprises.

Next up: a story on “songs of the sacred.” Or what Bukas Palad, the Techy Romantics, and Peter Gabriel have in common.

 

Speaking the song

(On my playlist while writing: Fuseboxx’s Animated album.)

Last night, I visited two music places.
The first was the Wombworks studio, where producer Pat Tirano and I had a brief but somewhat wide-ranging discussion on things musical. A lot of what we discussed is off the record, of course, but suffice to say that I did learn that the frightfully short list of the Chapman stick’s users, past or present, in this country, included someone from one of the best heavy metal bands in town. He sold his Stick, unfortunately, or he would have caught on to what Abby Clutario was doing.

On that note, I went over to Freedom Bar just fifteen minutes before the show actually started. Abby and the Fuseboxx people played second that night, the first act being a singer-songwriter from Leyte whose work reminded me a bit of the early work of Davaoeno musician Joey Ayala. Tonight was one of their better performances, and the equipment really helped this time. For the first time, listeners could clearly hear the Chapman stick, whose seeming inaudibility was a frequent concern for some at live gigs. The amps helped, claims Abby.

I interviewed her and a number of people that night for a story I am doing on the Admit One production. For the first time, I was there at the end. But it dawned on me that I had been preparing for this for sixteen years now. It became clear that when Dicta License performed, closing the night, it was a Shirley Beans quasi-reunion. This was a band which lasted only a few years but whose legacy is pretty remarkable. “You don’t control the music,” Pat told me last night, “the music takes you.” And the music took my friends from high school in all sorts of directions. (Ciudad, the other rock band from my batch, lasted far longer intact–they are now 17 years old. Now figure out my age!)

One friend whom I have been persuading to go out and watch rock gigs was exploring the idea of a history of contemporary Philiipine music. I was told this would be an overwhelming task–there are plenty of great musicians outside of Manila. Just last month I saw a group of interesting jazz performers up in Baguio at the last Folk U gig there. Pat and I agree though that more people should be writing about music here. And those who are inclined need to think about a different approach. Perhaps we can revisit Eric Caruncho’s work of telling the stories of music and musicians and take on that task.

After all, if there is anything my background taught me, narrative is the way we make sense of time and the world we live in. I think that while there is room for the silences of wonder, we nevertheless have to speak about music. For as long as our horizons are expanded by our exposure to music around here, there is truly more to tell.

 

Impunity

Today is the International Day to End Impunity. When I spoke recently to artist Kiri Dalena, whose very interesting video art installation on the murders of journalists, she told me that impunity happens precisely when governments and elites go unpunished for the violence they commit against others. (Or something like that–will check my recording.) Even so-called democratic regimes can behave with impunity.

Just yesterday, South Africa took a step backward in press freedom. By restricting access to public information–declaring documents secret by government fiat–the ruling African National Congress hopes to suppress evidence that members of the government are engaged in corrupt activities and the media’s capacity to report them. Archbishop Desmond Tutu rightfully likened their move to something straight out of apartheid. The ANC’s retort? At least they were duly elected by a majority.

I am saddened that the party of Nelson Mandela has tasted power and enjoyed it too well. But what saddens me is that the people of South Africa allowed it to happen. For as long as the ANC can deliver, it does not matter whether some of their leaders profit from it. In this sense, South Africans and Filipinos are the same in their tolerance of impunity.

But does that mean we should give up on seeking accountability? By all means no. It matters more than ever in the age of Empire. Most of all, as a person of faith, seeking accountability arises from the necessity of abiding by the truth that sets us free. In that sense, the churches and indeed all people of faith have an obligation to seek accountability and to be accountable themselves.

Because for every Maguindanao massacre or every act passed in Cape Town, there were, or are, bishops concealing child rape by their clergy. (Even the liberal Episcopal Church in the USA is not immune from that–look up the Nevada case.)

Impunity is indeed attributed to governments, but it is also something that characterizes some of the behavior of elites of any sort, economic, social, religious, or political. If that is the case, our silence about this is complicity–especially those of us who are part of the intelligentsia.

 

Reminders

Tonight I met someone from last year’s odyssey through the arts world. It was one of the people I remembered for being different, the relative outsider, the one who was responsible for a gallery telling its story to the wider world.

It was in June I think when I met her, and she was then about to take on that job, in that gallery. The first encounter went well, and since then I looked forward to meeting her. Then there was the time I decided to stop my gallery-hopping, a time marked by that sense of ennui (or what we’d call “sawa” in the vernacular) and she moved on.

I was glad to meet her again tonight, at an arts event, and she was with an organization that deserves to be more well-known (though, in this context, I am not too keen on helping it be so). I felt a bit of relief–here was a reminder of what I thought myself to be, the confident relative outsider.

Though what changed was that, like her, I moved on. Or did I?

The event that night focused on children’s book illustration. What came to mind was a face from nearly a decade ago. And of a dream we once had, of working on a children’s book together. And I was back to where I started. Oddly enough, this person had her first group show here.
Now on queue is Everything But The Girl’s “Missing.” I don’t feel the same emotions for her, but that part of my story reminds me that sometimes it is best to go back and appreciate how much has changed for the both of us.