Today I have nothing to write, but I will write on anyway. Finding the right words is like diving headlong in an unknown ocean and letting the current take the driver’s seat. I have danced in the ocean. Flailing my arms, unsure if I yearn for a savior or not, looking upwards at the blinding light of the sun.

The desperation that goes with the knowledge of being abandoned, forgotten, left my soul intoxicated and wanting more. Man lives to suffer, short of being a masochist- perhaps because it is only through suffering that man is able to realize the depth of his existence and if there be no suffering in this world, man would not hesitate to blow his brains out at the moment of birth.

All men and women are the same even the most unconventional ones; we are swimming in the same ocean of existence and we’d rather drown than get back safely on the shore where no adventure awaits us.

Man need not a destination to embark on a journey, all is a constant flux and it is in man’s nature to move. True, some choose to stay rooted to their spots earning them their reputation as deviants but it is in this discrepancy where one can see the complex mind of our Creator.

For man may be the same, but as an entity we are each of us a separate individual. We have not a destiny except the one we ourselves prepared for us.

The ocean is blue, or is it merely the reflection of the skies? Unsure as we may be, we journey on towards the place we can call destiny, unafraid of the dangers for we have seen the bigger picture and loud and clear it told us that risks are part of a life worth living.

The ocean is vast but the will is iron. Sea monsters may lurk beneath us but that is exactly where they place- beneath us; I believe that man is still different from the animals not only in his power to reason but also because he has a special purpose in life and that is to make use of his life to find and grab hold of his destiny.

The mighty waves are themselves a mystery, either they goad us to reach our goals or serve as a hindrance to our journey. The winds too are nebulous in their real intention.

Ke ab kuch kar ja re bandu?

What do you do now oh traveler?

Do you let the waves dictate your course, helpless against the currents and long given up on the prospect of a destination? Or do you battle with the waters, and battle hard with it? After all when some say we have no power over nature, it is wise to remind them that man himself is part of nature and that means the balance is not tipped to one side only: we have a chance to conquer nature only if we gather our strength to the utmost.

The waters are too deep but the will is iron. Death is a breathing, living entity and it feeds on our souls. Death is not the place where the brave dare not go but rather it is their dwelling place. To encounter death face to face, to look it straight in the eye, is a human activity whether or not man be aware of it.

Every single day we face death. The clock is ticking and we may not know when we’ll breathe our last; furthermore, it is not at all absurd to say that death breathes down our necks each second of the day. Everybody has got a sword of Damocles behind him and we are all subconsciously aware of it regardless of our efforts to deny such thing.

A man builds a house for his family, is he not aware of his impending death? Surely he is or he shall not be as determined to make his wife’s and children’s lives better knowing fully well that the possibility of death lurks, and he is doing all he can do so that when the time comes, his family will be left secured with cash or property.

Although in the midst of it all he suffers; let not the carefree laugh deceive anyone, for underneath that is a being nervously anticipating his demise. The suffering, albeit, is bittersweet. The challenge of the waters is welcome to man no matter how unprepared he is.

The shore lures us back with promises of comfort but the brave dare not look back, he is complacent with his nature as a moving entity and if death be the one which await him at the end of his journey, he shall remain calm and rather pleased that he had the courage to set sail or swim.

Death, to put it simply, defines us.

Death is the impetus for us to strive towards our dreams, for if we do not attempt at all to pursue our dreams, the possibility of having an unfulfilled life to take to the grave is all too terrifying.

If death be not a possibility, life itself would be empty and tiresome. Man as an entity that moves by nature is moved by death, the knowledge that someday all may be over gives us the strength to do what we will in order for us not to face the dire possibility that we may have never lived at all and that it is too late to do otherwise in the face of death.

Labels: death, life, philosophy

 

The Filipino, by all means, is a romantic; perhaps this romantic nature is not inherently ours but rather a product of being under the influence of a romantic Latino culture for a period of almost 300 years. Our customs ranging from the Catholic religion down to the most mundane aspects of our lives paint a vivid picture of the Latino way of life. However, and sadly, it also portrays the fact that authentic Filipino culture (if there is indeed one) was not able to exert much influence on the Filipinos themselves in light of the cultural and political hegemony of foreign powers.

Fast forward to today, the average Filipino finds himself in a whirlwind of several cultures other than his own. To elaborate on this, let us consider first and foremost the Philippine media. All major broadsheets in the country make use of the English language whereas Filipino is relegated to the tabloids which are best known for their tacky write-ups on crime and sexual matters as if rubbing it in everyone’s faces that the Filipino language is for the uncouth, short of saying the uneducated masses. I find this ironic since it is well-known that the major problems of the country involve the same uneducated masses they feed the sex stories to, so it would make more sense that these masses be able to read the broadsheets if only because the news therein concerns them most more than any other class in the country.

Then there’s the entertainment industry, also part of the media, whose powers that be insist that Filipino pop culture be eternally a cheap copy of American and Korean pop culture. Aside from these, the media also likes to promote an inverted form of national pride in that the Filipino should only be proud of achievements that earn the praise of foreigners. For them, the appreciation of the locals is simply not enough: it should be internationally recognized. This fact alone shows us how lowly much of the Filipinos think of their fellow Filipinos’ opinions while on the other hand venerating the opinions of foreigners who, if we shall be realistic, only see the Filipino as an exotic item they’d like to collect so as to prove to everyone how much of a “citizen of the world” they are. That, or they (especially male foreigners) see the Philippines as a vast red-light district nation wherein with enough money they could lure in their traps homely-looking women desperate for their cash. Both suffice as serious explanations as to why the influx of foreigners keeps on burgeoning year after year.

No one could argue that it is genuinely out of interest in the Filipino culture that we witness the above-mentioned influx, for what sort of culture would they encounter here that they have not heard of from travel shows or read of from travel guides? To be fair to other cultures, if we look beyond the itineraries on travel guides, we are met with rich histories and cultures aside from the contributions made by these other countries to the advancement of the sciences, religion, arts, and philosophy. Meanwhile here in the Philippines we ask ourselves what contributions have we made to the aforementioned fields? Or maybe it is more appropriate to conclude that we refrain from asking such questions because we all know too well that the answer will be in the negative.

This is exactly why the media desperately depends on the gullibility of the masses who will without questions take in their downright silly and empty “Proud to be Pinoy” B.S..

A nation that knows only how to fall in love. Catholicism was imposed on us but in the end we fell in love with it, otherwise how would one explain that we remain a Catholic country in spite of the Spaniards not being in the country for more than a century now? The Americans came and we fell even more in love with them. We adopted the “American way” in just about every aspect of our lives: for one, we are a democracy even if we are fully aware that a big chunk of the population is under-educated and are therefore not fully-equipped to make game-changing decisions for the country such as what happens during elections. Next, despite claiming to be “Christians” we are not mindful of our morals and are unapologetically liberated especially when it comes to matters of sexual nature.

Bottom line is, whatever the trend is in America, the Philippines will surely follow it in the same way that a sheep will follow its master. These are the gods that the Filipino worships. Gods who speak in foreign tongues and act in alien ways.

This foreignness, if we reflect on it, may in fact be the reason why the Filipino is so attracted to its gods: perhaps the Filipino is trying to escape his being a Filipino and evade the responsibility that comes with culture. The responsibility that culture has is that it should evolve from its influences until it reaches a point wherein it is fully separate and original from its influences. The Filipino culture does not have that.

In fact, one of the Philippines’ most treasured intellects, Nick Joaquin, made the observation that the lack of variety in the early Filipino potteries imply that Filipino culture did not grow to reach its full potential at all. Instead, it was contented to take the backseat while our other Asian neighbours picked up steam and developed what is to become their rich cultures.

As for the Filipino wanting to escape his being a Filipino, another philosophical question arises from that: could it be that the Filipino copies the pop culture of rich foreign countries (U.S.A., U.K., and Japan just to name a few) because it is only through such activity will the Filipino feel as if he doesn’t belong to a third world country? Or perhaps it may go even deeper in that the Filipino imitates the pop culture of these countries because that is the only thing that he is capable of copying- the shallow stuff?

We don’t see a Filipino version of NASA in the country but we do see a lot of singers singing American pop songs in karaoke bars. As Prof. Dr. Alfredo Co said in one of his lectures when I was in college, singing and dancing are very common in the Philippines because these two activities do not require a lot of thinking at all.

Even if some may claim that they are okay with this kind of setting this does not give this atrocious setting an excuse to continue. Why do Filipinos continue to adore their foreign gods when they know in their hearts that they can never be like their gods no matter how hard they try?

Alas, it is too late for us for we have already crossed the river. We have adopted several foreign languages as equal to our mother tongue because the foreign gods made it a requirement for us to be able to work and earn a living in their countries. Saying this made me realize that perhaps the real god Filipinos worship is money, but taking into consideration all other evidences, there is sufficient proof that what the Filipinos worship is actually the idea of not being a Filipino!

Labels: asian writers, essay, filipino women writers, filipino writers

 

    

    If I consider myself lucky, would that be a sin? You are, after all, not a god of chances according to Ms. Bless Pascual, my theology teacher who also happened to be my science teacher, and who incidentally, once praised me for being a terrific writer after she read a written piece I turned in for a school project.

But really, how much of that accolade is based on being at the right place at the right time? Perhaps the happy circumstance that Ms. Bless Pascual was in a good mood as she was reading my paper, or that my classmates somehow managed to turn in terrible work, making it seem like my piece was a cut above the rest?

Now if you think little of that, let me tell you about that one time when I watched a movie at the mall: it started later in the day than usual and I lost track of time until I realized halfway through that the movie was a piece of crap and decided to get up and leave. That when I got out the cinema it was already dark outside, the rest of the mall was closed and I just barely missed the last jeepney ride in the terminal, that otherwise I would have walked home in the dark in an unsafe environment (this is the city of Manila we’re talking about).

Come to think of it, was my life-long admiration for art and literature — which wouldn’t occur had I not been trained to read books at a young age by a grandmother who also happened to be a well-read professional teacher, making her therefore a major force behind my educated taste when it comes to what makes art (in whichever incarnation — the case in point being, a film) good quality or not; responsible for the turn of events I wrote down earlier? Had I been a sucker and could not distinguish between what makes good art to what comes out of my asshole then I would have watched that awful movie until the end credits, and with that being said, I would have missed the last ride home, which would then result in me being forced to walk those dark streets alone, and as a teenage girl (back then) one could only count on one’s fingers the scenarios which would have yielded as much potential danger to my personal safety.

I don’t believe for one second that all of that was simply because I got lucky. It was You, Lord.

You were the spirit that guided my hand to write down the right words, as much as You were the afflatus that pumped to life the bullshit-radar in my head. It was You who paved the way for me to build up on my aptitude as a writer, it was Your presence that brought me home to safety.

As Ms. Bless Pascual put it, You are not a god of chances, my Lord; in a perfect 20–20 vision, Your eyes are everywhere, and You see me.

I didn’t see it coming, but my soul cried out to You and You came to my rescue.

I took for granted what talent I have, believing myself to be a total loser, and yet You loved me, that’s why You used Ms. Bless Pascual (and Ms. Castillo — who wrote in one of my papers that I had ‘a flare for writing’, Ms. Sangawa — who personally told my mother that I had excellent writing skills for my age, Ms. Frialde — who told me my writing style was unique, albeit a little weird, and Ms. Gomez — who always praised my ability to elaborate my ideas in writing, and do so with both style and substance) to open my eyes in order to see that You’ve given me a gift, a talent worth cultivating, and in return Lord, I intend to use it for Your Greater Glory.

I became careless with my safety, believing myself to be invincible during my teenaged years, and yet You loved me all the same, that’s why You made me remember that one rule when it comes to movie-making: “thou shall not bore.” (another insight from another teacher, Sir Roy Iglesias, who was a huge influence in me landing my first job as a scriptwriter for a major television network here in my country) In light of which, and with the rest of the details written down earlier in this letter, You forever imprinted in my mind how much You really cared, and still care for me.

These happy “accidents” are not the only manifestations of Your love, but are among the sweetest-smelling in the bouquet of blessings I constantly receive from You year after year.

Your love is a rose that never withers, Your greatness the thorns on that rose pricking away the hands of evil that it may never tarnish the petals of eternal life which you are preserving for Your children.

And I am forever and eternally grateful.

Love,

Aiko ❤

Labels: christian, faith, hope, love

The package came in the mail just as I was about to take my Siesta. I was in my house clothes which really, was nothing else but a loose dress- obviously, I planned to stay in bed for that whole day. Doing nothing has been the norm for me these past eight years. I would wake up late, skip breakfast, eat lunch, snack at least three times, lay in bed, stare at the walls until they bleed, eat dinner, more staring, sleep very late and wake up again the next day to repeat the cycle. But it’s not like this all the time, and today is one of my better days.

It didn’t occur to me that the apathy I felt towards activities I used to do (exercising, for example) was already a symptom of depression until I had a check-up with a Neuropsychiatrist for lower back pain. Even then I was skeptical for I always perceived myself as a lazy homebody.

“You have chronic depression.” My Neuropsychiatrist told me this in a rather cold voice. I believe years of breaking this news to countless other patients has benumbed him from feeling anymore surprise or sympathy for cases like mine. To him it was simply a declarative statement which meant that there is a chemical imbalance in the patient’s brain. Nothing more, nothing less. Shortly after that, he prescribed to me medications I should take and asked me to come back for follow up check-ups.

The tale began with a nondescript lower back pain. For a couple of months back in 2011 I experienced a sharp stinging pain on my lower back along with other symptoms such as numbing of the hands, blurry vision, and urinary incontinence. An MRI scan revealed that I had problems with my lumbar spine but it didn’t quite explain the other symptoms I felt which included fatigue, irritability, and loss of interest in activities I formerly engaged in. I was in law school during those times and sadly I quit after about only four months on the first semester of my freshman year because I simply lost interest. It was not a case of having difficulty with law school nor did I had an epiphany and realized that I wanted to pursue another path, no, I just stopped caring. Furthermore, I found myself getting upset over the littlest of things, crying every night, and requiring double effort to get out of bed each morning.

I casually told all these to my doctor while he was reading the results of my MRI scan. I remember the furrowing of his eyebrows (probably trying to recall if he’d read in any medical books a case where a patient suffering from lumbar spine pains also showed symptoms like irritability or anhedonia) before asking how long have I been feeling that way. I told him I did for over two months already. He followed up with other questions until it lead to him breaking it to me that I indeed was experiencing depression.

Forrest Gump taught us that life is like a box of chocolates, you’ll never know what you’ll get. In my case, what I thought was little else but laziness was in fact something more serious. I have been taking medicines for depression for over seven years now with my family being my number one therapists. Having dropped out of law school, I found myself faced with the predicament of how to fight depression when there’s literally nothing to look forward to on my days ahead. I admit, this fact made me all the more depressed that my doctor had to increase the dosage of my medicines. However, a chance purchase of a plain black notebook changed my life for the better.

I wrote my first piece of fiction back when I was seven years old. It was about a ghost haunting a garden. That first writing may not have survived my mother’s vigilant insistence on burning used notebooks she deemed to be litter but it did show me upon reflection some years later that my talents leaned toward literary pursuits. The writing did not end there. I wrote my first poem at nine years old (it was about St. Joan of Arc whom I’ve had a fascination on) and by the time I was in sophomore high school up until senior year, I was a mainstay of the school paper and the batch yearbook, acting as Literary contributor. The seeds of this tendency of mine was planted I believe at the tender age of two when I was read by Lola (Grandmother) my first nursery rhyme. “Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water.” From then on, I never looked back on my way to bookworm territory and along with it came the pleasant surprise that not only was I a reader but that I also had the capability in me to be a writer.

After graduating with a bachelor’s degree, I was lost. My major, which was Philosophy, did not exactly offer a whole bunch of opportunities in the job market. The only solution I could think of was to pursue law school. After graduation I realized that I was on my own outside the four walls of the classroom. To reiterate, I felt lost. I read books less, and wrote even less until my diagnosis of chronic depression.

The old saying that “fate is very kind, just wait for it” resonates with me and with a lot of other people. The proof I have of this is an unplanned visit to the bookstore I’ve had a few years ago. I had money to spare and randomly picked a notebook to buy. Quite a few months passed before the pages had anything written on them; my depression was like a tsunami, withdrawing from the shores at first, only to surge forward when you least expect it. Being symptom-free was the last thing on my mind. I began to lose faith in everything because I did not show signs of improving.

Then came a little book called “100 Poems” by EE Cummings.

If the colors of my world during the times I was depressed was only shades of black, this was the much needed variety to my palette. Playful and witty, the underlying complexities of the seemingly simple word-play found in his poems piqued my until-then sleeping interest. I devoured each page like a lion who was not fed by the zoo-keeper for several days. I wanted meat and I got it. I felt euphoric. A sudden buzz of creativity flared through my veins and this is where the notebook I bought at a chance purchase came in.
I began to write poems in that notebook everyday. Finally, I have something to look forward to. The words came in like visitors to a feast and it was only a matter of time before I filled the entire notebook with poems up to the last page.

For the first time in four years, I could genuinely say that I loved life.

Books piled up my desk as I had the renewed energy to read more again and I even bought new notebooks to fill the pages with more poetry. It just went uphill from then on.

Delightful as the situation may be, the battle is not yet over. I am recuperating from my symptoms but there are times when I still feel the heavy hand of depression. Nevertheless, it would be unwise to say that I’m not pushing back.

The day before yesterday there came in the mail the four books of poetry I ordered at an online bookstore. These are not only for reading, they are also symbols of the bulwark I’ve surrounded myself with so as not to let depression in. Faith, family, Literature: these are my therapists. I will read these books and savor the artistic effort put into them- it shall serve as impetus for me to hone my own craft. I will find inspiration in creativity because I too, as a created human being is a work of art and works of art are not stagnant, rather, they grow to replenish existence with creativity. Real works of art, which includes humanity, give up a part of itself in order for civilizations to thrive. With these four books in my hands (and certainly not the last books I will read), I am given the opportunity to be inspired to create my own works of art that others in turn, may be inspired for theirs. By fighting depression through creativity, I partake in that centuries-old but nonetheless on-going work of art we all call life.

Depression may still hover in some part of me at some days, but starting today, I am breaking the cycle.

Labels: 2020, amwriting, anxiety, depression, mental health

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Basic

Full Name : Aiko Lactaotao

Birthday : April 1990

Country : Philippines

Gender : Female

Religion : Christian

Occupation : Law Student (LAWYER soon!)

Hobbies : reading, writing, learning languages, collecting obscure words, and traveling when I have the budget!

Interests : books, law, philosophy, and linguistics!

Favorite Books:

1. "Being And Time" and "On The Way To Language" by Martin Heidegger

2. "The Book Of Disquiet" and "A Little Larger Than The Entire Universe" by Fernando Pessoa

3. "Philosophical Investigations" by Ludwig Wittgenstein

4. "Collected Fictions" and "Selected Non-Fictions" by Jorge Luis Borges

5. "Against Nature" and "The Damned" by Joris-Karl Huysmans

6. "Demons", "Crime And Punishment", and "Notes From Underground" by Fyodor Dostoevsky

7. "The Complete Poems" by EE Cummings

8. "The Complete Poems" by Emily Dickinson

9. "Maldoror" by Comte De Lautreamont

10. "The Complete Stories" and "Agua Viva" by Clarice Lispector

11. "Gravity's Rainbow" and "Against The Day" by Thomas Pynchon

12. "Molloy" and "More Pricks Than Kicks" by Samuel Beckett

13. "Confessions Of A Mask" by Yukio Mishima

14. "The Savage Detectives" by Roberto Bolano

15. "Infinite Jest" and "Fate, Time, and Language" by David Foster Wallace

(MORE TO BE ADDED AS I CONTINUE COLLECTING MORE BOOKS!)

Legally Blasé

I don’t aim to use this blog to assert myself, nor to engage in political debates; all I would like is to promulgate the simple philosophy of accepting the world as it is, irrespective of its absurdities. Given that we are all teleological beings, hence the need for self-definition, still it is inevitable for the absurd to rear its head every once in a while. This is something which is futile to fight against and at the same time absurd, even inhuman, to do otherwise.

It might be viewed as one big damn it if you do, damn it if you don’t type of scene, although truth remains that none of these will ever stop man from striving to move forward- it’s our nature.

There are two ways to view the world, but I choose to stay in the middle to get a better view of either.

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