Arctic Beetle

inspired by this post written by Ms. Conchitina Cruz

In nursery, I wore to my birthday a red dress which I never saw again. In kindergarten, I once went home without an undergarment because I soiled it with my bowels. In the first grade, “constellation” was my favorite word. In the second grade, I literally threw off bills amounting to around 200 pesos in a random backyard. At seven, I religiously watched the lives of our next-door neighbours from our largest windows. Although I never had a friendly relationship with any of the kids of their household, I felt distraught with grief when they left a year and a half after. In the third grade, “twitched” replaced “constellation” in its prime spot. In the fourth grade, I kept a tally at the back of my English notebook the exam scores of those whom I thought stood a chance against me. At ten, I was pretty much convinced that I don’t have a shot at writing after my editorial on “TV violence and pornography” was met with a disapproving speech from my sister. In the fifth grade until the first few months of first year high school, I was dead set on becoming a journalist. In second year high school, I had a small talk with a pedicab driver who drastically altered my perspective on science. In third year high school, I lost two watches. In fourth year high school, I cried nightly for a span of three weeks after being inappropriately felt by a fellow FX passenger. I have something to say about each of my classmates in all the classes I’ve taken thus far in college. I believe that committing academic dishonesty in a quiz is more deplorable than cheating in a long exam. I like discovering pieces of paper inserted in between pages of books. When unsettled, I look at the lamppost right outside our house or stare at the sun until my eyes feel tingly. There is only one topic which I am particularly sensitive about. I would like to think I’m lawful neutral in my character alignment. I am still drinking milk for breakfast to this day. There are three manners by which I eat flavored chips. I never finished my first game on the PlayStation 2 despite having to play through the story twice. When I see a very thin sheet of water, I usually stop by to observe its slow disappearance. The overfilling of the next door neighbor’s water tank always lead me into thinking that there is an actual dribble of rain outside. I always notice where a thanks is due, and remember when it is not said where it should have been. But if given a choice, I prefer ‘salamat’ to ‘thank you’. When someone asks me for direction, I tend to be more verbose than when I engage in small talks with grownups. Thanks to the sharp corners of my desk, there is a constant bruise on my right leg. When I bathe, I sometimes pretend I’m sight-impaired or a Nobel laureate delivering an inspiring speech. Everytime I see a crack on a wall, I feel like I’m one step closer to death. Phone calls on our landline, on the other hand, are what I associate with other people’s death. I believe that respect based on seniority is a piece of nonsense—everyone should be treated with respect by default. I have a habit of scanning my room for any movement before I sleep. I’d rather feel hungry than full. I never forget the faces of individuals I am introduced to, and if I don’t greet these people, it’s because I think it would be too presumptuous. I always mutter at least one curse under my breath when commuting. My preferred mode of transport for the day depends on the level of thinking I would like to adopt. Even though it will cost me my night’s sleep, I have difficulty in holding myself back from reading disturbing Wikipedia articles. But it will take a lot of persuasion to convince me to watch a suspense or horror film—I’ve only watched one and some may even contest that it does not belong to that genre.

Medyo may pagkapihikan ako pagdating sa musika. Hindi ko masyadong tipo ung mga mainstream, at lalong hindi ko rin gusto kapag dumadami ang nakakaalam sa mga artist na ayon sa panlasa ko dahil para bang sa paningin ko, parte ng apil nila ang pagiging hindi ganoong kilala. Kung pihikan ako ngayon, siguro ay maituturing ko namang elitista ang sarili ko noon. Sarado ang tainga ko sa ilang mga piling genre partikular na sa hiphop.

Ang unang pumapasok sa isip ko noon kapag binabanggit ang hiphop ay mga kantang pulos tungkol sa pakikipagtalik, pag-o-objectify ng mga kababaihan, pagkalango ng alak, paghithit ng marijuana, at kung ano pa. Itinatak ko sa isip ko na kahit kailan ay hindi ko tatangkilikin ang ganitong musika na walang ibang mensahe kung hindi ang pagpapalaganap ng isang bobong kamalayan. Ang bumago sa aking makitid na pananaw ay ang pagka-diskubre at pagsubaybay ko sa Fliptop Battle League noong dalawang taong na ang nakakalipas. Mula sa isang featured video na naisipan ko lang panoorin, naubos ko sa isang upuan lahat ng mga laban na naka-upload sa channel nila noon.

Noong naririnig-rinig ko pa lang ang Fliptop, akala ko labanan siya ng trumpo. Parang Beyblade lang.

Bago magsimula ang bawat laban, laging may kaakibat na intro music ang pagpapakilala sa bawat kalahok. Kahit ilang segundong preview lang ang laging pinapatugtog, lubos akong naenganyo hanapin ang mga kopya ng ilan sa mga kantang iyon sa internet. Kung pangit man ang bakat sa akin ng hiphop noon, iyon ay dahil maling anggulo nito ako nakabilad. Sabi nga ng iba, “Real hiphop is underground.” Kadalasan, sa parehong tono at liriko nakadepende ang totalidad mga mas sikat na porma ng musika, samantalang sa hiphop naman, ibang iba ang karanasan ng pakikinig dahil mas nabibigyan ng atensyon ang lirikong nakasaliw sa isang constant na beat. Kaya minsan napapapikit na lang ako para lubos kong maunawaan ang nais ipahiwatig ng emcee.

Noong una, inakala ko na freestyle lahat ng kanilang pinupukol na linya sa isa’t isa. Sa katagalan, napagtagni ko na ang bawat salitang lumalabas sa kanilang bibig ay bunga pala ng matagal pagsusulat at paghahanda para sa laban. Malas na lang ng iba na nakakalimot paminsan-minsan ng kanilang mga banat dahil wala silang ibang magagawa kundi mag-freestyle nang sa ganoon ay maiwasan ang choking o ang pagkakaroon ng mahabang dead air. Ang talagang nagtulak sa akin na maging tagahanga ng modernong balagtasan na ito ay ang pagiging middle ground ng mga liriko nila sa prosa at patula. Kung baga, parang free form poetry na mas hitik sa references, rebuttal, katatawanan, at higit sa lahat, panlalait. Minsan ko nang naisip na sana’y mas umaangkop sa mga kasalukuyang isyu ang pinag-uusapan nila pero natanto ko rin na ang mga pamimintas nila ang mismong salik na nagbibigay ng aliw sa Fliptop at sa iba pang pang-international na liga tulad ng Grind Time at King of the Dot. Likas na rin naman talaga sa mga Pilipino ang ganitong estilo kaya nga patok na patok sa atin ang mga comedy bars at ang mga personalidad tulad ni Vice Ganda.

Si BLKD, ang future ng hiphop! Tiyak na hindi square root of negative one ang rapping skills niya. (likhang sining ni Antoni Tudisco)

Magka-iba ang kumikiliti sa akin sa English at Filipino conference battles. Sa Filipino, mas hilig ko yung mga on point, witty, nakakatawa, may wordplay at gumagamit ng mga hindi karaniwan na references. Ilan sa mga paborito kong emcees sa division na ito ay sina BLKD, Loonie, K-Jah at Tipsy D. Kinakatawan siguro ng linyang ito galing kay BLKD sa laban niya kay Mel Christ ang mga katangian na nais kong marinig sa mga sinasambit na bars ng mga kalahok sa liga:

“Dahil ang tula ko ay deadly / Pumapatay, kumikitil, pumapaslang—3 ways! / Huwag ka nang umasang magr-resurrect ka pa after 3 days / Dahil hindi ka na tatalino kahit sa 3 wise men sumabit / Mga linya mong nakakaantok parang 3-o’clock habit!”

Sa kabilang banda, ang pamantayan ko naman sa English division ay sina Protege, Skarm at NothingElse. Kumpara sa Filipino division, malaking bagay para sa akin ang angas at confidence sa mismong pag-deliver ng mga kataga at linya. Mas tipo ko yung mas malalim kesa sa patawa. Ito ang isang banat galing kay Protege sa laban niya kay Diaz sa King of the Dot 2:

“See, out of 64, you probably have 8-bit like a phase out cartridge chip / Like your brain is, played out, with not enough space for some creative sparks to fit.”

Mataas ang replay value ng laban na ito. Kahit na hindi ito kanta, ito ang LSS ko sa kasalukuyan.

Lumaki ang respeto ko sa hiphop matapos mapadpad ang aking tainga sa mas kaaya-ayang sulok nito. Bagaman may mga musika talagang hindi ko pa rin magawang pakinggan, kanyang-kanyang trip pa rin yan at syempre, walang panlasang nakakahigit pa sa iba. Sana mas umunlad pa at lumawig ang impluwensiya ang ang hiphop scene dito sa Pilipinas. Dahil sa totoo lang, kung tatanggalin natin ang mga kabastusan sa Fliptop, mas nakakatulong pa ito sa pagpapayabong ng creavity, di tulad ng mga local TV shows dito sa atin na puro generic ang istorya. Ito ang makabagong pasalitang literatura para sa mga takot at ayaw makulong sa konserbatibong pamamaraan ng tuluyan at panulaan.

At ngayong habang wala pang bagong uploads si Anygma para sa mga pagtutuos sa Ahon 3, babalik-balikan ko muna ang mga videos ng mga laban na tumatak sa akin.

Quick Thought 1: When happiness is y dependent on an x, can it not ever exist as a middleway, which, at most, can only satisfy the parties involved, but rather as an absolute, genuine fulfillment that is not liable to instigate any regret or ill feeling later on? Having mentioned that this happiness in question follows a y = f(x) relation, I suppose this query is pointless because the only way to go about achieving this is to have either one of the forces contributing to the tension let go of his end of the string. But then, my sole premise was the constant tugging between the two concerned players, so if they both willfully lose their grip, wouldn’t that be the same as a compromise?

Quick Thought 2: I find that a person with raw wisdom cannot fully transcend to the level of a philosopher unless one of his feet is propped on the pit of the fallacy of composition. The intent of these thinkers has always been to pen all-encompassing generalizations on entities whose idea of permanence is but theoretical and ideal. If canines differ largely from their personalities, yet are still dogs, how is it that they’re trying to cramp us in a single statement? I am put off by the conception that as long some satisfy the anatomical qualifications of a man, they automatically merit to be collectively called as a humanity together with the rest. Part of being a human is our implicit rationality, and if by its usage, some mean the dastardly act of hoarding money through illegal means or settling to bloodshed and other corrupted machinations, then let us allow them to win over the title of humanity while the lot of us relinquish it for a label with a much agreeable nature.

Quick Thought 3: To further drive home my point in number 2, I am disposed to say that they are doing us a great disservice because we all know for a fact that leaders don’t forever remain righteous, not all the governed necessitate guidance from their leaders because sometimes it’s the other way around, and this or that form of government is not always apt for societies with varying histories. Philosophers should have recognized that the same mental aptitude that breathed life to their treatises is what precisely makes all of us not simplistic.

We don’t celebrate Christmas.

Replacing the sound of the fit of the fireworks nearby is the collision of the drib leftovers of the brief round of rainfall against the roof of the rear-side neighbours. Everyone in the family is fast asleep while unusually, the lights of the houses in proximity to ours remain to be put out. Greetings in the form of text, wall posts, and tagged photos continue to pour in, albeit in a much slower rate than during the first hour of the day. Communication lines tend to be clogged in the face of these universal occasions so perhaps some of the recent texts sitting in my inbox were meant to come in along with the first few greetings. As a matter of fact, the realization that the 24^th had handed over its dominion over the fourth dimension to the 25^th only came about when greetings started trickling in. On another note, there’s presently a growing riot in my stomach and despite having had the option to feed my appetite, I thought better of it, partly owing it to the fear that my mother will mistake it as an act of partaking in the season.

I don’t know how else I could have phrased that in a less dismal manner but it isn’t as strict as it appears to be. Consider my belief as a legacy, something that was passed on to me by my parents and I received without inquiries. No one who claims to be a theist ought to question his faith, as it is an instinct often viewed as the other facet of the duality along with reason. (But I believe they go hand-in-hand, similar to how Calvin or Hobbes seems incomplete without an “and” adjoining them.) That, and the influence of the fact that we were all, at one point in our lives, impressionable youngsters who swallowed and never spat. Now what we have is a Sarah refusing to jar out herself from complacency by not doubting. I don’t exactly enjoy entertaining the thought that I might wake up one day and discover the foundations of my belief falling apart. Though if I got the carte blanche on my spirituality when I was younger, it’s likely everything would stay the same except for the confidence gained anew in walking about the path of a non-conformist Christian.

Aww.

Our precepts admit exceptions too; it’s the reason why I get to participate in parties and in the habit of exchanging gifts during this season. And it is not so much about us not being bigots—still, we are no bigots—as us avoiding the hassle of having to back-up our insistence not to celebrate Christmas with Biblical citations, in hope of explaining ourselves to everyone. (This is when the convenience of the President’s ease to call news conferences seems desirable.) Moreover, I find it more satisfying to celebrate His birthday in moderation daily than assigning a particular day to be excessively compassionate, not to mention be a more steadfast lapdog of capitalism. But permit me to clarify this: I love this season for all the positive chi it brings to the table.

I don’t greet people but I do greet back. Inconsistencies abound my personal tenets, don’t they? The rationale behind this can be explained by those Happy Birthdays in Facebook from friends totally oblivious to the fact that their greetings are 2 or 3 days late; and that this very lateness is more of a consequence of them being made aware through their Top News feed of the great flood of posts on your wall rather than a manifestation of their thoughtfulness. But nonetheless, I personally find these late greetings deserving of a thanks due to the initiative of these friends to make their remembrance of this worn out but well-meant thought known to me. To individuals who sent out their greetings today, thank you!

So um, I don’t think I’ve shed much light on any of the points I raised but here… in place of a contextual greeting, have a nice day everyone! :)

The digital clock in my room just moved a minute forward– it’s now 10:38 PM. For ten minutes, I will let these hands accede to this faucet of thoughts stricken with frequent shortages. I used to do this a lot as a way to relieve myself of the shackles of grammar and what should be considered literary or not. But maybe this was actually a habit developed as an excuse to write bad. As much as I don’t want to stop, I am short of fillers and my hands are hurting too from the lack of respite since this morning. So now, I will tell you about this loud and uncomfortable sound my keyboard makes, particularly the space key which I use a lot. I digress a lot (and use “a lot” a lot) but just now, I thought of something worth adding on to the idea I built up a while ago.

If my memory serves me correctly, the first time I tried this, my stream of thought did not take me far. Firmly latched onto me were the pressure of time constraint, and the urge to edit, erase and to press the backspace key. I’m actually not quite certain whether my pinky finger hasn’t hit the backspace key in the past seven minutes; perhaps it has become a habitual practice and for this reason, my reality now refuses to categorize it as unnatural. I vehemently wish I didn’t because everything I’ve typed so far will be rendered invalid, and I would have violated the rules of the game then.

Only a moment ago, the clock hit 10:46 PM and that leaves me with two minutes or less than two minutes (for time never pauses) to close this. What else? You know how they say a true writer should be able to write anywhere and anytime with his style unmodified? Too bad, I am no writer– it’s such a big word to call myself or anybody for that matter. Like giving someone the title gamer! Anyway, going back to what I said, I find it tougher to write with a piece of paper and a pen than with a keyboard close to my hands. I wish I can start amending my ways with a tangible journal. Good ol’ instinct tells me this should end in 15 seconds. I have nothing else to say.

June, July, August, September and October were five runners on a sprint whose approach and departure flashed simultaneously. November quickly followed before I recognized the five had just been within sight. At the start, only June and July were bound to be mentioned in the above sentences but time dragged on such that with each monthly effort to finish this entry off (and free myself from scientific writing), a new runner is supplemented to the list. My intention was to illustrate how I struggle to succeed at writing amidst the previous semester, but the timestamp obviously tells otherwise. I write now to tell you of this struggle and what makes it one, in lieu of my failure to illustrate it.

Let it be known that every time I write, I trip over one of these four ruts:

1. My thought is rarely monogamous and it is never silenced save when I am asleep. It shuffles through the extant tabs in my head like a typical ladies’ man who experiences dissatisfaction from sticking around with a single partner for long. And it certainly doesn’t help to have pairs of eyes and hands which constantly demand that I find something to occupy their attention. In between my trouble to focus, I get to fiddle with the wash bottle on my table, repeatedly insert the key into my drawer’s keylock, and visit the bathroom and unwind with the current roll of tissue in the dispenser.

How I rise up: Buddha is my ever-dependable henchman. I get on my meditation stance and follow every thing written on this article. After a good 2 minutes, I immediately start relishing the whole duration I pounce on the keyboard. No kidding.

2. The portion of my brain involved in processing language regularly experiences bouts of verbal constipation. (My gratitude goes out to Sedric for his accurate diagnosis. He’s definitely on his way towards becoming a great doctor.) I usually have a general idea of how my sentences will explain themselves. The difficulty comes up when I plod though my limited database of words and pick ones which, upon subjection to the loooong process of putting them into order, will satisfy the expression I pictured in mind.

How I rise up: I literally rise up from my seat and descend the stairs to consume a bottle of Yakult or depending on its availability, several spoonfuls of powdered milk. I have this notion that the ounce of sugar contained in either will instantly supply my brain with ample ATP.

3. I am rarely in the mood to finish my sentences.

How I rise up: I hold off any attempt to write, and only set my brain in motion as early as when everyone in the house and most of the people in my messenger are asleep. The perfect ambiance is completed when the sole source of light left in my room is the laptop screen I am facing right now.

4. Any combination of (1), (2) and (3) since they almost always come as a package.

How I rise up: I don’t. I can only solve one problem at a time so I’d like you to consider the invaluableness of each instance I that I write here or successfully submit a paper.

I am completely aware that my writing rituals are placebos.