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hesedtendero
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Name: Hesed
Interests: reading, dialogue and discussion, introspection, questioning, wondering, laughing, cooking, sleeping, drumming, dancing, singing, acting, spontaneous excursions
Expertise: eveything and nothing
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  h3s3d@aim.com
Member Since:
1/26/2006
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| If I remember correctly , I currently have 4 blogspots! And I can't even remember what service I used for one. This is typical of me of course. I like to try out the different blog servers. I post once and end up finding another blogspot. I know that I should give up a few. For instance, the last time I posted at my xanga was almost a year ago.
Should I give this up? ---Nah, it symbolizes my fickleness. <sinister laugh>
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| I know I should be working on my paper. But instead I'm wrting in my weblog. Those who know me know that writing papers is not my favorite activity. I'd rather do a presentation, sing, or act on stage. There are a lot of reasons why I don't like writing papers. The first one is my lack of experience. My highschool career in the Philippines did not emphasize writing at all. Math and Science (I should add French), seemed to be the only subjects worth studying. The classes that did encourage writing were not handled very well. But I think that this is a superficial reason. There must be soemthing in my id (thanks, Freud) that makes me run away from writing.
Writing enslaves my mind. It forces me to articulate the galaxies in my head. It forces me to put dynamic thoughts into static words. Writing reduces my thoughts to a statement, a proposition that people pick a part, process, and scrutinize. The words I use, by virtue of their immutable nature, are under the mercy of the dynamic minds that interpret them. I don't like words. But I must live with them.
Writing seems to have a sense of finality. It is unlike speech that is ephemeral. Speech is beautiful. There is so much more communicated when you hear someone talk then when you read an article. The tonality and timbre of the speaker, the intonation, idiosyncratic pronounciations, and accent convey so much more than a statement. A statement for me is like an unplayed violin. Many come and try to play it and find different uses for it but only its owner can bring it to life.
I think that my aversion to writing is it's use of words, written words. They are so fake! They are like masks that we use to hide our existential groans. They express our deep seated desire for certainty and clarity. Some say that one doesn't know what they know until they put it down in words. I think that's gibberish! Whoever said that knowing anything requires being certain about it?! Why should certainty be equated with knowledge and with articulation?
Before you think that I am bigoted about writing and am forgetting the good effects and use of writing, I am not driven by a need to be fair right now. I don't think justice for concepts is as weighty as justice for people. So I'm inclined to lambast writing right now just because I feel its oppressive tug.
For those who think that by writing this article I am contradicting myself, you're absolutely right. I'm comfortable withy my contradiction. This contradiction corresponds more closely to my inner reality. Writing oppresses me not to be contradictory or paradoxical. The ideals of writing is logic, necessities, objectivity (impossible and overrated), clarity, etc. It goes against the very core of my being. I embody contradiction.
okay, warm up done, time to write my paper...
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|  I found this picture on my homepage, inquirer.net, one of the major newspapers in the Philippines. It attracted so much controversy inside of me that it compels me to write something about it. Well, there's also procrastinating from my Greek homework. For the sake of my academic pursuits, I must be brief.
The tension that this picture draws from my being is influenced very much by my history. You see, I've seen people who live by scavenging the dumpsters in the Philippines. I have friends who live in those areas. This is not just a picture that evokes sympathy and outrage, it brings to mind memories. I think of the people in my not too distant past. For twenty years I have lived in a country where I am in the midst of people like the woman in the picture. Now I live in America. And the "ritzy poster girl reality" is something that I'm not only grossly familiar with but sadly also at home with. The obsession with beauty, success, fame, affirmation, and recognition bombards my everyday existence in the so called land of the free. I find it very ironic that both women are in the limelight. Both the "ritzy poster girl" and the woman scavenging, who I would like to name Manang Ester, are at the front page of the Chicago Tribune of the Philippines. The irony lies in the fact that neither woman knows that they are in the lime light. The ritzy girl is too indifferent to notice while Manang Ester is too poor to buy the paper (costing about $0.40 ). The other irony I see here is how Manang Ester is using the "ritzy poster girl" bag to carry the rotten food that she will be serving to her family for dinner, she is using it as a tool. But little does she know that it in some sense the ritzyness of the poster girl is actually carrying her, Manang Ester is really the tool. Who have we been carrying? | | |
| I love my wife
I love Anna
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| Pluralistic identities
Boggle the mind's hunger for stasis.
Perplexed by a need to decide
A static identity.
Influences that conflict,
Backgrounds that contradict,
To paradox must I succumb. | | |
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