this story was taken from www.inq7.net
URL: http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/dec/14/text/opi_rsdavid-1-p.htm
In a world of images
Posted:10:52 PM (Manila Time) | Dec. 13, 2003
By Randy David
IT must have been one of the many spokespersons of the President. Someone from Malacañang recently made a point of saying that Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo is President in "the real world." The remark was clearly meant to draw a sharp contrast between GMA, a "real" President, and FPJ, an aspirant from the imaginary world of the movies. Any serious student of philosophy however might tell us that the statement, witty as it may be, makes sense only if there is a way of knowing the "real world" except through our images of it. There is none.
Modern science may often seem as if it offers us a more accurate picture of the world "as it really is." But this picture is just one more image taken from another angle, using some instruments of measurement. In the latest Social Weather Stations survey, for instance, the President received a minus 3 satisfaction rating. That rating depicts her as a non-performing President. Harsh as it is, this is the image that the Filipino public has of her at this time, as seen through the lenses of a public opinion poll.
We get to know reality only through appearances, whether we use our everyday commonsense or the sophisticated methods of science. There is no way, as Nietzsche puts it, of "reaching beyond the image or behind it." We may oppose what purports to be a more precise image to one derived from commonsense by, for example, drawing a more comprehensive picture of how things came to be. But even this shows only another image, not reality "as it really is."
All this is to say that we are well advised not to denigrate images of character derived from the movies or television. They are as "real" as the projections that public officials make of their achievements. Perhaps the only difference, if any, is that in the case of the movies, viewers are prompted to suspend belief, whereas in politics there is no such warning. When politicians present their qualifications and achievements on television, they expect us to suspend disbelief.
The consciousness of the poor is as true as their condition. There is nothing false about it. They see the world necessarily from the prism of their own beliefs and values. The habits of thought that constitute the core of their consciousness are products of their specific formation as a human community. Their consciousness may be limited from the standpoint of certain goals, but it is not inferior.
There was a time when I, like many from the Left, uncritically accepted terms like "false consciousness" and "objective conditions." When people subjected to exploitation and oppression failed to respond to their situation in a revolutionary way, we said it was because they suffered from "false consciousness." We assumed that what they needed was a correct political education to enable them to see the "objective conditions" of their exploitation and oppression. The patronizing arrogance of this language became evident to me when I encountered the writings of Paulo Freire, the Brazilian educator. In his work among the poor of Latin America and Africa, Freire insisted that the people must be allowed to "create their own words."
But the other side of this process is equally important. Those of us who claim to see better and are inclined to teach must also learn the ability to look inward and review our own perspectives. For these may often be colored by unexamined fears and prejudices that prevent us from assigning any value to others' opinions even before we have understood where they are coming from.
We typically assume, for example, that the voting behavior of the poor is not rational when they choose candidates who do not possess the experience and qualifications that we think are essential to the position they seek. We forget that rationality is relative. People have different concepts of the ideal leader. These are not unchanging notions; they depend very much on people's perceptions of the situation in which they find themselves at any given moment.
In late 1985, after Marcos suddenly announced the holding of a snap election in February the following year, the public searched around for a presidential candidate who could personify the popular movement that opposed Marcos. Winning was secondary; everyone expected Marcos to cheat. Experience and readiness to discharge the duties of the presidency were also secondary. The important thing was to offer the nation the complete antithesis of Marcos. That was Cory Aquino, a woman whose husband had been murdered by the regime, a housewife with no previous experience in politics who could tell Marcos-the consummate politician-that she also did not have any experience in corruption.
Yet we were not wanting in leaders who could lead the country out of the nightmare of martial law. The venerable Lorenzo Ta¤ada, who led countless demonstrations against the dictatorship, was still alive. So was the brilliant Jose W. Diokno. Undeterred by his incarceration in Marcos jails, he articulated the clearest vision of a nation for our children. So was Jovito R. Salonga, the scholar-statesman who led the Senate that closed the American bases in the Philippines and, to this day, continues to fight for a just society. They all stepped aside to make way for Cory Aquino.
Analysts may say that the public's choice of a leader may not always be the right one for the nation. That is a judgment that still proceeds from the specific perspective of a given set of goals and values. In a world of images, we can only look at results from different perspectives. We have no recourse to a neutral or eternal perspective lying outside human affairs.
* * *
Comments to randolf@pacific.net.ph
©2003 www.inq7.net all rights reserved
Sunday, December 14, 2003
Blessings
this story was taken from www.inq7.net
URL: http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/dec/12/text/opi_csdequiros-1-p.htm
Blessings
Posted:8:19 PM (Manila Time) | Dec. 11, 2003
By Conrado de Quiros
LAST Tuesday, I saw a sight where I live. It was just past 2 p.m. I was on my way to Makati to meet with somebody and was dreading the thought of driving all the way there. I normally just take the Metro Rail Transit (MRT) going to Makati, but decided to bring the car this time since I had to go to the Inquirer afterward (it was our anniversary). My dread proved well founded. Traffic was horrible, despite the hour, the odd day, and the fact that no accident had taken place along Edsa.
But before I got out of our compound, I saw an old man lugging a big ice cream chest on his back. He was an itinerant ice cream vendor, one of those who ply their trade our way. The others push along carts with carnival tunes tinkling after them, and only in the mornings and late afternoons when they have better chances of finding customers. And they have "runners," kids who knock on doors, or ring the doorbell like there was an emergency, and take orders from the upper floors. I don't know what kind of commission they make, but I've always been a sucker for their spirit of enterprise.
The old man was different. He was lugging the thing on his back, and his back was bent from the exertion. He was frail and ragged, his small thin body looking like a question mark when viewed from the side. He had the most mournful expression I had seen on a face. He was looking down at the pavement with vacant eyes, walking on a cloudy and tepid afternoon from inertia, one foot following another from the sheer remembrance of the motion. He wasn't shouting his ware, his mouth was agape and his breathing was labored. He probably knew there was little chance of finding anyone to buy ice cream at that hour, the compound looked deserted except for the workmen who were busy drilling into the cement. But still he walked, hoping a lightning bolt would issue from clear skies.
His face no longer wore the pained expression of someone who demanded to know from heaven why life was like this. It wore the blank expression of someone who took what he was doing at that very hour to be part of the order of the universe, as natural as the sighing of the wind and the silence of the stones. It wore the staggering weight of someone who lived in the present and for the present, someone who could see neither behind nor ahead, where he had come from and where he was going, where past and future lay. His life seemed to be governed by absolute need, and he met it with absolute instinct.
When I saw him, I remembered the old woman who to this day delivers our paper. She has been doing so for more than five years now. I am her favorite customer because when I was still writing editorials for this paper, I used to buy all the broadsheets from her, courtesy of this paper. Now I buy only one, guess what. But I have remained her favorite customer because I pay cash on the nail--something apparently her other customers in our compound do not do. They rack up a debt that keeps growing, without ever getting paid. That is why I subscribe to Nandy Pacheco's favorite cause and do not own a gun even at home: If I did, I would go out and shoot them.
I am this old woman's favorite customer for another reason. She does not only collect cash from me, she keeps mortgaging her future with me. I think I've paid her for the next several months (I don't know up to which month; I haven't counted). She needs the advance because of one thing and another, mostly the needs of her grandchildren. I have yet to hear her complain about her lot in life. Nothing we give her--sweater, umbrella, etc.--stays long with her. They are immediately passed on to kin.
I asked Manang (as we call her) once how old she was and was astounded to learn she was only in her late 60s. She looks far, far older. Her face is a map of hills and furrows, and well etched they are too. She has gotten bowlegged from the daily grind, and on mornings you can see her on the compound or out in the streets hobbling, or bobbing from side to side like an inverted pendulum. By rights she should be living the quiet life of someone who has paid her dues, with the steepest interest. By necessity, she has to climb stairs on arthritic legs, an affliction I have the most sympathy, or empathy, for. Yet wondrously, miraculously, she always manages a smile, sometimes a laugh.
After seeing the old man on our compound that warm afternoon and remembering Manang on her morning rounds, I fell into traffic in Edsa. The snarling, growling kind that sounds like dogs snapping at each other after being thrown scraps of meat. That is no exaggeration when you look at the way we drive, which is a dedicated subversion not just of basic courtesy but of rational thought. I have always wondered, having done my work from my home for more than a decade now, if I can ever work in an office again. But that is another story.
But somehow, that afternoon everything seemed like a walk in the park. Trying to extricate myself from the tangle of glass and metal that seemed to have fused like soldered iron on that spot of earth seemed like the easiest thing in the world, especially with the aid of newly restored air-conditioning. Tapping the wheel with fingers while furiously texting people to say I would be late, and wondering where on earth the cops were, they must be having beer in a neighborhood turo-turo (roadside eatery) to go with the free lunch, seemed almost like a benign pass. Enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous helplessness, hearing the minutes and seconds and microseconds ticking by while I stared at the world with vacant eyes, seemed like listening to Bach's suites for single cello and gazing at Van Gogh's sunflowers.
Count your blessings instead of sheep, the song says. Better still this Christmas, share them.
©2003 www.inq7.net all rights reserved
URL: http://www.inq7.net/opi/2003/dec/12/text/opi_csdequiros-1-p.htm
Blessings
Posted:8:19 PM (Manila Time) | Dec. 11, 2003
By Conrado de Quiros
LAST Tuesday, I saw a sight where I live. It was just past 2 p.m. I was on my way to Makati to meet with somebody and was dreading the thought of driving all the way there. I normally just take the Metro Rail Transit (MRT) going to Makati, but decided to bring the car this time since I had to go to the Inquirer afterward (it was our anniversary). My dread proved well founded. Traffic was horrible, despite the hour, the odd day, and the fact that no accident had taken place along Edsa.
But before I got out of our compound, I saw an old man lugging a big ice cream chest on his back. He was an itinerant ice cream vendor, one of those who ply their trade our way. The others push along carts with carnival tunes tinkling after them, and only in the mornings and late afternoons when they have better chances of finding customers. And they have "runners," kids who knock on doors, or ring the doorbell like there was an emergency, and take orders from the upper floors. I don't know what kind of commission they make, but I've always been a sucker for their spirit of enterprise.
The old man was different. He was lugging the thing on his back, and his back was bent from the exertion. He was frail and ragged, his small thin body looking like a question mark when viewed from the side. He had the most mournful expression I had seen on a face. He was looking down at the pavement with vacant eyes, walking on a cloudy and tepid afternoon from inertia, one foot following another from the sheer remembrance of the motion. He wasn't shouting his ware, his mouth was agape and his breathing was labored. He probably knew there was little chance of finding anyone to buy ice cream at that hour, the compound looked deserted except for the workmen who were busy drilling into the cement. But still he walked, hoping a lightning bolt would issue from clear skies.
His face no longer wore the pained expression of someone who demanded to know from heaven why life was like this. It wore the blank expression of someone who took what he was doing at that very hour to be part of the order of the universe, as natural as the sighing of the wind and the silence of the stones. It wore the staggering weight of someone who lived in the present and for the present, someone who could see neither behind nor ahead, where he had come from and where he was going, where past and future lay. His life seemed to be governed by absolute need, and he met it with absolute instinct.
When I saw him, I remembered the old woman who to this day delivers our paper. She has been doing so for more than five years now. I am her favorite customer because when I was still writing editorials for this paper, I used to buy all the broadsheets from her, courtesy of this paper. Now I buy only one, guess what. But I have remained her favorite customer because I pay cash on the nail--something apparently her other customers in our compound do not do. They rack up a debt that keeps growing, without ever getting paid. That is why I subscribe to Nandy Pacheco's favorite cause and do not own a gun even at home: If I did, I would go out and shoot them.
I am this old woman's favorite customer for another reason. She does not only collect cash from me, she keeps mortgaging her future with me. I think I've paid her for the next several months (I don't know up to which month; I haven't counted). She needs the advance because of one thing and another, mostly the needs of her grandchildren. I have yet to hear her complain about her lot in life. Nothing we give her--sweater, umbrella, etc.--stays long with her. They are immediately passed on to kin.
I asked Manang (as we call her) once how old she was and was astounded to learn she was only in her late 60s. She looks far, far older. Her face is a map of hills and furrows, and well etched they are too. She has gotten bowlegged from the daily grind, and on mornings you can see her on the compound or out in the streets hobbling, or bobbing from side to side like an inverted pendulum. By rights she should be living the quiet life of someone who has paid her dues, with the steepest interest. By necessity, she has to climb stairs on arthritic legs, an affliction I have the most sympathy, or empathy, for. Yet wondrously, miraculously, she always manages a smile, sometimes a laugh.
After seeing the old man on our compound that warm afternoon and remembering Manang on her morning rounds, I fell into traffic in Edsa. The snarling, growling kind that sounds like dogs snapping at each other after being thrown scraps of meat. That is no exaggeration when you look at the way we drive, which is a dedicated subversion not just of basic courtesy but of rational thought. I have always wondered, having done my work from my home for more than a decade now, if I can ever work in an office again. But that is another story.
But somehow, that afternoon everything seemed like a walk in the park. Trying to extricate myself from the tangle of glass and metal that seemed to have fused like soldered iron on that spot of earth seemed like the easiest thing in the world, especially with the aid of newly restored air-conditioning. Tapping the wheel with fingers while furiously texting people to say I would be late, and wondering where on earth the cops were, they must be having beer in a neighborhood turo-turo (roadside eatery) to go with the free lunch, seemed almost like a benign pass. Enduring the slings and arrows of outrageous helplessness, hearing the minutes and seconds and microseconds ticking by while I stared at the world with vacant eyes, seemed like listening to Bach's suites for single cello and gazing at Van Gogh's sunflowers.
Count your blessings instead of sheep, the song says. Better still this Christmas, share them.
©2003 www.inq7.net all rights reserved
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Starry night
Thousands
of things
not me
I cannot count
Filling
this void
called my life
until I drown
then I become
Lost
My dreamkeeper's eyes
Surround me
I am
after all
A million things
more glorious.
I have
merely forgotten.
of things
not me
I cannot count
Filling
this void
called my life
until I drown
then I become
Lost
My dreamkeeper's eyes
Surround me
I am
after all
A million things
more glorious.
I have
merely forgotten.
Monday, September 01, 2003
Thursday, August 14, 2003
STRUGGLE
spliced in this crevice
of muffled sanity and impulsive insanity
this repose
a cursed escape
from a spiteful bedlam
of an eccentric monotone
the line splits not knowing where to go
should it be total abnegation
of what was past?
or
an imprisoned suffocation
of a redolent present?
the air is just above the heavy water
i either drown
or
swim
can i not struggle with both?
be sane
and
insane?
be ephemeral
and
eternal?
silent
yet
heard?
the line is thin
BUT THE CHOICE IS CLEAR:
darkness and light
can never be congruent
nor can they even be seen
on the same plane
-pambie herrera
8/3/2003
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
UGLY HANDS
I have
Ugly hands
Not worn
Not weathered
Just plain
Ugly.
Short
Almost stubby
Fingers.
Nails
Shaped strangely
Mine
Like my mother's.
I have
My mother's hands
Worn
Weathered
Now.
Beautiful.
Ugly hands
Not worn
Not weathered
Just plain
Ugly.
Short
Almost stubby
Fingers.
Nails
Shaped strangely
Mine
Like my mother's.
I have
My mother's hands
Worn
Weathered
Now.
Beautiful.
Friday, July 18, 2003
Pambie Herrera's Incence Series
INCENSE
unlit
yet your incense
burns
upon my nose
hungry
for the taste
of pine
being held
by a longing
to swallow
its cone
to feed the sight
that this eyes
were unable to hold
-pambie, 7/18/03
INCENSE 2
incense lit
smokes tendril
into mid-air nest
of woven pine needles
of translucent dreams
in a hazy afternoon
and its scent wafts
past me
that i follow its traces
as it goes back
from where it came
past highways
that knew roses trails
and mountains
that stood for ages
beyond the silhouettes
disclosed not by early fogs
only upon a memory
of wrapped smokes
of the incense burning
and the touch
of its pine scent
sheeting my nose
can lead me back
to your doorstep
and i lit the next
for me to enter
your door
-pambie, 7/18/03
INCENSE 3
what shatters me is:
nothing in this scent
of pine needles
can intrude your sanctuary
for how can smoke sulk back
to a less dense air
that covers your space?
how can this fragrance
unwrap the quietness of you
that scorches distance?
and how can another
incense burn
without losing its scent?
no amount of this burning
can reach you,
no aroma can
for its familiarity
numbed you
the ashes fall in soft laces
giving its last sweet smell
that is my soul
but you never opened your door
you never let me in
your opaque seclusion
-pambie, 7/18/03
INCENSE 4
the pack, empty
incense gone
just the aftermath
of its heavy weeping:
ashes covers
my calloused hands
and smokes
curtaining a translucent
memory
shelved.
soon to fade
with the last trembling scent
rising to my nostrils
that wants to deny
its honeyed suffocation
my eyes closed
to savor the taste
of the last tears
of this pungent burning
as the air blew its last
the smokes clear
yet the fragrance
never left
this i know: it never will
for to me:
i smell the fresh memory
of the pine cones
so close that
the memory became real
the air thicks
with the sweetness
of rose petals
reckoning me
to open my eyes
and when i did,
i realized
that you brought back
the pine scent
right on my doorstep
-pambie 7/18/03
unlit
yet your incense
burns
upon my nose
hungry
for the taste
of pine
being held
by a longing
to swallow
its cone
to feed the sight
that this eyes
were unable to hold
-pambie, 7/18/03
INCENSE 2
incense lit
smokes tendril
into mid-air nest
of woven pine needles
of translucent dreams
in a hazy afternoon
and its scent wafts
past me
that i follow its traces
as it goes back
from where it came
past highways
that knew roses trails
and mountains
that stood for ages
beyond the silhouettes
disclosed not by early fogs
only upon a memory
of wrapped smokes
of the incense burning
and the touch
of its pine scent
sheeting my nose
can lead me back
to your doorstep
and i lit the next
for me to enter
your door
-pambie, 7/18/03
INCENSE 3
what shatters me is:
nothing in this scent
of pine needles
can intrude your sanctuary
for how can smoke sulk back
to a less dense air
that covers your space?
how can this fragrance
unwrap the quietness of you
that scorches distance?
and how can another
incense burn
without losing its scent?
no amount of this burning
can reach you,
no aroma can
for its familiarity
numbed you
the ashes fall in soft laces
giving its last sweet smell
that is my soul
but you never opened your door
you never let me in
your opaque seclusion
-pambie, 7/18/03
INCENSE 4
the pack, empty
incense gone
just the aftermath
of its heavy weeping:
ashes covers
my calloused hands
and smokes
curtaining a translucent
memory
shelved.
soon to fade
with the last trembling scent
rising to my nostrils
that wants to deny
its honeyed suffocation
my eyes closed
to savor the taste
of the last tears
of this pungent burning
as the air blew its last
the smokes clear
yet the fragrance
never left
this i know: it never will
for to me:
i smell the fresh memory
of the pine cones
so close that
the memory became real
the air thicks
with the sweetness
of rose petals
reckoning me
to open my eyes
and when i did,
i realized
that you brought back
the pine scent
right on my doorstep
-pambie 7/18/03
Wednesday, July 09, 2003
Saturday, June 21, 2003
Thursday, May 15, 2003
Monday, May 12, 2003
Head Over Feet
Alanis Morissette
I had no choice but to hear you
You stated your case time and again
I thought about it
You treat me like I'm a princess
I'm not used to liking that
You ask how my day was
CHORUS:
You've already won me over in spite of me
Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet
Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are
I couldn't help it
It's all your fault
Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole
You're so much braver than I gave you credit for
That's not lip service
REPEAT CHORUS
You are the bearer of unconditional things
You held your breath and the door for me
Thanks for your patience
You're the best listener that I've ever met
You're my best friend
Best friend with benefits
What took me so long
I've never felt this healthy before
I've never wanted something rational
I am aware now
I am aware now
REPEAT CHORUS
Alanis Morissette
I had no choice but to hear you
You stated your case time and again
I thought about it
You treat me like I'm a princess
I'm not used to liking that
You ask how my day was
CHORUS:
You've already won me over in spite of me
Don't be alarmed if I fall head over feet
Don't be surprised if I love you for all that you are
I couldn't help it
It's all your fault
Your love is thick and it swallowed me whole
You're so much braver than I gave you credit for
That's not lip service
REPEAT CHORUS
You are the bearer of unconditional things
You held your breath and the door for me
Thanks for your patience
You're the best listener that I've ever met
You're my best friend
Best friend with benefits
What took me so long
I've never felt this healthy before
I've never wanted something rational
I am aware now
I am aware now
REPEAT CHORUS
Saturday, April 19, 2003
Mount Moriah
My palms shiver
Scarred with your touch of goodbye
Eyes closed yet burn
With saline tears
I see gore
Bloodshed.
I was hesitant to draw
The knife
Upon the innocent face
That knew not of pain
If only i can numb this heart
For me not to cry
For me not to see you die
But i have to draw the knife
And see your blood
Drench the parch land where i lie
Water the thorns
In the thickets of my soul
Your flesh i need to cut dead
To burn my selfish desires
Blood.
Ash.
Daybreak of crimson sky
And the air breaks
Tears of dust that
Will sting my eyes
As i strike the knife
On the sacrifice...
I saw my God
Glorified!
-pambie herrera
march 21, 2003
My palms shiver
Scarred with your touch of goodbye
Eyes closed yet burn
With saline tears
I see gore
Bloodshed.
I was hesitant to draw
The knife
Upon the innocent face
That knew not of pain
If only i can numb this heart
For me not to cry
For me not to see you die
But i have to draw the knife
And see your blood
Drench the parch land where i lie
Water the thorns
In the thickets of my soul
Your flesh i need to cut dead
To burn my selfish desires
Blood.
Ash.
Daybreak of crimson sky
And the air breaks
Tears of dust that
Will sting my eyes
As i strike the knife
On the sacrifice...
I saw my God
Glorified!
-pambie herrera
march 21, 2003
Monday, March 24, 2003
MASTERPIECE
by Lydia T. Bayedbed
Igorota, February 2003
The dream catcher hangs above my head
dancing to the melody of a nearing slumber
as the night lulls itself in darkness
will the moon echo the chants you whispered
or your heartbeat while you twined the beads
and spun the thread to weave it?
will it ever capture the mystery in your eyes
the countenance you always disguised
as the silhouette of a full moon god
will it enchant your mortal soul now
see through the dreams of sleeping goddess
and make you believe in my magic?
Will you find the beauty you imagined
paint it, sculpt it with your hands
purge the hues from your soul
or will you elude the moment
sleep in the land of shadows
and let a masterpiece slip out of your dreams?
by Lydia T. Bayedbed
Igorota, February 2003
The dream catcher hangs above my head
dancing to the melody of a nearing slumber
as the night lulls itself in darkness
will the moon echo the chants you whispered
or your heartbeat while you twined the beads
and spun the thread to weave it?
will it ever capture the mystery in your eyes
the countenance you always disguised
as the silhouette of a full moon god
will it enchant your mortal soul now
see through the dreams of sleeping goddess
and make you believe in my magic?
Will you find the beauty you imagined
paint it, sculpt it with your hands
purge the hues from your soul
or will you elude the moment
sleep in the land of shadows
and let a masterpiece slip out of your dreams?
Sunday, March 16, 2003
AN INQUIRY TO A REDDER WINTER
can the winter be redder?
redder than the blood of autumn leaves
weeping profusely from the bare majesty
of a naked tree?
redder than the scorching sun
bathing the earth
with its crimson cries?
redder than the blooms of roses
basking the spring's early dawn rains?
maybe redder as snow blisters
my ashen palms and face
still i surmise:
how can winter be redder?
--pambie herrera, 3/ 7/ 03
can the winter be redder?
redder than the blood of autumn leaves
weeping profusely from the bare majesty
of a naked tree?
redder than the scorching sun
bathing the earth
with its crimson cries?
redder than the blooms of roses
basking the spring's early dawn rains?
maybe redder as snow blisters
my ashen palms and face
still i surmise:
how can winter be redder?
--pambie herrera, 3/ 7/ 03
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