What Ithaca Means

As you set out for Ithaca,

hope your road is a long one, 

full of adventure, full of discovery... 

I began my life as a Jesuit at the age of twenty. While most of my peers began their careers at around the same age, I took the road that led to the novitiate. 

I initially pursued that path with idealism and excitement. Along with my fellow novices, we were welcomed by the daily schedule that drilled us in the pillars of Jesuit formation: prayer, community, studies, apostolate. Concretely, that meant observing de more — waking up, praying, going to Mass, eating, cleaning the house, studying, resting, playing, gardening, taking a shower, recreating, and sleeping — the structured routine that initiated novices in settling into the discipline of religious life. De more assured that there was a proper time for everything. It became our "daily grind." 

The "daily grind" was not a misnomer; after the first few months, it wore out the novelty of the novitiate. Back then, it was a struggle to survive the boredom of the routine and the ordinary. If anything, de more disabused me of my romantic notions of Jesuit life. 

The "daily grind" of de more sharpens your life into what is essential. But I did not see it that way. I was young and I did not appreciate the tedium of de more. I had just taken my first few steps, and I was already wondering if this was the same thing I enlisted for. I was disappointed. Things did not turn out to be as exciting as I would've wanted them to be. 

I didn't know it then, but that disappointment marked the first of many. I became well-acquainted with disappointment. I experienced it firsthand, and I acquainted others with disappointment, too. Jesuit life followed a certain "way of proceeding," which was a fancy term to refer to how a Jesuit should think and act and live out their lives. I tried to configure myself in relation to that standard. I evaluated who I was in terms of what I was expected to be. It turned out to be tiring and disappointing. 

Disappointment is not really about expectations not matching reality; it is all about blindness to what is actually happening. Disappointment is obstinately seeing what one wants to see, instead of paying attention to reality as it unfolds before one's very eyes. 

My first real adventure in the Society of Jesus was not being sent to the missions in Bukidnon, or working in a factory in Pasig. It was nothing of that sort; the adventure was getting in touch with reality, sifting through who I thought I was and who I really am, of what I wanted to happen and what was really happening, of breaking through the superficial and plunging into the deep. 

I had imagined Jesuit life literally taking me to distant places. But the real journey was going to take place within. I was not setting out from home; in fact, I was going to find my way back home. 

It was uncharted territory. I knew I was heading for something definite, but I didn't know how to get there. There were no clear roads to take at that point. Everything then seemed shrouded in a fog of uncertainty. 

Laistrygonians, Cyclops, 

angry Poseidon – don’t be afraid of them...

From an outsider's perspective, religious life seems incomprehensible and outrageous. How do you make sense of a rule that prohibits the use of shampoo and deodorant? How do you make sense of men who could be earning more voluntarily subsisting on a monthly allowance of P150? How do you make sense of a month-long silent retreat? How do you make sense of the vow of poverty? Or chastity? Or obedience? After the first fervor, the vows suddenly seemed like anachronisms. I had a lot of questions because I could not understand. Despite the fact that I had already spent a few years as a Jesuit, I still viewed everything as an outsider. 

One is bound to be disappointed with religious life if one persists in seeing things in the usual way. 

Religious life thrives on seeing the inherent paradoxes of life. To appreciate a paradox, one must look at it closely. It demands to be examined because how else can you make sense of "joy in suffering" or "strength in weakness" if not by looking at it and seeing beyond the seeming contradiction. Avoiding any form of suffering is an almost instinctive reaction, yet there is also such a thing as redemptive suffering. But how can that be? 

Religious life thrives on reversals. Those who mourn will be comforted. The poor shall inherit the earth. The humble will be exalted. The wise will not understand. This kind of order thwarts the logic of the world. It is a scandal to common sensibility. Yet these reversals beg one's curiosity: How can that be? 

I was young and I did not understand paradoxes or reversals. Because I did not understand, I was afraid. 

Keep Ithaca always in your mind. 

Arriving there is what you’re destined for. 

But don’t hurry the journey at all. 

Better if it lasts for years, 

so you’re old by the time you reach the island, 

wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way, 

not expecting Ithaca to make you rich. 

I never thought I would reach this far, nor did I even imagine that I would reach this point. The road has been a long one, and there were times when I thought of stopping and turning back. It was not easy. Many times, I felt impatient about whether this path was meaningful at all. Many times, I felt that I was missing out on a lot of things. Many times, other options were just as equally attractive. 

I was young when I began this journey. I've grown older since; in the next eight years, I will have already spent half of my life as a Jesuit. Over the years, disappointment has given way to some truth. While there were breakthrough moments that seemed extraordinary enough to sustain one's interest, for the most part, the real discoveries actually happened in the ordinary, the uninteresting, the routine, the tedious. But one does not usually see these as they happen. Sometimes, the eyes have to be washed with tears to be able to see clearly. 

Some people think that religious life is totally immune from what everyone else has to deal with. It may be true in certain matters, but I cannot totally agree with that. Life happens to everyone. There is no escaping it. Not even in religious life. Life's rawness has a way of making you honestly deal with who you are. Pain, failure, suffering, loss — they are like friends who tell you things you don't really hear from people who don't know you that well. Pain, failure, suffering, loss — they arrest your attention and focus it on what you should really be focusing on. These realities empty you out so that you can eventually be filled. 

Ithaca gave you the marvelous journey. 

Without her you wouldn’t have set out. 

She has nothing left to give you now. 

In two days, I will be ordained a deacon, and in the next six months, a priest. 

There is that privileged moment that occurs after being away for a long while, and home is already within sight. It is a time when one feels somewhere in between a desire to go home and a desire to just keep on going. It is a time when one recognizes that while the destination may have motivated you to begin and continue your journey; in the end, it is the journey that eventually makes the destination meaningful. 

Most people only get to see what we have become, and point to that as a manifestation of how grace has worked in our lives. Sometimes, I think that way, too. But seeing it that way is missing the real spectacle. 

And if you find her poor, Ithaca won’t have fooled you. 

Wise as you will have become, so full of experience, 

you’ll have understood by then what these Ithacas mean. 

There is a time for everything. In the same way that one cannot force a seed to grow into a plant, an insight cannot be forced if its time has not yet come. Growth involves a lot of waiting patiently, hopefully, and respectfully. My initial disappointment with Jesuit life was because I could not wait patiently, hopefully, and respectfully. 

I'm not as young as I used to be. Over the years, reality has remained the same. But I'm learning to embrace pain, failure, suffering, and loss. I'm also learning to appreciate paradoxes and reversals. In other words, I'm learning to pay close attention to life as it unveils. God is in the details of the ordinary. 

My destination is almost within sight. The paradox and reversal in my entire journey is clearer: 

God calls the unworthy; I am a sinner, yet called.

A Student of Theology Reflects on the Death of A Student Of Philosophy

These are thoughts that come to me when I first heard, with disbelief and sadness, of the suicide of a teaching assistant of the Ateneo de Manila's Department of Philosophy.

Lorenz Tan, who would have been a Philosophy teacher, could not have chosen a more philosophical way to die. Socrates drank hemlock.  He locked himself in one of the rooms of the Philosophy Department, burnt paper and charcoal and allowed the fumes to gas him to death.

Grind

Does" busy"-ness speak of a life well lived?

The millstone is a fascinating tool. I was eight when I first saw and tinkered with a real millstone. It was during a visit to my grandparents house in Ilo-ilo.

I remember being amazed at its smooth, solid feel. I kept exclaiming to myself at how it was stone-age cool! It was made of two huge circular stones, one on top of the other. It looked like a hamburger, with the upper stone containing a hole in the middle and a wooden handle near the rim.

My curiosity must have been so obvious that Lolo offered to show me how to use the gilingan. He scooped a salop of corn kernels from a nearby sack, and casually poured the corn right through the hole of the gilingan. With one hand, he cranked the wooden handle counterclockwise, intermittently pouring over the remaining corn with his other hand. I still remember that distinct grating sound.

If you've ever seen those Indiana Jones movies, you would have recognized the sound as that of a huge stone door being opened. Think of that and add the sharp cackle of crushed corn and you get an idea of what it sounded like.

The ground corn was then coming out from the gap between the upper and the base stone. In my amazement, I asked Lolo to lift the upper stone so I could examine how it worked. He laughed and then with a grunt, heaved the stone and laid it upside down. The interior part had crude grooves and as I ran my fingers through it, I winced at the thought of having my digits ground by it.

Whoever coined the term, daily grind, must have seen how millstones work. Aside from that, he must have been quite in touch with reality, acutely aware of how daily life feels. He might have felt reality's weight and pressure grinding him down. Like how it is for the rest of us, schedules and responsibilities can often become millstones, with you being caught right in between.

Somehow, that thought can also make me wince.

first blush (part 2)

how often do you get to chronicle your "first date"?

not very often perhaps; unless, your first date happened when you were already way past legal age.

unfortunately for me, my 14-years-and-3-month-old self had decided to write down an account of my first date.

I must have felt very euphoric that day since I wrote the entry in the middle of the night. Whatever had happened that day must have been really significant because I included several other details as I began the entry, as though I wanted my future self to accurately reconstruct the whole experience.

Here's another account of teenage infatuation and hormones:

PSHS-MC Dorm Room #3
12:55 AM, Sept. 12, 1992

Dear Diary,

I had one of the most exciting moments of my life. For the first time in my personal history, In dated the girl who turned my life inside out. It was quite a thrilling experience for a first-timer like me.

We met at Galaxy Arcade at 12:45 PM and we went inside Galaxy Theater at five minutes to one. Even though she was acompanied by a friend, he looked harmless.

I feel timid, however, whenever somebody accompanies me and a girl.

The movie was entitled, "Universal Soldier".

After the movie, we went to JS Gaisano for a break. She ordered Double Dutch and I ordered Mocha. We ate with my friend, Sherleen. What was funny about it was that my friend kept on telling me to speak to my date.

Well, here goes my shyness...I always feel nervous when talking to girls, so I can't blame my self. It's my nature, "gets"?

At about 20 minutes past four, I bade her adieu. She thanked me with an enchanting smile. Guess what? It sent a shiver to my bones.

Well, let me first tell you the preview to all these happiness. It all started one Sunday evening. My roommates and I made a bet that if they could invite a girl to the movies, I would treat them both. So the following day, after school, they all told me that they already had their dates: Juanito-Sherleen, Elson-Cheryl, Valmes-Mara. I was the onle one left who didn't have a partner.

Tuesday and Wednesday passed and still no prospects.

Thursday, I asked one of my classmates. Karina, if she could come this Saturday. Unluckily, she had research work to do. I was downhearted, sad. I thought that it might be better for me if I didn't have any partner at all.

That evening, after dinner, as I filed my gate pass, we met Wowie, a friend and roommate of ***. Juanito told Wowie that I didn't have a partner for Saturday. So she told me not to worry, she would bridge me and the girl. I was about to go back to our dorm when Wowie and Sherleen called me over. They said that if I really wanted to date the girl, I must tell her frankly. They told me that the girl didn't like "torpes" and that if I expressed my feelings openly, it would be much better. They suggested that I invite the girl. At first, I thought it was silly. However, they told me it was true and that I must do it and act right now.

So, Wowie called for the girl. I waited downstairs. When she came down, she wore a spohisticated look. I was aghast! When I started to speak, I was acting foolishly and mind you, I started to be politer than an Englishman. She answered that she will not yet compromise because they still  have research work on Saturday morning. She told me that if she could come, she will inform me on Friday. I said, Goodnight. and away I went. I lost my voice and I treated my friends with one chocobar each.

The following morning, I went to class early. Again, Sherleen told me to ask the girl if she would come. I thought I was going to ask her at recess time but my friend insisted--"RIGHT NOW!" From what I heard, it was more an order. She made arrangements with the girl that we will talk and I summoned up my guts and lo, there goes me and my life..her answer will determine my honor, my life, and dignity.

The confrontation:
"Hi, ***! Tungkol sa napag-usapan natin kagabi, payag ka ba?"
She whizzed for a while and said, "Sige."
That was music to my ears. I couldn't believe she said that. I was deeply overjoyed. Wowie, John, Sherleen, Elson, Val, Mervin, and some of my other friends were happy for me.

Finally, after spending a year of seclusion and implementing a "closed door policy" on love, I was returning back to civilization. I just can't tell whether I will jump or simply be on Cloud 9. Truly, Love is marvelous.

[A stray note from the same entry]
She looked sexier in a red polo shirt and faded tight fitting jeans. Of course, she wore that mysterious smile.

If I were to teach my 14-year-old self three lessons from this experience, it would be:

Lesson 1: Never settle for a chaperoned date. Especially if the chaperone happens to be a heterosexual male friend of the girl. No matter how harmless he may look, he is still male, and heterosexual.

Lesson 2: "Universal Soldier" isn't exactly a date movie. While you may have thought that the Romans went to see gladiator fights with their dates, this isn't Rome and this isn't the glory days of the empire.

Lesson 3: Never ever smile when you're eating mocha ice cream. Enough said.

first blush (part 1)

(this is the actual journal)
Rummaging through the scattered mess in search of my room's key, I found an old journal which I had when I was still in first year high school. I leisurely leafed through the stained and yellowing pages, forgetting all about the key. Entry by entry, I relived scenes from my adolescent awakening.

A journal is like a snapshot. They preserve who you were at a certain point in time. That could be a good thing. Or it could also make a turn for the worst.

Like looking at I-swear-I-didn't-look-that-way-before pictures, my own journal entries made me cringe at how  embarrassing I must have sounded as a high school freshman.

here's a "lovestruck" entry from September 4, 1991, Wednesday:

Dearest Aphrodite,

Thy son Eros struck me with his arrow of love. The muse of poetry once again inspired my soul, even though the goddess of discord called me a poetaster. Still she can't stop my decision, I'm going to write "her" a poem.

Even the Fates can't cut my life short for Love is the strongest force on earth--mortal or immortal, intelligent or dull, lover or hater--all fall under its spell. Apollo had struck his lyre, from which came the language of the soul. Zeus made me a destiny--a destiny to love a girl with the likeness of Artemis, the mortal beauty of Helen, and the warmth of Vesta.

At first sight, I was struck by Thor's lightning. Odin's revens Huynim and Munim provided me an intellect to know her attitude. Even Mimir, the guradian of the wisdom well, offered water from the well for me to use my knowledge in order to court her.

Loki,however, didn't seem to care. Freya made her as beautiful as ever, Balder enriched her with a kind and good heart where no mistletoe of evil could destroy her.

Truly, this time I feel like being in heaven, in Olympus or Asgard, wherever the place is, paradise is with me wherever she goes.

Eew.

Dear Self at Age 13,

I understand the infatuated talk.
But invoking the mythologies you enjoyed as a young kid and using them to express what you feel inside is just, well, geeky.

Good luck with your adult life.

From your Self at Age 30.

least expectations

It wasn't even in my list of least expected events.

I expected a hearty meal to celebrate the Society's feastday. I expected to enjoy the night conversing with friends. I expected to be entertained by the different performances.

That is why I was taken aback when one of the novices (whom i later found out was named Bryan) approached me and handed me something:

"Bro, may kilala ba kayong Ana?"--awkward moment--"may ipinaabot po kasing sulat."

I've known several people named "Ana" in my lifetime and none of them would have had any motivation at all to send me a letter on new year's day.

"Ahh," I said, faking some semblance of recognition. "Taga-saan nga?"

"Taga-RC, bro," said the novice. "Basta kasama nyo raw sila pag nag-iikot kayo sa RC."

RC was a purok in Area G in Sapang Palay. That I knew.

I also remembered that several little children would accompany me as I immersed myself in our Sunday Apostolate in Area G. But that was several years ago and I have been to many places and have met many people since then.

To spare us both the awkwardness of my futile attempt at recalling, I just admitted to the novice that I seemed to have forgotten who "Ana" was. So I pocketed the letter--still inside its envelope--and told him to extend my thanks to "Ana".

After a while, I curiously opened the envelope. The letter itself was written on a Winnie-the-Pooh stationery that seemed to have been torn off from a notebook.

It read:

Dear Brother Ogie!

Hello po Brother Ogie! Kumusta po kayo? Its been a long time nang magkita po tayo. At siguro po hindi mo na po ako kilala--"I am [sic] almost seven years old nang makilala ko po kayo nila Brother J-jay and Brother Onemig and Brother Aldrin...At hanggang ngayon po hindi ko pa po kayo nakakalimutan. Kasi po, ang saya-saya ko po nung mga panahong kasama ko kayo...actually marami nga po kaming mga bata na napalapit sa inyo eh! Natatandaan mo pa po ba sila Tintin, Nene, at Rachel? Yung mga makukulit pong bata na tuwing linggo'y nangungulit sa inyo? Kasama po ako sa kanila...

Ako po si Ana. After 22 [sic] years ngayon lang po ako nagkaroon ng chance na makumusta ko kayo. Alam nyo po, nung mabalitaan ko pong wala na kayo sa simbahan, nalungkot po ako at nagtampo po ako sa inyo...kasi po hindi ko po alam na aalis kayo. Hindi man lang po ako nakapagpaalam sa inyo. Pero hindi ko po pala dapat maramdaman sa inyo yon. Kasi po kailangan nyo po pala talagang umalis...Nuon ko lang po yun nalaman nung mag choir ako sa simbahan at nakita ko pong kailangan po pala talaga ninyong iwan ang kapilya kahit na marami po kayong masasayang ala-alang maiiwan dito para po idistino kayo sa ibang lugar.

Alam mo po Bro. Ogie, ngayon miyembro na po ako ng kabataan sa simbahan. Ansaya nga po eh! Ah, bro. congrats nga po pala...sabi po kasi ni Bro.Bryan magpa-pari kana po. Natutuwa po ako para sa inyo. Alam mo po Brother, nami-miss ko na po talaga kayo! Ano na po kayang itsura nyo? Nga po pala Brother Ogie, ikaw na lang po ang bahalang kumamusta kela Bro. Jay-jay, Bro. Onemig & Bro. Aldrin kapag nagkita po kayo paki-sabi na lang pong kinukumusta po namin sila.

Hanggang dito na lang po! Mag-iingat po kayo palagi. Merry Christmas & Happy New Year!

I folded the letter after reading it. I smiled.

Then I began to remember once more how little children would always tag along during Sunday Apostolate.

But I still could not recall who "Ana" was.

Yet I continued to smile even after I had already pocketed the letter.

I kept smiling!

Now, I didn't expect that.

in need of a good story

My father isn't a good storyteller.

Which is why i could never figure how, even after all these years, i can still vividly remember the stories he told me when i was much younger.

Dad had this annoying habit of leaving stories unfinished. Most of the time, he would fall asleep even before he could finish. He would be right in the middle of a tale and then--the familiar silence and the subsequent snore. Whenever he fell asleep, Dad was impervious to my persistent efforts at waking him up and making him continue with his story.

Because of this, Dad often told stories in random fragments which you had to re-arrange in order to build a plot. He would talk about his own Tatay, my grandfather, who fought during the Korean War.

Then he would fall asleep.

The next chance I get to listen to him, he would be talking about his own grandmother and how she had this "anting-anting" that made her invisible to the Japanese.

Then he would fall asleep.

By the next episode, he would be telling me about his own Nanay, my grandmother, and how she saw a "tiyanak" eating a ripe mango.

Then he would fall asleep.

Again.

In spite of protracted plots that spanned several incongruous segments, I was captivated by Dad's stories. While I knew, even at that young age, that some of his tales were rather incredible, I listened attentively and pretended that I believed in every detail he mentioned. Tiyanak and anting-anting notwithstanding.

Dad's narrative style was not spectacular. In fact, he narrated stories if he were merely suggesting and providing simple captions for the images in my mind. He couldn't really paint scenes with words. He wasn't poetic nor dramatic. He spoke plainly, and yet, somehow, he stirred my imagination. I don't know how he did that.

Even now, Dad still isn't a good storyteller.

Though he doesn't fall asleep anymore with his own stories, he already fumbles with his sentences and has developed an even more terrible sense of plot flow and timing.

But when he tries to tell me a story, I listen.

And I don't know how he does that.

meteor shower: Geminid 2007

"Uy, shooting star!!!"
"Saan?"
"Ayun, meron ulit! Yehey!"
"Mag-wish ka na!"
"Ha?! Wala nang shooting star.."

So there we were, all seven of us, on the viewdeck, having a conversation about swimming pools and sembreak plans, when suddenly, we were interrupted by shooting stars.

I didn't even know that there was going to be a Geminid meteor shower that night.

I craned my neck upwards just to catch a glimpse of that elusive heavenly display.

Nothing.

After a short while, i saw three shooting stars successively streaking through the starry night sky. We were all applauding and hooting like giddy children as the meteors vaporized into thin air.

"Mag-wish ka na," Bernie said to RC. Somehow, everyone on the viewdeck made a wish.

I didn't.

Not because I didn't want to but because I didn't know how. When do you actually start making a wish? Do you make it before, during, or after the meteor makes its dash across the sky? I have long asked that question but I haven't really seriously asked anyone about it.

If you make a wish before you actually see one, would that count? Shooting stars could be so elusive, you could have kept wishing and wishing and end up not seeing a single one at all.

Suppose you make a wish as soon as it appears. I tried that many times, with precision and timing, but I often fail to complete the "wish" since the shooting star would have already burnt itself up completely.

Now, wouldn't making a wish after you've seen one, make the whole point of wishing on a shooting star pointless, since you would be wishing on something which has already disappeared?

Anyway, I still wonder about how to do the "wishing on a shooting star" properly. hehe.

by the way, I ended up with six sightings that night.

Oh, and after that, I looked up one of my old notebooks and found an old poem (in Filipino) which I wrote after the Leonid shower in 2002:

LEONIDS 2002

mamaya
aabangan ko
ang pag-ambon
ng mga kwitis-langit.

maglalatag ako
ng banig
at ako'y titingala,
nganganga,
at maghihintay
ng grasya
mula sa itaas.

gusto ko kasing makatikim
ng nagbabagang bato,
tulad ni Isaias,
nang maranasan ko
kung papaano
mag-dilang anghel.

bakit lagi akong na-e-LSS

"so far away...doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore..."

it must be echoing some deep-set sentiment, this song. bamboo's rendition gets to me when i listen to it. some old songs have that effect. you play them and they transport you back in time when that same song had some meaning to you. i'm not sure though what meaning it had for me for that hypothetical "then".

i grew up listening to "high school life" and "don't cry for me, argentina". i listened to these songs, brimming with emotions, profound feelings that surely a four or seven year old would not have understood. yet, i recall moments when i actually shed tears listening to Sharon Cuneta wax about high school when i haven't even reached grade one!

songs follow a logic of their own. so does the heart, as Pascal reminds us. it's quite a miracle when you have lyrics that perfectly match the melody. both these elements intertwine inextricably. you forcibly take one out and the song dies.

miracles also happen when you have songs that fill the gaps in your consciousness. these gaps are often the things you haven't really figured out that much. it cries out silently. it screams mutely. only the song soothes. only the melody assures.

and you just quietly sing along...

So far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know that you're just time away

Long ago I reached for you and there you stood
Holding you again could only do me good
How I wish I could, but you're so far away

One more song about movin' along the highway
Can't say much of anything that's new
If I could only work this life out my way
I'd rather spend it bein' close to you

But you're so far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn't help to know you're so far away

Travelin' around sure gets me down and lonely
Nothin' else to do but close my mind
I sure hope the road don't come to own me
But there's so many dreams I've yet to find

But you're so far away
Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
And it doesn't help to know you're so far away

i thought i was already going to sleep...

i'm going to sleep.

that's what i thought, at least, an hour and a half ago. there were times when i could actually fall asleep before midnight, and that didn't take much of an effort. all i had to do was lie down and i would just drift off into unconsciousness. exhaustion needs no motivation.

when i was younger, several thoughts would preoccupy me before i went to sleep. on certain nights, i would be thinking about a person. on other nights, i would be reviewing an event in my mind and fantasizing about possible scenarios. and then, there would be those nights when i'd feel troubled or dissatisfied. is it possible that someone tends to think a lot when one is actually lonely or sad? i remember what mr.calasanz said in my advanced phenomenology class. when you're happy, you don't really think much about "life". back then, that remark struck me. it seems that people who use their heads too much end up lonelier than most people. or is it because they are lonelier, in the first place, that they end up thinking too much?

i'm not really sure how i'd answer that. i used to think too much. but i didn't really think much about great ideas or great problems. mostly, i thought about the trivialities of my own life and my relationships with other people. really, i barely thought about what others really thought; instead, i thought about what i think others might be thinking about me. i have picked up from somewhere that all thinking is reflexive. somehow, whether you think about others in general, or about a particular person, everything refers back to you.

maybe that's why thinking is a lonely enterprise that produces an even lonelier outcome. while you may seemingly have "objects" of your own thought, the "objects" reveal more of the subject that thinks about it. in the end, you just end up with more of your own self, which is not really a bad thing.

maybe socrates might have meant it differently. while i believe that the unexamined life is not worth living, the overly examined life may not be worthily called a life at all.

hypertension

(the photo has no relation whatsoever to this entry. i just felt that i needed to comfort myself with pleasant memories of my sembreak vacation. hehe)

150/100.
no, they're not test scores. nor eyesight measurements.
lately, i've been trading blood pressure stats with some of the scholastics. there has been an outbreak of hypertension diagnoses, ever since I got a 140/100 a month ago. when my hypertensive condition was detected last month, some of the scholastics decided to have their bps checked as well, only to discover that i wasn't the only one with these fairly high stats.

earlier this evening, as we were trading jokes outside the oratory, I suddenly felt something snap in my nape. it triggered a sharp pinching kind of pain, and i immediately thought that it might have something to do with my blood pressure. ij and jhaw then told me to go to the infirmary to have myself checked since by that time i was already breaking into cold sweat. when we went to the infirmary, one of the nurses took my bp and informed me that my current stat was 150/100. of course, i became even more nervous. i didn't want to get sick again because it's so depressing to be confined to a room and find yourself suddenly incapable of doing the things you often take for granted.

Thanks to but unlike Wordsworth, i call these moments of utter vulnerability and helplessness, my intimations of mortality. i'm still young and being sick like this makes death less of a possibility; instead it becomes as real as my own Damocles' sword. I know death would eventually come but its own random timing scares me. My situation reminds me of Heidegger's insight on being-towards-death. my most individual and extreme possibility is death. no one can experience death for me. i alone will experience it. it is what individuates me and at the same time, unites me with everyone else.

Heidegger cautions against inauthentic living--a kind of living that denies this mortal destiny. and yet, here i am, afraid of dying as if i am not going to die at all. on second thought, maybe it's not death i'm afraid of, maybe it's the pain that comes with sickness. in my case, the physical pain is only secondary. the pain of being incapacitated is even more painful, i think. to be fully conscious and yet unable to to act out one's conscious thoughts, i surmise, must be a really painful experience.

yet maybe, these kinds of pain are birth pangs of an emergent spirituality. recognizing my own limitedness can be a real blow to my ego. but perhaps, after the self that i had been holding on to has been shattered, when the dust of confusion settles, i would begin to see myself and my life more clearly. i am not in control. i am merely clay in the potter's hand.