September 24, 2013
A Glimpse of My Past: Why I Write
After sometime, I am back to my
writing again! That feeling of
restlessness, that mixed feeling of sweetness, concentration and lightness,
that near consummation of love, that it thing that comes fast and slow in a
world’s glint and praise of a Creator.
As always, my writing comes out
of necessity when one craves as to physical urgency. When I was a child, I wrote on notebooks and
coloring books. My coloring was not
perfect because it went out of lines. In
fact, my art teacher did not like me. I
was better in English, not so much in spelling, but almost perfect in
vocabulary. The first poem that I was able to memorize was “Drop a Pebble in
the Water,” by James W. Foley. I made it
easy in impromptu speaking and class discussions. In written exams, I often got high scores and
never failed. I always searched for new
words that rhymed. I was a fan of
Popeye and Moby Dick on TV. There was
one time that I fought with a boy in a swing and each of us tried to push the
other out of the swing. I ended up
bruised, thrown out of the swing, but I didn’t care because I was able to kick
him back. I did not cry. Now I could relate to Sandra Cisneros’ story
about The Monkey Garden.
In my teens, I cut out quotes and
memorized them. Music lured my ear and I
memorized lyrics of songs. We were
taught to sing well, especially those King and I songs and Huckleberry Finn
songs. I played musical instruments and created some poems just for pleasure. I collected poems by heart from Literature
books and tried diagramming sentences. In
many subjects, I was one of the few exempted students, not required to take the
finals. It became a habit to stay in the library, if not in the canteen. I
loved reading Florante at Laura (by Balagtas) and El Filibusterismo ( by Dr. Jose
Rizal). I couldn’t forget Raskolnikov in
the catacombs (Crime and Punishment by the Russian author Fyodor Dostoyevsky)
and the play “Jesus Christ Superstar.” One time I played the role of Mother Mary,
another time I played the role of St. Magdalene. I began to admire boys, but was tight on the
rules of my Dad. My Dad died, I was
broken.
In college, I wrote small poems
and prayers. I began to buy posters and
chapbooks. I memorized Desiderata and Mi
Ultimo Adios (My Last Farewell) by Dr. Jose Rizal. After graduation and while I worked, I wrote
to God, “Dear God,” in my notebooks. I
became intimate with the Black Nazarene in Quiapo church when I went home after
school, every day. That time, I reviewed the classics; read in high school,
especially the Maxims and Reflections of La Rochefoucauld and the Lives of the
Poets of Samuel Johnson. I fell in
love. I was out of love. It did not matter because I was happy
studying and learning with my friends.
My thoughts of becoming a journalist did not pursue; all I wanted to do,
that time, was to finish college and graduate.
My Dad wanted me to become a government servant like him and finish
Accountancy. And so did I. But then, I continued reading, reading and
reading.
I worked after graduation. I thought it was one of the most boring
works, ever! I had strings of boyfriends
as Anne Frank, and in one of the roads less travelled by Robert Frost, I fell
in love. And then, writing came to me
for real!
“Ideas come in search of the true
writer. They throng upon him, and most
of the time he does not know where they come from. The best thing he can do about them as they
appear is to make notes. He never knows
at the moment what may come of them,” (Paul Horgan).
When I worked as a paid writer,
my writing was brought to discipline. I
always thought of Charles Lamb, “Rise with the lark and sleep with the lamb,”
in Essays of Elia. For some time, I only
slept for three hours and awoke at dawn.
My sleep was disturbed by an urge to write and to finish what I was
supposed to deliver.
During the hype of high
technology, I was on and off my blogs 24/7, until the time my mother died
(while she struggled with cancer).
Now, Rilke’s letters have become
clear to me, “A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity.” I never thought I would be writing and
sharing, as this, in this 21st century; all I know is I have to
write or rage. My writing goals before
was to be popular and earn a booker prize.
Now, it has changed. What I hope
for is to be read, not for anything, but to share lessons in life and make you
(the readers) happy. After all, that is
the goal of literature and the goal of mankind in any field of every vocation.
And so, let there be love. That
is why I write.
/rosevocations. Sept 24, 2013.
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