Never Surrender the Day
Book in Hand: Waifs and Strays by Charles de Lint
Song in Mind: Someone to Watch Over Me
I'm in a bit of a dramatic mood today, it being my last day of freedom for the year 2006. Ha! I'm just so tetchy about having to go through another year. I'm a bit put off by the fact that about this time last year, I was enthusiastic! I was excited, I was looking forward to the year 2005...
And look where it got me.
A couple of depressions and an official hatred for work later, I am tired... so tired of this daily grind. So tired of this neverending struggle. BUT -- -- --
I am not the type to give up in the middle of things. Seeing I'm just about to turn 24 and so far from retiring... I have conjured up my own motto for the year
>> Hope is born of valiant hearts, unafraid of brand new starts. Change is wrought by the blessed few, and one of them might as well be you <<
Just so God will know I haven't given up on the whole destiny thing I was wont to believe in when I was a kiddo.
Ha. Never surrender the day.
TIL NEXT YEAR
Though at an end already, I can't help but love the Holidays.
Everything about it. From the fact that one doesn't have to work, the craziness of shopping for gifts, the endless parade of food you can stuff yourself with, nicer, happier people around you, the Christmas Mass... everything.
Over righteous people will say, "Oh, but the feeling shouldn't just be there during Christmas.. Christmas should be everyday."
But it isn't, is it? It never happens that way. Christmas still is the only time of year when every one of my dreams come true.
*****
CHURCH OF THE HOLY ANCIENT MEMORIES
My family and I go to a good Church every Sunday. It's called the San Lorenzo Ruiz Church in San Jose del Monte, Bulacan and it's probably about five minutes away from our place. As much as I would want to hate stuffy traditional rituals... I couldn't bring myself to hate the traditions of the Church. This Parish helped me realize that I still find so much meaning in the Mass, that I love every somber, ancient movement of the altar boys up to the priest. There's so much majesty in it, and yet at the same time, so much simplicity.
During the New Year's Eve Mass, We were kneeling in front of the Holy Host during Benediction. I love every curve and sinew of the simborium, the chalice, the candle holders. I love the warm glow of the candles, the low murmur of the kneeling mass of humanity giving thanks and asking for wishes from the deepest recesses of their hearts. I love the glorious voices of the choir, their music sombering up the ageless procession of the Cross and the Bible up to the pulpit. I love it when the whole church sings together, voices raised. How could God not hear us? He could, it is my conviction, He could.
For all that is holy, and all that we hold dear, Lord, let it be a good year. Strengthen us, assist us, enfold us in your mercy... let it be good.
*****
THEY COULD'VE BEEN ME
(THAT'S ASSUMING A LOT, BUT WHAT THE HECK)
I have been writing again. Albeit a bit hesitantly, since I know I won't be able to keep it up once the daily working grind starts all over again. But there it was. A story unfolding from my fingers as I type. I do not stop to think; I do not stop to plot. I just write and it flows. Much of it might prove to be rubbish, but I will not exchange that feeling for anything in this world - - that feeling of potency, of ability, of writing.
It was of old imagineering which I had stored up in my brains for three years. It was there, hibernating until I came across the first few pages I placed aside so long ago. It woke up a dragon inside me... write it!
It is when I write when I become more ingrained in the belief that words are magic. They create a flow and a shimmering of their own; there is something ancient and holy in the very utterance of it. In my work where I have to create project proposals and reports, I was taught to supress the words, to bend it and fashion it so that it will sound business-like, polite and sanitary. But real words, powerful ones, aren't always clean and crisp. Sometimes, they have to bleed or to get dirty for it to reveal their meaning.
But in writing, I become more conscious of the fact that I cannot wield powerful words yet. I need more knowledge, more experience, more authority to wield the magic. Although the words flow out, it is not without effort. I get so tired afterwards -- a feeling which might be akin to feeling all used up. As if I was a vessel not yet yielding sufficient stamina nor skill to play with it too much.
Maybe that's why a lot of the writers I encounter -- the good ones -- are already advanced in years. I have heard of Paolini, yes, who wrote Eragon. And that fifteen year old girl who wrote Prophecy of the Stones. I was even told they were good books. Their progeny is genius, one which I hoped I was. A genius which I have accepted now, I am not. But the books which moved worlds inside the readers, those who created new frontiers for those who knew them -- they have gone through a lot first before becoming the revered authors they are now.
I like to believe that - - - Gaiman, Le Guin, Coelho, Pratchett, Wodehouse, even Tolkien - - maybe, just maybe, they were me once. A long time ago, in dimensions known and unknown, pasts remembered and forgotten.
Song in Mind: Someone to Watch Over Me
I'm in a bit of a dramatic mood today, it being my last day of freedom for the year 2006. Ha! I'm just so tetchy about having to go through another year. I'm a bit put off by the fact that about this time last year, I was enthusiastic! I was excited, I was looking forward to the year 2005...
And look where it got me.
A couple of depressions and an official hatred for work later, I am tired... so tired of this daily grind. So tired of this neverending struggle. BUT -- -- --
I am not the type to give up in the middle of things. Seeing I'm just about to turn 24 and so far from retiring... I have conjured up my own motto for the year
>> Hope is born of valiant hearts, unafraid of brand new starts. Change is wrought by the blessed few, and one of them might as well be you <<
Just so God will know I haven't given up on the whole destiny thing I was wont to believe in when I was a kiddo.
Ha. Never surrender the day.
TIL NEXT YEAR
Though at an end already, I can't help but love the Holidays.
Everything about it. From the fact that one doesn't have to work, the craziness of shopping for gifts, the endless parade of food you can stuff yourself with, nicer, happier people around you, the Christmas Mass... everything.
Over righteous people will say, "Oh, but the feeling shouldn't just be there during Christmas.. Christmas should be everyday."
But it isn't, is it? It never happens that way. Christmas still is the only time of year when every one of my dreams come true.
*****
CHURCH OF THE HOLY ANCIENT MEMORIES
My family and I go to a good Church every Sunday. It's called the San Lorenzo Ruiz Church in San Jose del Monte, Bulacan and it's probably about five minutes away from our place. As much as I would want to hate stuffy traditional rituals... I couldn't bring myself to hate the traditions of the Church. This Parish helped me realize that I still find so much meaning in the Mass, that I love every somber, ancient movement of the altar boys up to the priest. There's so much majesty in it, and yet at the same time, so much simplicity.
During the New Year's Eve Mass, We were kneeling in front of the Holy Host during Benediction. I love every curve and sinew of the simborium, the chalice, the candle holders. I love the warm glow of the candles, the low murmur of the kneeling mass of humanity giving thanks and asking for wishes from the deepest recesses of their hearts. I love the glorious voices of the choir, their music sombering up the ageless procession of the Cross and the Bible up to the pulpit. I love it when the whole church sings together, voices raised. How could God not hear us? He could, it is my conviction, He could.
For all that is holy, and all that we hold dear, Lord, let it be a good year. Strengthen us, assist us, enfold us in your mercy... let it be good.
*****
THEY COULD'VE BEEN ME
(THAT'S ASSUMING A LOT, BUT WHAT THE HECK)
I have been writing again. Albeit a bit hesitantly, since I know I won't be able to keep it up once the daily working grind starts all over again. But there it was. A story unfolding from my fingers as I type. I do not stop to think; I do not stop to plot. I just write and it flows. Much of it might prove to be rubbish, but I will not exchange that feeling for anything in this world - - that feeling of potency, of ability, of writing.
It was of old imagineering which I had stored up in my brains for three years. It was there, hibernating until I came across the first few pages I placed aside so long ago. It woke up a dragon inside me... write it!
It is when I write when I become more ingrained in the belief that words are magic. They create a flow and a shimmering of their own; there is something ancient and holy in the very utterance of it. In my work where I have to create project proposals and reports, I was taught to supress the words, to bend it and fashion it so that it will sound business-like, polite and sanitary. But real words, powerful ones, aren't always clean and crisp. Sometimes, they have to bleed or to get dirty for it to reveal their meaning.
But in writing, I become more conscious of the fact that I cannot wield powerful words yet. I need more knowledge, more experience, more authority to wield the magic. Although the words flow out, it is not without effort. I get so tired afterwards -- a feeling which might be akin to feeling all used up. As if I was a vessel not yet yielding sufficient stamina nor skill to play with it too much.
Maybe that's why a lot of the writers I encounter -- the good ones -- are already advanced in years. I have heard of Paolini, yes, who wrote Eragon. And that fifteen year old girl who wrote Prophecy of the Stones. I was even told they were good books. Their progeny is genius, one which I hoped I was. A genius which I have accepted now, I am not. But the books which moved worlds inside the readers, those who created new frontiers for those who knew them -- they have gone through a lot first before becoming the revered authors they are now.
I like to believe that - - - Gaiman, Le Guin, Coelho, Pratchett, Wodehouse, even Tolkien - - maybe, just maybe, they were me once. A long time ago, in dimensions known and unknown, pasts remembered and forgotten.
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