Change is the key!

The only good is knowledge and the only evil is ignorance. - Socrates

Every living thing undergoes a life-long process. As for humans, one has to be a zygote, then , to an infant, then to a kid before becoming an adolescent, more so becoming an adult. As if it were in the work scene, a new employee has to adjust to a totally new environment before feeling at ease with a totally new set of people one would be working with. As it is in life, one has to be first inexperienced before becoming experienced; so as one has to be empty to be full.

Song of becoming, a poem written by Fadwa Tuqan is a poem that narrates a process, a process on how one is molded and contoured on who he or she is now. It is a literary piece that expresses the idea that indeed, knowledge is liberating and that our perceptions are greatly influenced by our crystallized and fluid intelligence.

The poem shows the transition of the views of the Palestinians as they become more informed towards the pressing issues that involve them. First, they were simply like young boys, boys who engaged to nothing but to frolic and play; entertained by the western wind. They knew not much, and so they reacted just not as much. But then as they began to know better and know more, they suddenly grew, grew more than the years of a normal life. They have become trees, trees that are deeply rooted to the ground. They begun to stand firm; they begun to cling on tight to a divine power; hold on to their faith. And now that they have become even bolder, they began to make loud protests and not just to simply wait for gravity to take its part; and not just to simply wait for divine providence.

This drastic change was because of knowledge . . knowledge that was brought about by experience. Thus, experiences are the key for change and that change is the key for betterment.

A strong motivating force

"Mine-ing" is an attribute common to all species, be it human or animal, every one and every thing wants to have something; this something they could flaunt to others which they consider their own. Moreover, this attribute don't just come-out naturally for anyone or anything needs it, rather it comes out since their is such a strong need for it.

A need is a construct, a convenient fiction or hypothetical concept, which stands for a force. In the brain region, a force which organizes perception, apperception, intellection, conation and action in such a way as to transform in a certain direction an existing, unsatisfying situation (Murray, 1938, pp. 123-124). . .

Guests on the Sea, a poem by Mahmoud Darwish, speaks about the dilemma of every Palestinian. It narrates their journey and their quest towards liberation. The guests as referred in the poem, are the Palestinians; to be a guest means to be distinguished visitor to whom the hospitality of an institution, a city, or government is extended. Same as the Palestinians, they are simply valued guests for they are just settlers of the land and never the owners of it. The sea, as used as the setting to situate the story symbolizes the land in which the Palestinians would want to call their own. A land that would never be bounded by all means, a land that would be free from any other dominion but theirs, just like the sea.

. . . a need is sometimes provoked directly by internal processes of a certain kind, but more frequently, when in a state of readiness, by the occurrence of one of a few commonly effective press of environmental forces (Murray, 1938, pp. 123-124). . .

This longing of the Palestinians to have their own territory came from their need to have and establish their own identity. Just like all the other countries that were given sovereignty, they should be given as well. The right to take control of their own people, people living in their own land, people fed with the food harvested from their own land.

. . .Thus, it manifests itself by leading the organism to search or to avoid encountering or, when encountered, to attend and respond to certain kinds of press. Each need is characteristically accompanied by a particular feeling or emotion and tends to use certain modes to further its trend (Murray, 1938, pp. 123-124). . .

And with this great motivational force, the Palestinian would do whatever it takes just so they could be the masters of their people. Even if they would degrade their value into a mere object (i.e woman has her first task:seduction) because of being overly desperate (i.e poets fall from melancholy). They are as ready as the martyrs to be above their graves just so they could follow their reverie (i.e martyrs to explode in dream) even if it takes them to lead their youth, or even their own children, to fight with them as well in achieving this long-dreamed goal (i.e wise men to lead a people on towards happy dreams).

. . . It may be weak or intense, momentary or enduring. But usually it persists and give rise to a certain course of overt behavior which changes the initiating circumstance in such a way as to bring about an end situation which stills, appeases or satisfies, the organism (Murray, 1938, pp. 123-124).

Thus, with this need to be free from any forms of subordination, Palestinians would rather take the long road, walk the longer journey, just to realize this life-long dream.

Fear of Abandonment . .

A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials, heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine, desert us; when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.--Washington Irving

Parents, most especially moms, are the ones that are so attached to their kids. This may be brought about since they are the ones that are entitled and are the ones that are obliged to be the caretakers. From the moment the fertilized egg turns into a fetus, then to a baby, then into becoming a kid, to a teenager then to becoming a mother, mothers are the ones that keep an extra keen eye on their siblings. This relationship is perfectly articulated in the work of Maxine Kumin, in her poem The Journey. As presented, the mom prepares her thirteen year old daughter towards venturing a new set of people, in an entirely different world. On a personal note, I would have to say that I too, experience the same. Every time I leave the house for school, it seems that my mom would not want me to take another step onward,as if staying with her would be safest for me. I could see from a far her fake smile, connoting that every step I take further pains her much. How much more when I would permanently separate her for I too have to take my own life? Walk through life without her shadow? Would the pain of me leaving her, kill her?? I have thought of it for some time already, and by just thinking of it, I have realized that I would not stand a single day without her.

Fear of Abandonment, I guess, is how I should call it. I fear that without her, everything would not be handed in a silver-platter; that without her, I would be miserable; that without her, I would not be loved and taken-cared off this much; that without her, I may die, I may not survive.

If it fears me much, how much more to my mom? I have consulted her with the issue, and asked her directly, and she simply smiled and said, "I'd rather take all the misery than give you a dash of it." Her words never left my consciousness, her advices never leave the corners of my mind. I have to grow, not just for myself but grow for my parents, most especially for my mom, so that in turn, she would have this sense of fulfillment having been able to do her job. I have to be strong, not for myself, but for her. And though it pains me more than she could ever imagine, I have to do it in her behalf!

. . . Every mother is like Moses, she does not enter the promise land; she prepares a world she will not see (Pope John Paul VI)

Suffice me not?

William Blake presented the poems "The Lamb" and "The Tyger" from the Songs of Innocence and the Songs of Experience respectively, as two entities that are inseparable. There seems to be a bond so strong that connects the two different and contrary states; and this is what Blake would want his readers to decipher.

If it were for me, I would relate those persona portrayed by the Lamb and the Tyger as the dual personality of innate in every person. These are the two warring states of the human mind. Quoting Freud, I would consider "The Lamb" as the superego while "The Tyger" as the id. To justify, the lamb, as presented in the poem is the cloudless youth, free from any form of embellishments, the naive and the inexperienced state. Similar as the person's superego, having known all the do's and the dont's imposed upon by the society, the person tend to allow himself to be cloudless, be naive, be inexperienced just so in doing, he would be able to conform to the these demands. Thus, the two (i.e. the lamb and the tyger) both allow themselves to be hindered by these given factors; leaving them both a feeling of innocence for they often times don't walk the extra miles for they fear committing mistakes.

In contrast, the Tyger, as presented in the poem, is the fierceful, tenacious and experienced side of the dualism. Never hesitant on which walk to take; never thought on how others would react just as they would and they could satisfy suffice themselves with their longings. Just like the person's id, which is governed by the principles of pleasure, it's major aim is to satisfy one's cravings without even considering what would be at stake upon their actions.

But then, these personas are present in every person, thus, every person has both the positive and the negative side. It is up to the ego, or the mind (to situate), to weigh their options on which among these two contradicting states should be considered and attended first. Afterall, it is simply an issue on setting priorities.

Don't Forget

Listen to mom, she's calling you, answer her. Do not just sit there, move. You are no longer young, take part on the chores, do your share. Keep your pens and paper inside your bag; do not just leave them on the floor, grandma might step on it. It might tear, and I'm sure you wouldn't like that you'd surely cry. After class, do not bring your shoes inside the house, put them off while you're still on the door and leave them on the shoe rack. Your uniform, keep it away form the wet ones, sure you know how to distinguish what's wet from what's dry, right? You're no longer young, remember that. And please be reminded that watching the television should not be done the entire afternoon, it'd be better if you'd study. Open your books, read and write. Learn to be obedient and do what the elders say. Be polite, it's your responsibility. When grandpa says do not play with the water, please don't you'd give him headache if you'd do that. Your toys, of course, I could not forget it, do not just put them under the stairs, keep them. At times, dad could nag, just bare with him like I used to do before. But not that you would not take time to listen to what he'd say again and again, take time to listen and understand, like I used too. All those words are of your benefit, consider.

The Abstraction

Art, as loosely translated, means arrangement or to arrange; thus, could be universally defined as something as was or at some point arranged in some way. It refers to all creative human endeavors and is simply a generic term for any product of the creative impulse, out of which sprang all other human pursuits.

Every individual could be an artist in his or in her own way; for artistry has never been limited in the walls of painting or singing, rather, artistry could be anything. The manner of dressing oneself, or the manner of speaking or even the manner of engaging in affiliations could be seen and considered as a form of art. This is how vast the world of artistry is, this is how enormous the world of artistry could get.

As suggested by the work of Franz Kafka entitled A Hunger Artist, art is simply relative toward time; and that art is greatly influenced by how the society change and develop through time. That in any moment the art that is seemed to be practiced and appreciated by the majority, the form of art that is in trend could just condense if a new and a better one comes along. But as art, as perceived to be a form of expressing the self and the expression of beliefs, judging an art is never that easy for art has always and will always be subjective, thus judging it objectively isn't fair. This would mean that a literary art would never be better than military art or vice versa. Like a theory, it could not be judge through its truthfulness, but through its functionality. As it is for art, an art that expresses more of himself is more praise worthy than those form of art that delimits himself for the sake of conforming to the laws imposed upon by the demanding society we are all in. Consequently, the art that simply lives to conform isn't art at all for it defeats its very purpose, and that purpose is to express the self.

Hanging Fire : A Consummation

A hanging fire happens when the fuse of a cannon, or any other firearm, is lit but does not immediately takes off; as if it stops in a second or two before it fully ignites.

From the title in itself, Hanging Fire, it is evident that an African-American Teenage girl (i.e. the narrator) is waiting for the wind to do the job; and that job is to turn her wheel of fortune. She is simply waiting for change to come rather than take the necessary step and start to make a change.

To justify such claim, let me quote a few lines from the poem, there is nothing i want to do and too much that has to be done and momma's in the bedroom with the door closed. These lines imply that although much is expected form her, she still chooses not to take any of it. Though the the door may be closed, she still has the power to open it if she really wishes to. It was not locked, it was just closed and all it takes is initiative but still, she hasn't done any.

Life, often times if not always, provide opportunities to everyone. There may be competition but this so-called rivalry between the others was not made to inhibit but to stimulate.

As for the poem, being an African-American (the persona portrayed by the narrator) should not hinder her from exploring new walks in life, exploring new heights instead, it should be a motivator; that although they are seen as different, they too are capable of making a difference.

AfterThought :The Fury of Overshoes

After a few rereading and a small exchange of views regarding the poem, I could infer that Anne Sexton's The Fury of Overshoes, is a poem that speaks about anger, about wrath.

Not that it is simply limited to the frustrations of a child not being able to have all that he or she longs for but the frustrations of every individual of not achieving their ideal self, the self one is deemed of becoming. This is the major dilemma of a person, to be able to establish one's self, to self-actualize. But unfortunately self-actualization does not just happen through taking giant leaps but instead, it takes small steps. Just as a fertilized egg does not turn into an infant in a wink of an eye, so as an infant would not turn into a kid in a second, no, everything runs smoothly, it runs and undergoes a process of development. And this process often involves stepping into the snow (going above others), feeling cold (solitude, as if the world has turn its back)and getting wet (embracing misfortunes).

Revised Edition (The Cask of Amontillado)

The thousand injuries of Lincoln Burrows I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled -- but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish but punish with impunity.

Lincoln Burrows was a family man; a man to be respected and feared and more so, a man to be envied. He was the epitome of perfection; he had undeniably a great physique, has a brilliant educational background, he was a renowned figure (he works as the personal adviser of the Vice President's husband Terrence Steadman), he had thousands of friends, he was stable , he had a happy family and the best wife; name it he has it all.

We have been acquaintances since secondary years. But he was not just like a classmate nor a friend to me for he was more like a brother; the brother I never had. Seeing him being praised everyday increases my feeling of jealousy, how can Lincoln have everything and me left alone with nothing? But thoughts like this was never worthy to be entertained, he was my comrade. The best among my friends, the only friend any one would wish to have. But then he become the man I never thought would turn-out to be my greatest rival. The man I would never want to caught sight, but now, I will be seeing him not just see him but meet with him. The thought! But I had to do it, it was my job to do it and so I will be doing it. Smile and keep it cool, that was what I planned.

"Lincoln, here you are. It's been like years."

"My dearest friend, Terrence Steadman, how could years pass without us meeting each other every once in a while."

"Well, are bounded by our personal responsibilities my friend and we could not just leave those essentials behind."

"Indeed!"

"So, wanna go grab some drink? Anything in particular?"

"I would love to, anything would do."

We had a couple of drinks while talking on issues both our clients had. As representatives of two-opposing parties, we were both tasked to handle things smoothly even before consulting our heads. But then again, private thoughts were never inevitable. After doing our work, we started to talk about our personal
matters. How each of our lives has been running since the past years. And by simply listening to every word he says relives my envious feeling towards him. That feeling of disappointment when he was honored as the valedictorian and I was down next to him. That feeling of hatred when he was the one my every-beloved woman chose to give her big "yes" instead to me. How I wish I was in his shoes. Have the work that I have been wishing. Earn the name I have been dreaming. Meet the woman I have been longing. But I was unlucky, I was unfortunate, not like him, he was lucky and he was fortunate. Though I have been gifted by a good job, this is not what i want. Though I may be married, but she was never the woman I intend to live the rest of my life with. It was never fair enough.

Lincoln is my ego ideal; the man I have always wanted to become but nevertheless, the man I will never be becoming.

As time continues to fly, more talks were made so as more drinks were served. Not only that but more insecurities filled me too. I couldn't help but feel so inferior every time he comes to speak of his achievements in life. More hatred, more grudges. Just as I turned back, everything turned black and there was darkness.

Everything seemed hazy to me after that moment. The only thing that was vivid was that I was already inside the car, with Lincoln right next to me and he was motionless. He wasn't moving much as he was not breathing. How could he not breathe? Was he dead? How could he die? Did I kill him?
How could I kill him? Kill the best among my friends? Impossible, but it felt so real. And as I look again in the passengers' seat, there was Lucas; still motionless. I ran out of the car, tensed and troubled. But how come guilt has not stricken me? What does that supposed to mean?

Instead of further contemplating of whether I really did commit a crime, I began to worry how was I supposed to keep him. And so I dug a large hole right down the family's chapel beside the altar and there I kept Lincoln. And there has he been staying for five decades.

It has been more than half of a century yet still the facade of that memory is just as conspicuous as it had been. How his ever-charming face turned pale after half a minute, the low cry at the back of his throat as he finished the last gulped of the drink that lead him a couple of feet down below our chapel's altar.

Lincoln Burrows.

My good friend.

My great competitor.

My ego ideal.

May you rest in peace.

Dumb Remorse

So when the time rolled around, I went to the depot to pick him up; for undoubtedly, this is the any mean for him to be reaching our house.

It was not such a long drive back home. We had made minute-long converses simply exchanging pleasantries; asking each other how ten long years had gone to fly so fast. And alas, we arrived. I parked the car, got out from it and opened the other side for him. Seeing him managed to get out from the car carrying his suitcases, a repressed thought emerged from my unconscious state of mind. But I didn't quite entertained the thought, I didn't feel the need of entertaining a single of it. And so I shut the door, moved him with me down the drive and up to the steps, to the front porch then to the door. And there was my husband, Lucas, waiting. I introduced Robert to my husband and likewise, he introduced himself to him.

Heading towards the sofa, we had made little chats and in between these small talks, I began to notice Lucas' strange actions. He was being rude, and it was evident. Asking which side of the train where a blind man would sit is certainly being rude. What a question which side! I mean would it matter which side? Would it concern a blind which side he'd be sitting on the train? He definitely needs to be reprimanded, well maybe later.

When we sat down at the table for dinner, we had another drink. I heaped Robert's plate with cube steak, scalloped potatoes and green beans as my husband buttered him up two slices of bread. We dug in. Ate everything that was to eat on the table. We ate like there was no tomorrow, we didn't talk. We ate, scar fed. We grazed the table. We were into a serious eating. We finished everything, including half a strawberry pie. For a few moments, we sat as if stunned, sweat beaded on our faces. Finally, we got up from the table and left the dirty plates. We didn't look back.

We took ourselves into the living room and I settled myself, so did Robert, on the sofa. We had ourselves three more drinks while talking about the major things that had come to pass for the past ten years. My husband made efforts to join in our conversation, as if prepared to answer any of Robert's queries that concern him. But unluckily, we were too engrossed to talk among ourselves and never bothered to include him in our dialogue. I guess that left him pissed-off and so he then decided to interrupt us by turning on the television. From the moment the TV come to life, irritation filled me. It made me uncomfortable, leaving my head boiling. Why on Earth would he turn on the TV when we were actually in the brink of serious talking? And for goodness' sake, we were with a blind man! He wouldn't appreciate the thought, of course, he would not. Strike 2: first, he asked for his position in the train and now, turning on the TV. One more strike and he'll surely be off the hook.

So to lighten the tension that was gradually increasing between me and my husband, I decided to leave them first and change my worn-out jeans and shirt. As i reached the room, I began to think of those thoughts that continues to trouble me as I caught sight again of Robert. Seeing how he tries to act as normal as possible reminded me of those days when I was in his shoes'; when I too was deprived with a sense of sight. I know how it is to be blind like him. It was difficult, very difficult. Seing everything in shades of black, forever wondering how blue the sky is and how green the leaves are. The thought of it alone send shivers to my optic nerves, leaving my eyes with salty tears. I would never want to be in that same situation ever again, and as much as I would not want to be in that same experience, seeing Robert struggle relives those moments.

My long, long buried past justifies my being so-concern towards people like Robert. Well, that is the least that I could do; show sympathy and feeling for them. It takes away the guilt, and thus, helps me move out from the shadow of my past, form the past that for so long has haunted me. But then, running away from a dark past would never end it, facing it though would certainly do. And yes, I will face it, face it this time for the truth would surely find its way out to be known. Not only that but to continuously lie to the man I love is one thing that I could not afford to do. We vowed to be with each other 'til death but how could he be with me all through out when even telling him a secret I could not do? This can't be, he has to know. Who knows, this might enlighten him and so he would understand why I am being so overly good towards Robert. So for now, I have to leave Lucas first with his prejudices, but I too would make sure that Robert's comfort would not be at stake.They are both my significant others, especially Lucas, he is my other half. So it is just but proper that I'll confess to him everything, and I would in due time.

And after such a long self-reflection, I decided to join them in their cannabis' session, I could smell it. I sat on the sofa, between them, took it and tossed, yawned then drown myself to sleep. I had trouble staying asleep cause things don't seem right as I was sleeping, Robert and Lucas spending the time together? So I woke from the nap, and there I saw the two of them working on something. I gave them an anguish look as if saying that they need to tell me what they were up to. But they did not say anything, they simply stared blankly. What i remembered though was Robert mentioning about a Cathedral or something like it!

Photographs and Memories

Pictures can paint a thousand words and can definitely stir thousands of emotions. These often leaves us with memories, be it a worth-remembering or a worth-forgetting one; but one thing's for sure, though these pictures may simply pass in a single glimpse, it carries along with it memoirs. But then again our perception towards things, such as pictures, are often colored by our personal biases thus mediating our view of the real thing, of what is reality. These biases may take the form of pre-conceived notions, or other self-fulfilling prophecies; which in turn delimits us into wandering and taking a look at the entire view of the picture. For an instance, whenever I see a blind person, I often entail seeing that person to a feeling of being sympathetic towards that person. As a justification towards my course of action, I am being sympathetic towards them for I know that they have always longed to be as normal as possible and since I am one of those gifted with a better health condition, assisting them in any means would be the least that I could do. But then again as performed by a number of them and as what I have noticed, these people are trying their hardest just so they could live by the standards of the society. They act as if everything is moving swiftly and smoothly. So why not open avenues for them instead? Why allow them to feel sorry for themselves? Isn't that adding insult to injury? Recognizing their limited capabilities and respecting them as beings having inadequate strength is certainly enough; but providing them special attention is too much. This is because handing down to them all their necessities is like voicing-out to the whole world that they could not provide for themselves, which is definitely not the case. Understanding though that at some times they would tend to do things at a slower pace than what is deemed ideal is a good thing rather. So, if they are capable of achieving it, why impede them excelling and obtaining a name for themselves?