Phoenix Songs and the Leaden Tears of Persephone

He was the domineering figure whose shadow we are under even though hundreds of kilometers separate us. His was the moral standard we were brought up with, instilled to us through our mother. His was the work attitude we were imbibed with; of never resting when there is work yet to be done.


He was the Fear. Summer days spent under his roof was arduous at best. We were ever mindful of the things we say and do, as it might displease him, and we are to blame.


He was the Law. Whatever he says must be done as he said it. When he tells you to get water from the nearby stream, you do. When he tells you to clear the pathways of grass and leaves, you do. When he tells you to wake up at daybreak for breakfast, you do.


He was the Myth. I have the strongest recollection of stories about his fights against the creatures of the night, of his conquests of unholy beings feeding upon the viscera of hapless humans, of witches and their deadly spells. I recall the mystic article he uses as belt, made from the tail of the stingray, said to be deadly and tortuous when lashed upon the evil entities he battles with.


He was the Chooser. He chooses his favorites and favors them lavishly in his own way. He backs them on every argument and he sides with them. They are his favorites. But not me, nor my brother, nor my sister. We were never favorites.


He was the Villain. He chose to side with his favorite daughters, and against my mother. The dawn of this new millennium greeted us with unspeakable turmoil, thus distancing us from him even more. I was not a witness to it, but I heard tell of his disowning us.


Last Sunday he died, my grandfather. I never really knew him. But somehow, there is in me a blankness, a void, that I don't know how to describe. Am I sad for his passing? I should be. Am I devastated? Honestly, no. What I do feel is a general grief over someone's passing, almost akin to the grief you would feel when a stranger, or at least a distant relative of a friend, dies. I know it shouldn't be enough, but that is all I've got.




published in friendster blog June 25, 2007 at 9:39 pm

The Mute Witness to an Uneventful Life

It's been a year since I started this blog, and all I have to show for it are ten measly posts. Either I sensor myself too much, or my life is boring enough to write about, or I don't have what it takes to blog. But why would I accede to those? I'm egotistic enough not to let that kind of self-doubt get in.


But still; ten lousy posts for twelve months since opening this account?! Whatever happened to my 'flirting with the written word'? I do believe I have more than average capacity to continue these, but where must I get the energy and inspiration to go on?


And that is the crux of the matter, isn't it -- Inspiration. No matter how proud I am of my vocabulary, if I do not get inspired to put them in a coherent state, nothing will ever be made, and that will be the end of this blog...




published on friendster blog June 17, 2007 at 9:20 pm