Of course I am in a crisis. I always am. The contention stems from the arising doubt of whether this crisis is anything worth writing about, or if I can even put it into words at all.
I don’t have anything to say. In all honesty, I’m just testing out my lordship over this blog. Funny how it’s been almost half a year since I began writing/posting/rambling here and while it has felt like home I never truly felt it to be within my command. The fear of judgement has always been there–the ghost of a prejudice from imaginary critics. This place runs under a dictatorship, like a kid pushed through a waterfall into the cave beyond—he does it and does it fast only because he is afraid of getting hurt. The odd thing is, the dictatorship is not mine, but the outside’s.. But the odder thing is, the outside does not give a rat’s ass about whatever is going on in my universe. And yet I am crippled by it. Imagined things can be as damaging as real ones.
Odder. I like that word; it lives up to its meaning. The magic of semantics is in that you don’t really know what semantics is but you can sort of feel around its edges and say confidently that this thing is a semantic thing.
I am mopping up the writing style of whoever author—and, more recently and alarmingly, whatever book—I am currently reading. The first time it was Jessica Zafra, in high school it was Bob Ong, and then there was the entire intellectual activist spirit of the Philippine Collegian. I even had a Murakami/King phase—yes, combined. Now the flower and seeming distended-ness of narrative of Arundhati Roy’s ‘The God Of Small Things’ is creeping into my open-mouthed beta-state rambling—or more like, my prose dips into this well from time to time, and it emerges with striped patterns of mundane and flower, of followable trails into materialistic concerns of aesthetics and untraceable, carefully aesthetic crooning about materialistic concerns. What.
I am painfully aware of how weird my non-Standard English must look like to its native speakers. I comfort myself by thinking of how Jose Garcia Villa bastardized the language and made it into a thing of incomparable beauty in the process. Of course the only thing that I could lay claim to as something which Villa and I share is the God complex that persists in his work (and even in his mighty pen name: Doveglion standing for dove, eagle & lion) (and even then I’m not entirely sure our sentiments about the matter are similar) and so I may have no right to assume that because He does it then I can, but yes I like excuses when I can have them.
My prose oscillates between hot honey spilling into cracks in concrete on a tar black day to bland rattattating that scrapes the ear like a fork being dragged across the surface of your brain.
(There is no narrative. There is only too much Arundhati Roy. And I don’t even like the book all that much so far.)
I do not know what I am saying. I do not know if I am saying.