Ivy Marie Apa
THE music on the radio is John Lennon’s “Imagine.” The song of the legendary Beatle’s man resonates in the four corners of the room where I sit awkwardly on a spacious couch. I position myself to a better placement and I hear the familiar words croon to rhythm.
“Imagine there’s no heaven/ It’s easy if you try/ No hell below us/ Above us only sky/ Imagine all the people/ Living for today/.”
It is a usual hot Sunday in my country where the sun shines brightly and the rain pours heavily. To my left is a 13-year old nephew who chuckles at the petty humor of an odd comic strip. He is delighted that cows and dogs and pigs can throw better jokes than his kind. To my right is a pile of recent newspapers I have not read since the day I decided to temporarily excuse myself of the right to social awareness. I have this beautiful idea of slouching on the couch until the neurons in my brain find a way to move my perfectly idle body. But that plan is gone the same way the peacefulness in my mind left, when the papers at my right appear to stare at me resentfully and there are images in my head that nag and disturb the force of my capacity to think and think sanely.
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There are many vexations – thoughts, words, faces, voices, expletives – all difficult to contain in this gray matter. The series of recent events burn through my head like fuel catching fire as I dig into my inner consciousness and realize that things have fallen apart, men have gone gods, gods have gone crazy. And I thank the heavens that the 90 million who have long fallen into a deep and dangerous slumber have finally been shaken awake. I am not alone.
The day of reckoning is about to come: The death of the woman in yellow. The devastation of recent storms. The gluttonous dinner at the big city. The inevitability of an automated poll. The ambition of a celebrated boxing hero, of a man in robes, of a random entertainer, of many, of everyone to join the reigns of kings and queens, and nobles and jesters, and mythmakers and urban legends. The phenomenal rising of the only son to realize the legacy of his martyred parents. The extravagant vow of the self-proclaimed poor boy to end the long and losing fight against poverty. The spectacular resurrection of the convicted plunderer to claim the highest throne that once was his. The tempting proposal of the brilliant minion to fly the people to greater heights. The epic massacre of 57 men and women and cars by armed gods and lords, and the lease of freedom rewarded to the same supernatural beings barely five months after their equally breathtaking performance. The conspiracy of the tiny woman to perpetuate herself in power. And, most damning of all, the bright promise of the smiling politician at the certainty of a doomed 2010.
Philosophers say that human beings are basically good. That every man has an instinct for good. When I watch the television, I see a man handcuffed behind bars after being caught robbing the lame woman in the dark corner of the street. I hear his remorse for his sins and invoke the suffering of his son lying sick in bed. When I travel the streets, I see a gangly kid begging for alms on jeepneys and shuttles, and taxis and cars. I see a middle-aged woman wave an empty hand and a dressed-up girl put on her pink earphones. When I go to church, I see a young man check his mobile phone and the animated mother at his side snip a small pouch of junk food for her toddlers. I see the priest raise his hand and hear him command the faithful to repent and believe in the Gospel because the kingdom of heaven is at hand. Instincts, after all, are strange.
I do not know why these things happen – why so much has gone wrong and has gone on long enough. I do not know what intellect, reason or logic can explain this plight. I do not know when the madness will stop and save what is left of little sanity. So I will not go on to wonder why the good die too soon, why too much rain can kill people, destroy houses, submerge lands, and orphan children. I will not try to raise the point why a million-peso dinner is the utmost insult to the million-strong faces that cannot fill their empty stomachs, or why an automated election is the best alternative there is to manual counting. I will not, for common sense’s sake, look into the glaring difference between personal interest and public service the same way I will not dare to peek at the obscenity of the emperor’s nakedness because to do so is asking too much of my capacity to comprehend. I will not – and probably never will – try to understand why gods murder men, rape women, mutilate men and women, bury cars and then get rewarded with more guns and bullets and handshakes. I realize that an attempt to put some sense into something when there is nothing to begin with, is spitting on the graves of those who have died and mocking the existence of those who continue to live. I will not – because I cannot – try to envision my future pinned at the yellow, orange, green, or red ribbon of a man who swears to deliver me from evil. I understand that it is 2010 and the Mayan calendar may have gotten it all wrong.
There are many reasons why I struggle to put into words the thoughts that overwhelm my senses. I write this to express the emotions that come with an impaired understanding. I write this because I am bothered that I am told my youth confines my wisdom, because I am accused of being too young to talk of politics and life, because I am told, again and again, that my generation is apathetic to the state of the nation. I write this to claim my time of self-righteousness because it is impossible to argue with impossible people who seem to know it all, talk so much, but do so little. I write this because I believe that social awareness is not a choice – it is a right, a need, and a duty to fulfill. I write this to try a shot at literature and hope that there are others who think the same way, see the same way, feel the same way. I write this because I want to pretend that I am not part of the madness. Most importantly, I write this to get rid of the things that threaten the relative stability of my sanity because I know that the universe will not forgive another drama.
I sit awkwardly on the couch, rolled into a ball with a pen and crumpled paper at hand. To my left is the amused nephew, to my right the piled newspapers. The music on the radio slowly comes to an end and I wonder how a musician imagines the things he imagines. I wonder if it is wise or if it is delusional to think of no heaven, no hell, no country, and no religion. Perhaps it is either. Perhaps it is better.
But whatever a man imagines, however a man dreams, the truth will hold true that the world will never live as one.
