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Tuesday, December 27, 2005
Obenieta: Piece for the pessimist
By Myke U. Obenieta
So to Speak
Every dog, certainly, has his day.
As the year winds up and wags its tail in anticipation of another, unleashed once more — ad nauseam — is the ho-hum of howling for the moon. Or, the wishful thinking commonly known as New Year's Resolution. Never mind if the promises we propose for our own personal fulfillment (to attain the ideal, if not unreachable, version of ourselves) end up as usual like canine droppings stuck beneath our careless feet.
Do you know where you’re going to, so wistfully teases a song. As 2006 zooms into view, we can only hope that we’re on our way to a higher road. But if certainty were only as clear as the cracks on the crystal ball, we’d better take our cue from the wisdom of the blind man following the lead- or the leash- of his dog.
It’s the only resolution worth being moonstruck for: to live with more creative vigor.
It’s what propels flights of fancy, such as the notion of things going nowhere but up after hitting rock bottom. That, yes, things would not be worse than it is today.
It’s what compels the will, by the engine of one’s imagination, to live up to one’s expectation: to make a world of a difference whether for ourselves, for others, or for our nation.
It’s what scrapes the roughness of skepticism — so in style among us baring our fangs about the future —enough for it to reflect, no matter how dim-lit, a glimmer of open-mindedness no matter if it falters at wit’s end.
It’s what softens the edges of hard-headedness enough for us to think someone wary was still considerate enough to hang a warning that says, “Beware of dogs!”
It’s what makes sense of humor possible in the long haul. As when acceptance is swallowed not by biting one’s lips but by spewing out the stale taste of a wish deferred. As when we’d grin and bear being doggone once more, rolling our eyeballs while waiting for yet another chance to have the dices of one’s fortune on a roll. Rome wasn’t built on a single day or a year, was it?
It’s hitting a blind alley or a dead-end, after all, when we dismiss or deem untrue all the beautiful things in the world, proofs of such words as saving grace or transcendence, still happening despite the ugliness, the cruelty, and madness since time immemorial. It’s barking up the wrong tree when we yelp that turning a new leaf would never come to fruition.
The rest is failure of imagination.
Happy new year, dear reader!
(December 27, 2005 issue)
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