emotional illiterates, and a note to myself

“I’ll tell you something banal. We’re emotional illiterates. And not only you and I — practically everybody, that’s the depressing thing. We’re taught everything about the body and about agriculture in Madagascar and about the square root of pi, or whatever the hell it’s called, but not a word about the soul. We’re abysmally ignorant, about both ourselves and others. There’s a lot of loose talk nowadays to the effect that children should be brought up to know all about brotherhood and understanding and coexistence and equality and everything else that’s all the rage just now. But it doesn’t dawn on anyone that we must first learn something about ourselves and our own feelings. Our own fear and loneliness and anger. We’re left without a chance, ignorant and remorseful among the ruins of our ambitions. To make a child aware of it’s soul is something almost indecent […] How can you understand other people if you don’t know anything about yourself?”

– Ingmar Bergman

This really gets to me. I find myself looking at people and not seeing people anymore. I’m ashamed because I look at them like their only purpose is to be useful. I hate that. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to measure people by how much they can give me, by how much I can take from them. I hate it. I’m ashamed. Is it because of the constant drilling of my econ classes to view people as mere input choices? Something that can be easily substituted, viewed as objects to ‘optimize’? Is it because of my lack of emotional literacy? Is it because of the premium on productivity we so value now? Because I can’t. I can’t handle it anymore. I’m ashamed, ashamed, ashamed. Chili, learn to put others before yourself. But putting them before you means to open yourself up to understand them. And if you open yourself too much you won’t know what’s coming in and out. So try to know yourself. Look inside, so you can give.


what i talk about when i talk about talking

This is a post about language.
Or better yet, my lack of ‘one’.

In my country (the Philippines), we have two official languages– Filipino and English. There is a moat of dirty politics surrounding this issue (ex. is Filipino just a disguised Tagalog (a dialect); does fluency dictate identity; is there misplaced nationalism in language; etc.) but I’m not writing about any of this in particular. For one, I love both languages I was born into. Filipino is for the tongue, English is for the pen and Taglish for everything in between. I was born into two systems of thinking; I grew up in three. This was and is normal. In fact, I took my bilingualism and fluency in the international tongue as an advantage– I could talk to foreigners without breaking a sweat, but I could still converse comfortably in secrecy in Filipino. My thought process was somewhere in between both. 

But as my love for literature (specifically poetry) deepened, I began questioning myself. Poetry lives in the spaces between words, in the borders of speech and memory. Our most profound truths lie supine in metaphors with half-lives, and the collapse of the “like” illusion is what makes it poetically inaccessible. Suffice to say that language carries its own truth (mental note to read more Derrida) and beyond being a method of survival and communication, our mother tongues, if alive and evolving, carry whole identities in their own lexicons. Translations, no matter how modern or updated, will never be enough– we can only hear murmurs of Neruda’s pulse, only distillations of Homer’s epics, and vignettes of Schopenhauer’s misery. We can come close, but as long as we are aliens to their native language we cannot be completely privy to the soul each work cradles. (Side note: Rimbaud is the main reason why I’m still struggling to learn French.) I firmly believe that every writer (and reader) has to have a certain relationship with language in order to express humanity in its purest and most unadulterated form (also in what I think is its most artful) because for some writing or speaking is the only way. Some people can dance or write music, but for me it is speech and as a dancer uses the body, I choose words.

I find this incredibly difficult. I think I have already embraced my bilingualism but I cannot exist in either or both. I live in both but it still feels inadequate. There is a point of unintelligibility that is no longer in reach of poor vocabulary or structural linguistic ignorance. After all, language expresses thought and feeling. Do you think in words? (I have yet to read more on this.) I have always wondered if thoughts unexpressed are still ‘valid’. The answers I get are far– mostly because people think I refer to thoughts not expressed /out loud/ due to /inability to express during a certain time/. What I wonder is this: what about the thoughts we cannot express because of linguistic limitations? We cannot make up a word for every sensation or phenomenon. And this is where my problem lies– can a mother tongue suffice? Most seem to think so. Can multilingualism suffice? They say it’s practical. I still wouldn’t know. 

All I know is this– there can be languages for the mind, the heart– but not the soul, not the being. Just as truths are hidden just beneath text, we only truly exist in spaces. Do not mistake speech for connection. Language can only take us so far in our relationship with the universe.

poem of the day

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother’s face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

Rainer Maria Rilke

the lisbeth salander effect

Kalle fucking Blomkvist.

She doesn’t give shit, and neither do I. We’re alike that way.

But unlike her–it ain’t my bad, not this time.

I miss you though. I miss you both. Come back soon. Even if I’m not sure if I still want to burn you both for leaving me behind. (I can hear you laughing, shut up you douchebag.)

also, things that i would like to say to you (even if i really won’t. like ever.):

  1. i knew that soon we wouldn’t know each other so i asked him what the opposite of stay is. he stood there, his hands on his hips, thinking.
  2. it could be last week when the missing got so big you wrote him a letter and sent it.

I’d like to keep you to myself.