How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways...

Two questions need to be answered from my previous blog: “Why do I hate her?” and “Why is loving her and loving art mutually exclusive?”

The more pertinent question is the first but the more important is the second.

Maybe the answer to the first question will lead to answer the second.

Why do I hate her?

Again, it is not a violent desire to inflict pain on her, to take revenge, or to destroy her. No, I do not feel any desire to strangle her, shoot her, or bash her in the head. Nothing of that sort. I do not have a passionate anger, bitterness or ill will.

I fell in love with her. And for a time I was actually capable of giving up writing. No wonder the muse left. I was contemplating adultery.

I wasn’t expecting to be reciprocated. But I wanted her to be my muse. For the first time, I was living the lives of the characters I wrote. It wasn’t fiction anymore. I wanted to stop writing and start living it. For the first time, I was in my own play. I was doing things I never imagined I could do. I was enjoying myself…maybe a little too much.

We were friends. Or I thought we were. But I took for granted the irrational female prejudice (a hasty generalization, I know) of classification—friends can never be lovers. But I knew that from the beginning. Hell, I was in love. I never cared for the resolution. I was in for the climax.

Then suddenly, she decided that I crossed the line. (Was I not entitled to fall in love and express it?) Five months after confessing to her that I did—through no fault of mine—she just decided to excommunicate me.

And so I attempted retraction before my execution. I confessed my being a mason, returned to the Faith, and retracted all the anti-clerical contents of the Noli and Fili. But the Church would not take me back.

Until now, I cannot understand how I got excommunicated. I mean, I have been in this situation several times before. Of course, it was the immature but natural reaction of most women. I would have understood it had she reacted immediately after my confession that I crossed her line. But it happened much later. Five months of doing what I was doing—expressing this evolved passion into actions and not anymore just words. Something we talked about and agreed upon. After five months, she just decided that I should be punished for falling in love. Just like that.

I’d like to think that we were really good friends; that she would understand that what had happened to me was not intended; that our friendship would transcend whatever passions evolved from it. Shit happens. It just happened. She knew I was not expecting reciprocation anyway.

I wanted her to be my muse.

She decided that it was a crime.

So why do I hate her?

Hate is not directed toward the other. It is actually directed to the self. It is the emptying of the self so that one is unable to give anything to the other. The contrary of Love.

Unconditional love is seeking the good of the other without expecting anything in return. Romantic and tragic but noble. Rejection is sometimes inevitable. Rejection is simply the inability of the other to reciprocate. “I’m sorry. I do not feel the same way, but thanks,” as teeny-bopper flicks would put it. Now, cutting off the relationship with the other because one decided to give himself freely is another story. Not reciprocating is different from despising the giver simply because falling in love was not part of the deal.

I’m sorry. I’m not Jesus Christ. He took it even if what we gave him was more than rejection.

* * *

She is just not worth it—leaving the muse for.

I refuse to have anything else in myself that I could give her. And so I destroy myself to stop myself from giving. Because I know if I still had anything, I would just give it to her.

I have to hate her. I have to have nothing to give to her. I have to give it to my art instead.

I have to hate her.

Because

I am still in love with her.

* * *

Me? Bitter?

Dissertation on Hate

For the first time in my life, I learned to hate.

I always imagined hate as something that is equally passionate as love—passionate anger, passionate bitterness, passionate desire for revenge, passionate ill will. Hate was angst and rage precipitating into tears, condensing into sweat and blood, transforming into physical violence unto the self and the other. Hate was death by torture, the atomic bomb at Hiroshima, the gas chambers of the ghettos, the dagger of Hamlet and the knife of Cain.

It wasn’t. It isn’t.

It’s much simpler than that.

Of course in the beginning, it may have started from a hint of bitterness. Bitterness is nursed by anger and frustration. This grows into a rage over time and eventually. The heaviness of your heart will tire you and cause your soul to die and lie on the sea of infinite angst.

But you ask yourself, where did the bitterness come from? Bitterness is the inability of man to see beauty in things. He develops this sense of taste when he has grown accustomed to disappointment, rejection, denial, and frustration.

* * *

I cannot remember exactly when I started to hate her. I only came to realize now that I actually have grown this monster inside me as I tired to breathe in the thick impure air of Pearl Drive at midnight. I was contemplating my unfinished play. Finally, I discovered what it was about.

It would be my dissertation on hatred. The story becomes clearer to me now. The protagonist, Leon, could not finish his play—which he claims to the best play he would have ever written. He could not finish it because he is full of hatred. I have known this for a long time. I do not understant why I hadn’t thought of it before. Maybe because from the moment of conception of this play, I hated it. And so, I couldn’t finish it.

A few months ago, I started writing the play which would be the best piece I would have ever written. The play turned out to be my worst, despite my best efforts. Now, I think, I am starting to understand.

My writing, my art, has been my wife, my passion, my life, my true love. Nothing could take me away from it. Not even the promise of a comfortable life. Ever since, I believed that one cannot produce true art without Love. Love is the necessary condition for the creation of art.

That was the reason I could not finish that play—the play I decided to call my best, my coup de gras, my masterpiece. I could not write it because I hated it from the moment of its conception.

I hated it because I fell in love with someone else. I fell in love with her.

I still couldn’t figure out why they had to be mutually exclusive. This is something I will have to meditate upon some more. But for now, suffice it to say that for some unexplainable reason, in order to love one, one had to hate the other. There had to be that binary opposite—something like loving virtue and hating sin, or the other way around.

But now, I think I am ready to finish that play. Because now I realized, I have come to hate her.

* * *

Hatred is the death of the soul. There is a sense of peace in it. But this peace is the peace of emptiness. It is not the pleace of universal harmony or organic unity. It is the peace of a vacuum—the peace of nothingness.

Now that I think about it, hatred is not really something that is directed towards the other. True hatred is self-destruction. Not the violence of destroying existence but the dead silence that comes afterwards. Hatred can only be directed to the self. Because when one hates, one murders his soul.

How?

If hatred were the binary opposite of love, and loving is giving one’s self without expecting anything in return, then hatred is giving nothing. Since it is natural for man to give himself out—to share himself (as his creator shares his Being with him), the act of hating is the deliberate emptying of the self so that he cannot give anything to anyone. Hate incapacitates man to share himself. And so hate reduces man to nothingness—a state worse than being evil.

Now it is interesting to note that Love and Hate have similar roots. Or, to me, love and hate have the same mathematical representation—ZERO.

Love is the emptying of the self in order to share—thus the person is reduced to being ZERO. Because one has given his entirety to another. Hate is similar. Hate is the emptying of the self so as not to be able to share anything. And so again, the person is reduced to being Zero—nothing.

The only difference is that in Love, by giving everything, you are transformed into something more because it is given back to you eventually, in one way or another. True love is always rewarded. In hate, existence is negated. Nature is destroyed. I wish I took my calculus seriously so that I can expound on this further. This could be the material for the other plat I am working on (ZERO).

* * *

This is tiring.

Wonder if I made sense…

Gabay sa Murang Pagbabalot ng Regalo
(para sa mga nagtitipid)


MGA MATERYALES:

1 Kahon
1 Lumang panyo o t-shirt na bigay ng ex-girlfriend
Mga lumang sulat ng ex-girlfriend
Scotch tape
1 Gunting
1 Pala
1 Krus na kahoy


MGA HAKBANG SA PAGBABALOT:

Isilid ang regalo sa pinakatagong sulok
Ng kahon
Lakipan ng luha
Bago takpan ng paglimot.
Tiyaking walang hanging papasok,
Hindi dapat matuyo ang luha bago mo isara
Upang manatiling sariwa sa alaala
Ang regalong padala.

Pilasin ang mga lumang sulat
Itira ang matatamis na tayutay at talinghaga
Saka ibalot nang marahan at buong pagmamahal
Sa kahon.

Gumupit ng kapi-kapirasog scotch tape,
Mariing idikit sa kahon ang mga sulat
Upang di makatakas
Ang luhang nagpupumiglas
Makalabas.

Balutin ng panyo o t-shirt na bigay niya noong Pasko,
Buhulin ang mga dulo:
Isiping ikaw ang regalong binabalot mo.

Pagkatapos,
Humukay ng may anim na dipa sa likod ng iyong bakuran
Doon ilibing ang regalong binalutan
Saka mo tabunan
Ng mga bagong alaala.

Tarakan ng krus ang pinaglibingan
Saka mo iukit ang kanyang pangalan.


13 Dec 2005

Hinaing kay Inay
(Kay Nanay Maria)

Sabi mo,
Pinipitas lang ang mga bituin
Sa kisameng langit ng dilim.
Naniwala ako sa mga habi mong oyayi
Habang pinapasuso mo ako ng mga panaginip.

Sabi mo,
Maaaring laruin ang ningning
Ng mga musmos kong daliri.
Sumampalataya ako sa iyong talinghaga
Habang pinipikpikan mo ang aking pangamba.

Sabi mo,
Ako’y lalakíng bulas
Kapag inulam ko ang mga munting liwanag.
Idinuyan mo ang aking pagpalahaw
Upang maisubo ko ang iyong pangaral.

Sabi mo.

Sabi mo.

Ngunit hindi mo sinabing
Ang kisame’y abot lamang ng mahaba mong bisig,
Na ang tala’y hindi malalaro ng aking titig,
Na kailangan muna itong tunawin sa bibig.

Hindi mo sinabing
Ang mga kwento mo’y para lamang patulugin
Ang haraya kong nag-aapurang gumising.


05 October 2005

Oyayi ng Ina sa Naghihinaing na Anak


Tahan na, meme na
Bunsong dilat kung managinip.
Batid kong balang araw ay hahaba ang iyong bisig
At mabubuo ang paninindigan ng tuhod mong nanginginig.
Naniniwala ka sa hindi mo nasisilip
Dahil sa mga sinuso mong panaginip.

Tahan na, meme na
Anak na maligalig.
Matututo ka ring maglakad nang pikit-mata
At malalaman mong hindi lahat ay kailangang makita.
Hindi mo ba nadadalumat sa tapik ng aking palad
Na mas mahiwaga sa pagtingin ang paghawak?

Tahan na, meme na
Supling na sinisikmura.
Alam kong gutom ang iyong diwa
Sa tulang hindi nauubusan ng talinghaga.
Ngunit wala pang ipin ang gilagid ng isip
Kailangang tunawin sa laway ang pagkainip.

Tahan na.

Meme na.

Nababasa ko ang bawat mong uha.
Hindi ka pa dumaraing, alam na ng iyong Ina.
Tahan na, bunso.
Itatago ko ang iyong puso
Sa magkapatong kong palad.
Meme na anak.
Iduduyan ko ang iyong pagtangis
Sa magkayakap kong mga bisig.

Tahan na.

Meme na.

Ihiga ang haraya sa aking kandungan
Dahil bukas paggising, sasanib ito sa kalawakan

SAIS coming this AUGUST

I finally finished working on the script of the 11th Kultura play called "SAIS." Rehearsals have started and I am so excited to work with the new talents of the University as well as the veterans. This play is actually more inspired than adapted from the Pirandello play "Six Characters in search of an Author."

This will probably be my last play for a long time as I take a sabattical from writing plays...unless of course something comes up that I will have to write to pay for my rent.

The play may be weird for some people as I will be tackling my own writing process and my beliefs about art and theater in this play. The story goes--five characters from my old plays arrive at rehearsals to stop my supposed "last play."

I haven't written the ending but it's all in my head already. The cast and crew are in the dark as well about how the play will end. This should be a very interesting experiment.

TWENTY QUESTIONS

I'm still working on leaving for London to take a Masters in Scriptwriting or Filmmaking. So before I leave, if Carlos is not staging this for Every Man Productions, I shall be staging it myself somewhere in ortigas. I just need to find the money to pay for the place...If I had a house here, I'd stage it in the bedroom. The staging of this play has long been overdue. If only I had a peso every time this play is forwarded in the internet, I would have the money to stage it.

Hint...hint. For those who enjoyed reading it...baka gusto ninyo akong pondohan. :)