We Once Had A Farm

We once had an orchard – a five-hectare property planted with mangoes, tamarind,guavas and pomelo trees. I loved that place, its leafy canopy shaded the contours of the area, and where the smell is the smell of life, and the earth. The gently rolling hill was a cradle that held childhood memories o f Christmas parties, games and idyllic frolic. I have loved the gently leaning shack of the tenants who lived there. The scent of ripening mangoes would perfume my recollection of this place.

I remember hiking on weekends with childhood friends. My friends and myself would have barbeque and would spend the day there – losing ourselves in boyhood games, and imagination. It was a place of childhood frolic and fun. I would point out to them our carabaos – Assemblyman and Doktora (named after my dad and mom) and their daughter, Gangga (named after my eldest sister). My mom got the scare of her life when our tenant reported that Gangga was bitten by a snake (thinking that our tenant was talking about my sister. She then realized that the actual Gangga was at school in Cebu).

My father began to construct a rest house there. I always thought that it would be perfect to live there. In my young boy’s mind, I was already envisioning days spent in bliss, the silence of the hills broken by the gentle rustle of leaves, and the soft calls of the carabaos. Once I fancied myself an artist, and this farm could be where my studio would be – finding inspiration here, and creating things of beauty, very much like the place where all these will be created. Childhood was filled with grand plans for a precarious future.

Somehow, the intervening events prevented these plans. We were sent to Cebu to go to school. I only rarely got to see this farm. Soon caught up in the turmoil of teenage angst, and preoccupation, the farm, while rarely visited, became a backdrop to our lives. It was a place in the distance; a primeval place abandoned but always longed for.

And then my mother got sick. The farm became a place of comfort for her. She would go to this farm and find whatever solace she could in its peaceful refuge. The cool breeze and the silence would comfort her. The flowering mango trees, and the slowly ripening pomelos seem to hold a promise of continuity and time – extravagance that my mother realized were no longer hers. When she passed away, we had her buried in a spot that overlooks the gently rolling hills. It was her favourite place. From that vantage point, you can see the rice field. In his grief, my father built a chapel to house my mother’s tomb. He would spend many days there, finding consolation in the rich atmosphere of the farm.

We have lost this farm in a series of uncalculated moves and as a result of naive dash of optimism, a casualty of poor financial planning perhaps. But the circumstances went so fast we did not have time to mourn the loss of this place. I was already here in Baguio when it finally happened. But distance was not too far as the news reached me with surprising ache. I can only imagine the pain my father felt as the thought of losing that precious place would mean. My elder sister, filled with nameless hurts, suffered at the idea that we cannot hold on to that place. While my younger siblings were too busy to making a career for themselves on another island, I am sure they too felt the loss of an important place – a place of mythical and iconic significance for all of us – marking the end of an era, an end to a life we once had. I have not estimated the amount of loss we have incurred – not just financially, but more importantly, emotionally, but I am sure, it is a loss whose significance will haunt us in unexpected moments.

There will no longer a place to visit whenever the fevers of life become too much. At some future day, I will no longer be able to bring my children to a place, and say, “This is where I have spent my days as a boy,” or point them to the spot where my mother is buried, and say, “That’s where your lola is buried. She was a great woman, and I am sad you did not meet her or got to know her.”

There was a tinge of sadness in my father’s voice when he told me that someone has already bought the property, and that we have to move my mother’s bones to the family plot in Davao. On other days, or in my previous life, I would have railed and ranted at the misfortune – but there was a quiet resignation in me that day. I felt sad. I will mourn the loss of this place for I don't know how long – but life must go on.

Pop, or is Carlos J. Caparas an Artist?

Pop. Kitsch. In tagalog, masa, bakya, baduy. And when these words are said, it is always accompanied by a derisive tone, as if talking about something distateful, something offensive. And for some, pop, or popular is something unacceptable. Never mind if the vast majority love it- music, movies, literature. If it is branded as pop, then it tolls its own cultural demise as something insignificant.

Popular culture, also known as mass culture or kitsch (German for mass or common), is generally looked down upon as vulgar, shallow, and worthless. Popular culture is often characterized as exploitative and is created solely for profit. Popular culture is described as a cancerous growth on high culture that takes advantage of fully matured cultural tradition, extracting its riches and putting nothing back. Popular culture is proscribed controlling powers onto the passive susceptibility of the ignorant masses, to which decisions lie between consumption or no consumption. Popular culture integrates the masses in a form of debased high culture.*

Now the discussion over the validity of pop art, and or even the discussion on the definition of what makes art is taken to another dimension. Carlos J. Caparas, director of kitschy, campy movies with bad acting, writer of komiks, among others has just been proclaimed National Artist. According to the wikipedia feature on him, Caparas is is a Filipino comic strip creator/writer-turned director and producer, who is best known for creating Filipino superheroes and comic book characters such as Panday, Bakekang, Totoy Bato, Joaquin Bordado,Kamagong, Kamandag, Angela Markado, and Tasya Fantasya Gagambino, Ang huling lalaki ng baluarte, Pieta and Ang Babaeng Hinugot Sa Aking Tadyang and amongst others. He is also known as a director of numerous movies dealing with massacre such as Kuratong Baleleng and The Cory Quirino Kidnap: NBI Files. Quite a body of work.

I am sure there are cries of dismay and disgust at this unexpected turn of events. I asked a friend if Caparas' art- pop art, at the very least - is finally given legitimacy now that he is honored with such a title. He said, "Pop art is even too good to refer to his works. They have just demeaned the erstwhile lofty awards. And previous honorees will have less pride for their trophies!" He is not alone in his opinion, and certainly there is credence in his statement.

However, without going into the discussion on the development of the concept of "culture," and all that discussion on high culture versus low culture, I make the following observation:

Popular culture remains an integral part of society, and though suspicion may be justly cast upon it, popular culture as a possible description of society cannot altogether be dismissed. Popular culture becomes the resource available in constructing meaning, identity and habitable space, especially in a consumer society. Through pop culture, we sense the identity of the “faceless, nameless mass,” its soul even.

It may not suit the finer tastes of the cultured, perhaps. It may even be a sensory affront to some, but since when has it been the elitists' and the select few's responsibility to dictate the way one thinks, or appreciates art, no matter how pedestrian? Such arrogant imperialism should not only be subverted, or coopted, but radically opposed. The popular culture reflects the identity of the people, and to deny it is to deny their own personhood.

My question: Is there a universally recognized standard for art? Are the class-based judgments of quality universal as standard set of aesthetic criteria?

Admittedly, Caparas' work fails to make the grade when the finer aesthetical sensibilities are applied. But there is no denying too the mass appeal of his work, or even how his work has been ingrained in the popular imagination. Granted, the National Artist Award might be a huge step (deserving, or undeserving), and i am sure this will fodder for many discussions, but shouldn't we at least redefine once more our criteria or how we derive it?

Just asking :-)

*See Roxanne Howdle, Is High Culture Superior to Mass Culture: If So, Why?, internet; available from www.essaybank.co.uk/ search.cgi?LinkOrwne=roxanne_howdle; internet; accessed 28 August 2002. See also Colin MacCabe, The Eloquence of the Vulgar: Cinema and the Politics of Culture (London, England: British Film Institute, 1999); Jean Baudrillard, “A Conjuration of Imbeciles,” internet; available from www.uta.edu/english/apt/collab/texts/conjuration.htm; accessed 20 September 2002.

Photo Credits: http://images.search.yahoo.com/images/view?back=http%3A%2F%2Fimages.search.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%2Fimages%3Fp%3Dpanday%2Bfpj%26rs%3D1%26ei%3DUTF-8%26fr%3Dytff1-msgr%26fr2%3Dtab-web&w=144&h=114&imgurl=i34.photobucket.com%2Falbums%2Fd149%2Fishelu%2Fpandaylogo.jpg&rurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.freewebs.com%2Fpinoytv%2Fchaka.htm&size=11k&name=pandaylogo+jpg&p=panday+fpj&oid=767416ddb5f0dd6c&fr2=tab-web&no=16&tt=22&sigr=11980m6s4&sigi=11ln9mtah&sigb=1311cip5l

Hard Times

We have fallen on hard times

When the only true currency we have left

Are memories of abundance soon to be forgotten,

Where even in our waking dreams

The ghosts of things past have cease their mad gyrations

And the stench of hogs scents our days, and haunts us.

The tattered remains of our treasures, the solitary coin in our pocket

Are all that is left of our squandered existence

Dire in our poverty, we have felt the sharpest pangs of hunger

But the tears can no longer flow

Dissipated, we are the hollow people.

It wasn’t always like this.

We were children of a King, nobles from a faraway kingdom

Barefoot, we make our way to a road we swore never to tread again

We rehearse our lines, aware of our diminishment

Who cares for a feast of fattened calf when a morsel will do?

Who cares for a robe and a ring when the simplest of garments will suffice?

Who cares for an embrace when a look of acknowledgement will be enough?

Kindness

Kindness is a balm to a festering wound, a cup of cool water for a parched traveller, both unexpected and unasked. It is the soothing tone of voice you hear that comforts you from ragged fevers of life, the warm feel of a palm placed on your forehead. Kindness is a gift, a surprise to those who have been roughened by rudeness and apathy.

Rainy Season Reading List '09

Torrents of rain came pouring down. A far cry from the searing heat and the bone dry air of the desert where I have just come from. Was the trip just a dream? At the end, memories are all that we have.

In memory of my recent trip to the Middle East, and with the word "arabesque" still echoing in my head, here are my rainy season reading list:

1. Naguib Mahfouz' Children of the Alley

2. Naguib Mahfouz' Karnak Cafe (highly recommended by the sales staff at the Virgin Store in Kuwait)

3. Amin Maalouf's Leo the African

4. Amin Maalouf's Ports of Call

5. Nikolai Gogol's Dead Souls

6. Lauie Lisle's Portrait of an Artist: A Biography of Georgian O'Keefe

7. Thomas Merton's Seeds of Destruction

8. Allison Fell's translation of The Pillow Boy of the Lady Onogoro

9. Frances Mayes' A Year in the World: Journeys of a Passionate Traveller


Frances Mayes wrote this: "What man can travel this long road and not fill his soul with crazy arabesques?"

Indeed.

“You need to resign yourself to the awkwardness of life. Only if you find peace within yourself will you find true connection with others.” palm reader, Before Sunrise

So Listen...

So, listen. There are things that grab of you, and sometimes, these things do not let go. It shapes you, it moulds you, it affects you in ways that are radical and dramatic, in ways that are subtle and gentle. But then, there is Him. He who lays hold you, and He changes you, and the core of your very being is never the same again. He is the breath of life itself; He is the freshness that blows in the dank, dark corners of your life. He is the cleansing you need; the traces of your harlotry and your rebellion are washed away.

So listen. What do you want to do with the rest of your life?

The Little Big Church Has Grown Bigger

So, let me tell about some people I know:

Dan is a cool guy. He plays awesome music, but he also draws. He is an artist, and you see that the first you see him. But what keeps him going, and literally jumping for joy every time he leads worship is something deeper than affinity for upbeat music. He has found the meaning and purpose for his life, and this brings the smile in his eyes.

Mon is a boy scout. He is always well-dressed, always careful. He is a gentleman in the mold that is no longer made. He has a sense of “old world” charm about him. When he speaks, it is well-thought of and careful. But when he prays, and when he worships, he closes his eyes and he loses himself to a place only he and God meet.

And then there is this young lady whose name I do not know, but I see her every Sunday. She must be on her way to work whenever she attends the service. But before the busyness of her day overtake her, before the necessary and important details of her day needed to be tended to, she comes in here to catch a glimpse of her True North, and in that way she is never lost in the fevers of life.

These some of the people I meet Gateway Community Church, and these are some of the reasons why I love my church.

Worship is a primary activity for Gateway Community Church. In fact, worship is at the very core of what and who GCC is. Worship, obviously, is not limited to the church services conducted every Sunday. However, these worship services is a significant part of the life and spirituality of the body of Christ. These worship services are times of celebration, a time of rejoicing, a time to gather and partake of God’s Word, letting it influence, change and move us. It is a time to learn and to minister to one another, and most importantly, a time to praise and declare God, and what He is doing in our lives and in our life as the Body of Christ.

Gateway Community Church is composed of men and women whose lives have been transformed by the knowledge of and passion for Jesus Christ. This is the core of who and why we are gathered together as a body, as a community. The community is about needing to explore the dynamic life of the Christian faith, and to connect in a deeper way with God, recognizing that one is able to do that in the context of a circle of meaningful relationships. This community is about spiritual maturity, and ministry involvement, knowing that a sacred ingredient to the Christian’s life is active participation in the ministry. In an atmosphere of mutual encouragement, openness and authenticity, Gateway Community Church endeavours to express love, grace, hope and care for the broken world even as they recognize their own brokenness.

At Gateway, we are challenged to live our Christian lives in a fresh way. We do not want to be satisfied with just living a formula, or someone’s idea of the Christian life. There is an intense desire to bring meaning to our everyday lives, and make it count for His glory. But in order to that, we value authenticity, and sincerity. We come as we, knowing that to truly worship, to truly grow and to truly minister in the most effective way - we must look at our own selves and recognize that by the grace of God, we are what we are.

I have been part of this church just on the cusp of its growth, and now it is entering its seventh year. A lot has transpired, and there numerous unprecedented milestones since then. The last three years alone saw dramatic and important moves as the church continues to walk in the leading of the Holy Spirit. Zeal for evangelism has marked the community. Well-attended worship events that has so far expanded to three services every Sunday, and a dynamic mid-week service on Thursdays, and the various groups that meet throughout the week are just a few concrete ways I have seen the growing passion of this church.

And while it wasn’t a long time ago that I called this church “the little big church,” I feel that that title is no longer appropriate, for it is not so little anymore. It hasn’t lost yet the small church feel to it as the members remain as close to each other and as concerned with each other as before. However, there are more people coming in every week, and whenever I am away too long, I feel I needed to introduce myself to the kaleidoscope of people that come every Sunday. This is what I love about Gateway Community Church – it is a church where people from every walk of life is heartily welcomed, and taken in like a long lost friend.

The Artist of Faith

An artist of faith - a real artist - may therefore cry: Listen, we have a myth that consoles and secures, one worthy of a lasting belief, one we can surely live by. It is "myth" insofar as it is the timeless, defining story by which we make sense of a senseless existence. But it is truth insofar as it happened. It is vaster than I am (says the artist). I did not create it; it created me. I may name it with my words; but it is the word which named me first: Jesus Christ the Righteous! But the artist of faith had better cry that in language as fine as that of the secular artist who sings of the abyss.

Colosians 1:15-20

by Walter Wangerin, Jr.

We stole this fire together

Prometheus’ boon in our hands

And we ignite the flammable darkness

And the cobwebs of this dank place

Is consumed in a burst of brilliance

We saw the world before us

And we were astonished

By its beauty

By the sheer bravado and daring

Of its inhabitants

We were bowled over

By its vivacity, by its intricacy

The spectacle before us, illuminated

Sparkles with a vividness that is

Captivating, engrossing.

And yet

We were frightened

For an undercurrent of malice is at hand

A hint of unnamed evil lurks

In places even this fire cannot

Completely erase, drive out

We were perplexed,

For while beauty and transcendence exist

Ugliness and pain are its mirror images

And while kindness mark our days,

The blood of hapless victims cry out

And so we ask ourselves

Do we want to close our eyes,

And refuse to peer out into the darkness?

Shall we extinguish this fire?

Or shall we continue to hold it up high,

Until all see the light, and rejoice?