An Old Conversation About Man, Personal Universes and Belief

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I was thinking about other stuff while I was in the train.

Amazing how man is no? I mean, we make beautiful things, that's for sure. We make them in all sorts of ways; tangible and intangible. Like architecture and music. It's like man has the entire universe for options and when he makes something, he picks out distinct things to work with, and he ends up with something else that's greater than its parts. I think they call it an ouevre.

And these ouevres, you know, if you come to think about it, are all basically definitions. An encapsulation of the enormity of everything. We can make it pretty, or make it sound great, or whatever you want it to be. You hold it in your hand, proclaim it's the entire existence of everything, and I don't think you're wrong. Then, when you, uhm, release it (to your desk for example), it becomes a part of every other thing. But in that moment when you had it in your hand and you're looking at it, it's the entire universe. Am I making sense?

What's amazing is that man has the ability to create these definitions for himself and has the freedom and intelligence to do so. It's like we're all gods. Or maybe pro-active observers or something.

Wow. Pure poetry. :)

We are gods. Though some replace this power with apathetic existentialist whining. That doesn't change the fact that we're still relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of things of course, but still, like you said, we are gods, if only for a particular fleeting moment that is, for oneself, as long as Time and as far-reaching as the universe.

Thanks. :) You got what I said pretty well. I was afraid someone might read whatever I wrote down in a Christian context. (Like most people would. Not that it's bad, but it's way off course).

But when you mention the universe as this vast, ultra-incomprehensible big, big space, and compare it to man, you are talking about man as a material body right? I mean yeah, we're not even a speck of all that. But when you take man's ability to create, it's like time and space cease to matter, you know? I mean, why must we all think the universe is this super big place? Why can't it be whatever we see and assess and only that? It's actually difficult to explain without contradicting myself... sigh, but I think you get it.

We need to think in both contexts, I believe. My own personal universe gives me power, but in the context of the (material) universe it stops me from being a narcissistic megalomaniac who believes is better than everyone else.

The thoughts do not really contradict themselves. They're two very different things concerning two very different logic systems.

That sounded pretty good. Why can't I phrase my thoughts and feelings like your first paragraph? Lol.

Although, I'm not really keen on the idea that man has a natural inclination towards becoming a narcissistic megalomaniac when he (only) considers his personal universe, or maybe I just don't want to believe that.  I mean, somehow, he must have already translated his experience of his personal universe as something that other people already have experienced.

I also think that this interplay of personal universes is extremely fascinating. Funny how there's a lot of conflict and compromise just to arrive at the same basic notion or idea.

You're right I guess. Empathy is usually a great way to stop oneself from becoming a narcissistic megalomaniac.

On a related note, I've always found my relative insignificance to the material universe a source of power. Put it this way: If everything I do will in the end ultimately be unimportant, and is only important to me and my immediate surrounding environment, then it becomes terribly, terribly important to me. Thus, I get power from it.

Some people, on realizing their insignificance to the universe, are paralyzed. These are usually people who believe in power and a certain grandeur i.e. heaven, money, fame, armies. Then there are those who gain power from it, like me, who enjoy their relative obscurity to the world at large.

I agree. This relative insignificance DOES make you consider your actions to be either meaningful or meaningless no? That's a great point. That's something I've always believed in, although this is, I have to admit, the first time that belief of mine has ever been put into words.

It is pure self-empowerment I think. A very humanist way of looking at the universe. The world revolves around you because when you die, it really does end; well, at least for you anyway. So everything is important.

So I believe in making a difference and trying to achieve something. But I'm not foolish enough to believe it will become more important that what it really is.

I don't know if I believe it just ends when I die. Maybe, maybe not. It ends in one sense that's for sure. But I'm alive now. And every time I reflect on the "now", that for me is infinity.

Same affinity. But, for me anyway, the threat of death (not necessarily my own) makes me look at things for what they are, without having to worry about stuff that really doesn't concern me now. Maybe death isn't the proper word. I think what I really mean is when anything important (including my own life) ends. The threat of the important thing ending gives that important thing (whatever it is) a new dimension of importance and urgency.

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Original, unedited conversation can be found here.

To the 13 Year Old Boy Who Shot His 17 Year Old Lover at the Mall (Notes on a Murder-Suicide)

Image taken here.

It was with a peculiar, and perhaps less than noble, fixation that I read about your crime.  A crime which was extraordinarily morbid, and sensational.  And I gathered the following details: You were thirteen years old. You stole a .22 caliber pistol.  You wrote a suicide letter; short, but it got the message across.  You went to SM City Mall, Pampanga.  You met your seventeen year old lover in front of the Astrovision store in the mall's Building 3.  You shot him in the head.  The bullet lodged in his brain and left him brain dead.  You then turned the gun on yourself and pulled the trigger.

And then there are the things I imagine:  How you walked up to him, angry and hurt; how you made a speech, hoping that he would understand; how he rejected you; how you pulled a gun, and felt some small bit of satisfaction at the fear that suddenly came into your lover's eyes; how you shot him in the head; how he bled, and bled, and kept on bleeding; how you realized that he was going to die for real; how you kept on repeating that you didn't mean for any of this to happen; how you realized what a lie those words were; how, in your heart, you knew you meant it; how you didn't want to die; how you felt you had you no choice; how cold, metallic and uncaring the gun felt in your hand; how thoughts of dying felt better than the idea that you would go through life without him; how you pointed the gun at yourself and pulled the trigger; how you didn't realize that there would be so much blood. That you would have so much blood. As if the flow of blood would never end. A river of blood.  

How you lay on the floor gasping, waiting for the darkness to consume you. Hoping that in death you could be together. Frightened of the possibility that you won't.

Then a moment of silence. Perhaps stubborn righteousness. Perhaps regret.

How you died.

And then a call to two sets of parents unmindful of the strange, compelling drama that has just claimed the lives of their two sons.  How they did not understand.  How they wailed and cried and mourned.  How they railed against anyone they could blame: the mall security, God, the world.  How they wanted to have their sons back, questioning how the world can continue going on. How the world remains unchanged and unconcerned. 

How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves. How they blamed themselves.  

How their lives are never the same again.  How they died, in their own way. How there are more victims to this story than those dead.

News about the shooting can be found here.

Darkness

Angelo Reyes, a retired high ranking general caught in the center of a corruption scandal, committed suicide by shooting himself in the heart in front of the grave of the love of his life: his mother. I never liked the guy as a public figure but what he did tugs at my heartstrings in a truly elemental way. The Philippine Daily Inquirer put it quite beautifully: "The crisis in which Reyes found himself was truly turbulent, and the Loyola Memorial Park (where his mother was buried) in Marikina City had turned out to be the still center, his personal zone of peace, in a storm of surprising ferocity. Many of us were shocked when we heard of his death, and the shock deepened when we learned that it was in that central stillness where Reyes had drawn the strength, not to persevere, but to kill himself."

It instantly reminded me of a high school classmate who killed himself a few years ago. I went to the funeral with a handful of friends. It was a closed casket. We were told that the reason was because he shot himself in the head.

His Friendster page "About Me" section contained only two paragraphs: first, about how lucky he was that he had found the love of his life, and second, about how he wanted to die surrounded by family and friends. And in my head I imagined him, alone and in front of a computer. When asked to describe himself, incapable of doing so in notions less than love and death. I believe he had the heart of a poet, tragic and beautiful at the same time.

I would like to say that I believe that suicide is never the answer. But I find it difficult to judge the people who choose this path. My head is unable to comprehend the depths of despair one must feel to inflict this kind of pain on one's self and on the people one loves. Why choose oblivion?

I would like to end this post with an answer, but I really couldn't. All I've got are more questions.

Photo taken here.

Mourning

I met Gino in first year high school. He was a transferee from another school, so it was the first time we met each other. We became seatmates, shared a couple of jokes, but were never really friends. I remember him as smart and articulate. He wasn't the best in class, but he was definitely above average.

After that year, we never became classmates again. I saw him once in a while, and worked with him in a school play during senior year, but our relationship never went beyond casual acquaintances. We interacted around the same circles, but our conversations rarely moved above polite small talk.

I was in college when I heard the news. Gino died in a plane crash. The news was shocking to say the least. He was young, definitely, but more than that, it came completely out of nowhere. I made plans to go to the wake with my friends to pay our respects.

The plane crash and its relation to Gino's death is notably depressing in one more aspect. You see, Gino was traveling with his family. And when I say family, I mean the whole clan. They just came back from a family reunion. The plane crash virtually wiped them all out.

When we came to the wake, there were 6 coffins, of varying sizes. I asked my friend Ron where the other dead were being kept. Ron said he didn't know. I saw Ioanis crying in a corner. Another acquaintance, Anthony, bought several garlands of sampaguita. He was carefully, artfully, arranging them on Gino's casket.

The news of the plane crash was certainly huge, and appeared on a lot of local news shows. The fact that one family came from a reunion made it even more tragic, so particular attention was brought to Gino's family even more. His best friend, Louis, told me that there was at least one survivor that he knew: Gino's mom. She wasn't able to attend the reunion because she was sick. She stayed at home while her family flew to Davao.

There was a short mass, and prayers were said over each of the closed caskets. Ioanis was still sobbing, and it was getting louder by the minute, but he was trying to compose himself. Ron's eyes were red, as were mine. There was a lump in my throat. Beyond grieving for a lost friend, we were, or at least I was, grappling with the absurdity of the situation. How could this happen? What does this mean? Why this complete unfair arbitrariness?

A few weeks after the funeral, I met up with Louis, and asked him how he was. He told me he's okay, and that he was making it a point to visit Gino's mom every week to see how she was. He told me that the first time he saw her, she was almost catatonic, but that she's getting better by the week. He was also worried for her. He didn't know, rather, didn't want to think about, what she would do if left to her own devices for too long. He wanted to share in her pain.

He said he missed Gino. But there was nothing he could do. He's moving on, he said.

I have one lasting memory of Gino, which is forever etched in my head. It was Christmas season, and one of his friends handed me a gift. We were seniors then. I opened the package, and found a large statue of an angel, as well as a love letter. I thought it was sweet. It was one of those instances that made me feel, during those difficult years, that I meant something to someone. Even someone I didn't really know. It made me feel glad to be alive.

Photo taken here.

Death and High School

The first time I met Allan, we were sophomores. It was also the first time I met Ron, who would eventually become one of my closest friends. That year was a year of many firsts for me, but high school being high school, it wasn’t easy.

Allan was an interesting guy, funny but insecure. Our relationship settled on that gray area between acquaintances and friends; we joked around each other, but we were never close. Ron knew him better, and they shared many intimate details about their lives and dreams.

One memory stands out among the collage of images that form in my head whenever I think of Allan. It was free period, and we were joking in class. We didn’t have a lot of homework, so we were rowdier than usual. Allan walked up to me. I expected the usual banter, so his bullying came as a complete surprise.

“Bading ka ‘no? (You’re gay aren’t you?),” he said, giving my shoulders a little push. I’ve just gone through a growth spurt, so the bullying surprised me on two levels: first, because I thought we were friends; second, because he was a head shorter than me. If it wasn’t so out of the blue, I could’ve kicked his ass.

Instead, I kept my mouth shut. This was a new experience for me, and I had absolutely no idea how to react. How do other people deal with it? I remember Ron once hit a guy because the guy said something Ron didn’t like, and Ron is around two-thirds my size. I wanted to hit Allan, but I felt paralyzed and unsure.

I’ve been hiding in the closet for so many years that the idea that someone may uncover my secret terrified me. And here he was, declaring the truth for all to hear. I wanted to deny it, but I knew it was true, and that I’d only sound insincere. I sucked it up and kept quiet.

The bell rang. I spoke with Ron about the incident, and together we developed several ways to exact revenge. Ron’s more of the physical type, he said he probably would have hit Allan if the latter did that to him. I said I’d rather be subtle, let’s destroy his reputation.

We were only fantasizing really. I don’t doubt Ron would have hit him, but I probably wouldn’t be able to go through destroying Allan’s reputation. It would weigh on my conscience too much. Besides, I had the sinking feeling he was bullying me to impress his friends.

Lunchtime, the same day, Allan went up to me and apologized. I was still with Ron, still cooking up ways to destroy Allan, and here he comes offering an apology. I was angry of course, but I also understood. High school can be hard on those who refuse to go with the tide.

***

We were seniors, and Allan had to repeat a year because he got sick. It was Ron who told me.

“Allan’s dead. He killed himself last night. The last person he spoke to was his sister. He tied a belt around a beam in his room, and hanged himself.”

I didn’t know how to react. More than a year had passed since I last spoke with Allan, so I forgot about him. The lukewarm friendship we shared had easily dissolved into a fading memory. I knew he had a new set of friends now, but I didn’t know anything else. No one was sure why he committed suicide.

Ron asked if he can hitch a ride to the wake. I said yes.

***

The story spread through school as fast as one would expect with news this big. Rumors sprung like mushrooms. “It was because he got caught with X-rated magazines and alcohol during a school retreat,” someone said. “His father beats him up regularly,” a sophomore insisted. “He’s secretly gay,” said another.

The last one struck me, not because it was true, but because I understood why a closeted high school student would want to kill himself. I knew, because I thought about it myself. I know that that part of my life made me who I am today, but actually living that part was a nightmare. Being misunderstood is only fun in hindsight, not when you’re being alienated at that specific point in time when your peers’ approval is as necessary as air, or water.

Someone once said that adolescence is the worst because that’s when you are at your ugliest, in that period where it was the most important thing for you to be your prettiest (or handsomest). It was a joke, but it was also true. My friend Ioanis (who studied in the same high school) told me once that he never understood why I considered myself an outsider.

That’s because I was, I told him. Ioanis had already gone through the process of coming out, and though he lived in the fringes of the high school hierarchy, he had friends there, who knew him and accepted him. My secret forced me in a place similar to the relationship I had with Allan: a gray middle ground that offered few opportunities for real friendship. I was still lucky. I found two.

I wondered what secrets Alan kept. What drove him to that final, desperate act? I remember the boy, always funny, his words always tinged with an unsure quality, and I realized I knew nothing about him at all.

***

We’re at the wake, Ron and I, sitting a few rows away from the coffin. Ron pointed out the father; a short, stocky man in a black Lacoste shirt, eyes red and glistening with unwept tears. We sat for a few moments, unsure what to do. We decided to approach Allan’s dad to offer our condolences.

He was exceedingly gracious, with a voice that was much more composed than what his face belied. He asked if we were Allan’s classmates. I said yes, but didn’t elaborate further. I didn’t think it was appropriate to bring up the fact that his son had to repeat a year.

He reached for this piece of cardboard that stood on the coffin, and showed it to us. Proudly he said it was a poem written by his son, for an English class. It spoke of love, and friendship, and understanding. In that context, a father obviously holding back grief for a dead son, I wanted to weep. Ron was unnaturally quiet. We said it was a nice poem, and sat back down.

Ron was fidgety, and because I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked him what the matter was.

“You know that poem?” he asked. “I wrote that. I showed it to Allan one time and I never thought about it until now. I can’t believe he passed it off as his own.”

I was stunned by the complete absurdity of the situation. “Well, keep quiet about it. I don’t think now’s the best time to accuse someone’s dead son of plagiarism.” Moments later, I started to find the whole thing funny. “You know what? Think of it as a parting gift. He was our friend after all.”

Photo taken here.