Oracle

1. source of wisdom: somebody or something considered to be a source of knowledge, wisdom, or prophecy

I’m guessing most of us have our own personal oracles – gods, prophets, people, events, works or things – that we reach out to during times of doubt and distress. I have several that I go back to from time to time to regain perspective and inspiration. Two of my Filipino oracles are Gary Granada and Conrado De Quiros. They’ve had a big influence on me probably because I encountered their work during my receptive days. I was immediately moved not just by the profound and honest truth of their words but the clincher was how they invoked and brought the emotion to the surface. The lyricism, the play of phrases, the wonderful stringing together of thought and words, of words and thought pulled me right in.

My brother introduced me to Granada many years ago and I remember watching him on Ryan, Ryan Musikahan which was Ryan Cayabyab’s weekly TV show. It was writer’s night and he sang his best songs with some narrative and back story to boot. I liked that episode so much that I asked my brother-in-law, who was working for ABS-CBN that time, to make me a copy. I had that Betamax tape for years before it finally succumbed to the elements.

As for De Quiros, I can’t remember if I read his columns or if I got a hold of his two books first. Flowers from the Rubble and Dance of the Dunces blew my mind away. I have a copy of the second book but to this day I’m still looking for a copy of first. Because publication of these books have stopped, I strongly feel that Filipinos, especially the youth, have been missing these resources on history and society and have been robbed of the chance to immerse in the artistry of the essays. It’s unfortunate that the books have long been out of print. It’s also unfortunate that he hasn’t done another compilation of this There’s the Rub articles.

One thing that has persistently bothered me about writing and journalism is its seeming futility. I worked for a media organization once and the experience gave me a natural high. Under a spell of magical realism, it felt like I was writing for my family, my friends and my country. But under the pangs of doubt and disillusion, it felt like I was doing it only for myself, for my personal indulgence, to satisfy my own myth. Back then, we developed and worked on a story for 1 or 2 weeks. The story airs for 12 to 15 minutes. At times it felt like such noble undertaking. But then the story quickly becomes old and is forgotten. The world moves on – unmindful and uncaring. I’m not exactly sure if it’s like the Olympics where athletes train for years to perform on the world stage and then it’s done in an instant. We’ll all probably forget most of it. Is it all futile, then?

I often wonder why people stop writing after a while. Sure, some remain prolific throughout their lives but countless just let go of the passion. The flame dissipates until it completely dies out. Song writers, essayists, poets, book writers and even bloggers cease writing after some time. Is it because all their essence have been poured out and nothing worth sharing remains inside? Is it because every topic seem to have been written about already that there’s little room for originality and creativity? It is because every form of love and despair have been assembled into a song that there’s nothing else to hum about anymore? Is it because these writers have succumbed to the feelings of futility and have decided to do something more pragmatic?

In the last line of Madaling Araw, one of Granada’s early songs which interestingly enough he wrote with De Quiros in mind, he says “..ngunit ang wika, nagbabagong kahulugan. Sa dalas ng bigkas, unti-unting nawawalang kabuluhan. (loosely: language changes meaning. In its repeated utterance, its significance gradually diminishes.)” This is one of the reasons I don’t read De Quiros all the time. I’m afraid that the repetition would weaken its hold on me, that an article would impress me less because I saw something similar a decade or more ago. I’m not saying that articles are rehashed. On the contrary, the few that I read here and there are fascinatingly fresh. It’s just that I get these feelings of futility reading about another political or social issue. Its like the names have changed but the events described are part of a rerun. It’s like reading from De Quiros’ two books except it has been 20 years hence and some minor details have changed. Quoting from Granada’s Balon, he says “..May bago nga ba sa mundong ibabaw kung ang nandon ay dati nang nandon. Lulubog at lilitaw ang araw at di mo maipangaw ang duyan ng taon. Inog lang ng inog lang ng inog, habang panahon. (loosely: Is there really anything new in the world if what’s here now has always been here. The sun rises and sets and you can’t restrain the rocking motion of time. It just spins and spins and spins until the end of time)”

Just last night though as I was poking around the web, I saw that De Quiros released a new book. Tongues on Fire is a compilation of speeches which I assume are all his. During the book launch almost a year ago now, he made another speech titled Worlds and Words. And my oracle has enlightened me once again with his poetic wisdom. Reading the piece felt like opening the bible and finding the perfect verse. I was bothered by the seeming futility of writing, of reporting, of journalism. Apparently, throughout the years he had been asked: “Don’t you sometimes get tired of writing columns given that things don’t seem to change at all?” In the piece, he describes the struggle and mentions the despair. Although I strongly urge you to read the speech which can be found in the Inquirer archives, I’d like to highlight one point made there:”..victory and defeat are not just determined at the end of things. They are determined in the middle of things. Or they are not just found in the nether regions of posterity, they are found in the hard-edged space of the moment…The human worth is not found at the end of a life, it is found in the course of it. Victory and defeat are not found at the end of struggle, they are found in the course of the struggle itself. “

It’s never been futile then because at the barest minimum, if no one else paid attention, the writer himself is made better by the exercise. I remember back when we used to console ourselves with the idea that if we are able to change one person, move him or make him think, by what we wrote, said or did, then it has been worth it. In the course of life, the value it adds to the human worth might just be immeasurable.