saisun

I am a Roman Catholic, born, Baptized, raised, and Confirmed. I still consider myself Catholic. But only in a sort of vague, "ethnic-group" sort of way. Truly though? I don't subscribe to that system of beliefs anymore. Hell, not to ruffle any feathers or anything, but I don't subscribe to Christianity in general anymore.

Can't say I've ever been able to justify the whole thing logically, and even though I'm not a particularly logical person, that fact? It just bothered me.

So. What do I believe in now?

Can't really say. If I must believe in a God, then I think that that God would be an impersonal one. One whose concerns do not include whether or not you've gone to confession this month. Or at all. He/She/It would be too busy being omnipotent. Therefore, this entity would not have the same emotional reactions or connections that we humans create, and would not subscribe to the rules that we humans follow. Hell, He/She/It may not even have emotions at all. At least, not in the way we understand them.

Necessarily, this God would leave us to our own devices, and I think that is awesome. We don't need some Big Beardy White Guy hovering over us, waiting with a hug and a book of rules. We need to discover ourselves. Explore the world. Enjoy it. We need to take responsibility for our own actions and acknowledge our own limitations. We need to be, and we need the space to be. And I think the hypothetical God I've described in the last paragraph would leave us alone so that we could do precisely that.

Alternatively, what we understand as God can simply be a personification of -to steal a term from Levinas- the Other (Yak, Levinas! Ano yan, Philo103?!?). But not the Other that would burden us with the responsibility for the endless horror of our irretrievable past, and the unmitigated despair of our unattainable future. Rather, I think this Other is more akin to Derrida's linguistic/semiotic Abyss. That which is unknown and beyond, but also within us. It is what drives us, because we are not yet (Ayun, isa pa yan, Heidegger! Ano ka, Christina, Philo Mode? Mag-aral ka na kaya ng Civil Law mo?!), and have never been. God is the unknown, and we stand between It, and what we know (which itself is also infinitely full of the unknown). In our struggle to live and understand, we move through It, within It, constantly slipping between meanings and re-imaginings and the physical world. And in this way, we take part in jeu: we play.

I believe that life is play. It is a game we create with ourselves, with others, and the Other, primarily so that we can have as much fun as possible. And God is the Game, the Playground, our Playmates, and Ourselves.

So... OK. Nevermind. I'm only partially-conscious, to be perfectly honest. I'm not entirely sure if I'm making sense. So to make it simple, here is what I believe:

I believe in goodness. I believe in the world. I believe in energy and dynamic tension and the music of the spheres. And I believe that eating a half-ripe Indian mango with some salt and soy sauce? Is totally awesome.

It's not Summer for me yet, but the mangoes are in season. So enjoy.



note! All those Dead White Guys I've been (mis)quoting? Haven't studied them in years. Literally. And I doubt I even studied them particularly well. So, if the more academic-minded of my (probably) nonexistent readership should find offense at my utter lack of knowledge/understanding/logic, I would like to apologize, and would gladly welcome criticism and correction.

2010 has been an... interesting year.

Let's leave it at that.

And now, before this snippet of information decides that it wants to hide in one of the many back-alleys of my convoluted psyche, here's something interesting about death:

Traditionally, the mourning period for families of the recently departed is one year. If, within that period though, a new family member is born, the mourning stops.

In Negros Occidental, and possibly in other Hiligaynon-speaking areas, this is called "hukas-lalaw." Direct translation: shed the mourning. I learned about this tradition earlier this morning. The cook mentioned it to my mother (I don't know why).

"People still do that?" My mother had said.

"It's like that time my father died. The moment we put him in the ground, my sister was born. We stopped mourning right off the bat. It was so nice, it was like Tatay was with us again through Annabel," Nang Eden replied.

While we here are pretty much Roman Catholic through and through, this tradition has overtones of reincarnation: a new birth is also a rebirth.

In the cities, this isn't practiced anymore. Hell, I was actually pleasantly surprised that this existed. Somehow, I find this particular norm reassuring in a bone-deep sort of way. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I find the cyclical viewpoint it reflects, life-affirming. Maybe I'm just glad I've learned something new about my culture. Whatever the reason, there it is.

/nerdsquee

Also:
HAPPY X-MAS and HAPPY NEW YEAR!::worldglomp::

Fuck you, September. Fuck you very much.

Hungry Ghost Month can suck it.

Excuse me while I shake the dust of that month from the soles of my feet.

Hi September. Be less of an asshat, please. A girl can only take so much Real Shit in such a compressed time period.

I think I was thirteen. While swimming in a cove in Hinobaan, I got pulled down by an undercurrent. For what seemed like an eternity, all I could see was blue, and the multicolored blur of the corals below. I actually felt like the tide was trying to consciously sweep me into open sea; no matter how hard I swam, I couldn't quite break the surface. I'm fairly certain that I was only under for about three seconds, but those three seconds scared the ever-loving crap out of me.

Still hasn't kept me away from the sea though. Sometimes, I privately taunt the water to pull me under again; just to see how far I'd go.

I wish that my laptop was actually a quantum doorway, where I could reach into the screen; through space, time, and matter, so I can grab the dishes before the Iron Chef judges could take their bites.

Elton Brown: (After Battle Black Bass between Iron Chef Morimoto and Challenger Chef Sanchez ended in a tie) There are still winners here. Of course, the judges, who got to taste all the fine dishes won. And we, who got to view this spectacle, also certainly won.

Me: "WE" didn't get to win as hard as those judges! ::yearnreachenvy::

Also, apparently, chicharon in Spanish, is chicharrones. Hrn. A little disappointed that this deliciousness isn't completely homegrown, But I'm not entirely surprised, either.

On the other hand, considering the fact that the Philippines enjoyed lots of interaction with Mexico and other South- and Central American Spanish colonies, it's perfectly possible that Old Timey Filipinos were the ones who'd spread the Chicharon Love.

Mmmmmmm. Chicharon.

Am watchin me some Battle Shrimp, between Iron Chef Mario Batali and Challenger Chef Tracy Desjardin. And scratching drooling.

Iron Chef makes a happy in Christina's Imaginationbelly. ::blissful grin::

...So, when I told you not to drop the ball, you decide to allow a virus that keeps my nose leaking for weeks, to set up house inside me. And as if to "apologize" for that little setback, now that I'm on the mend, I'm SUDDENLY ALLERGIC TO UNIVERSE. Thank you auto-immune reaction to Random Shit.

WTH. Over the summer, I'd developed a nasty set of rashes on my arms, legs, and neck. Because yes, I am apparently allergic to my own sweat. They were so bad, that those parts of my body were covered in raw sores and pus-filled boils. And then, through a remarkable amount of Terramycin and Betnovate, as well as a truly heroic effort not to scratch, I finally stopped oozing. The wounds healed over, and save for some residual dryness, discoloration and scarring, my skin began to take on a more skin-like quality. Y'know. Instead of a sick cross between reptilian scales and bubbling swampland.

I generally don't sweat much, and with the weather being cooler, I've hardly been sweating at all. Still, the rashes are coming back. Except they're not just in the isolated pulse points I'd already mutilated with my own fingernails, no. THEY'RE ALL OVER. So far, the only spots that HAVEN'T been affected are my face and torso. Even my frickin' EARS are red and swollen with histamine-itch. I haven't hit the "oozing and raw" stage yet, but when I'm itchy, I tend to scratch unconsciously. I've already clipped my nails nearly down to the nailbeds, but I know that it's only a matter of time before I hit the Oozing Pustule stage again.

Worse: I don't know if this is still that virus-thing, but I'm currently a bit short of breath, and my nose and throat have been taking turns: nose dripping and throat itching.

THE UNIVERSE IS MADE OF ALLERGENS.

It's like I spent the last few nights doing tequila shots with gin chasers. Without the fun Drunky part. Or the barfing. Actually, in retrospect, the no-barfing bit is probably a good thing.

WHY AM I STILL FUCKING SICK?! ::RAGERAGERAGE::

Stupid fucking cold. It's mid-July, goddammit. I've been full of Virus since mid-fucking-JUNE.

I'm sick of using up so much tissue paper.

Don't get me wrong; I don't have anything serious. But I've been sniffly for the past two weeks and had an itchy throat for the past four. And occasionally, I get really. Really. Tired.

But. I need to study. And do stuff.

And I want to start doing arnis, dammit. There's an arnis club that teaches on weekday afternoons and Sunday mornings, here on campus. Can't do that if my vision starts swimming the moment I break into a sweat. T_T

::pinches bellyfat:: Oh hello, Delia. There you are.

No fever. This means I lose Imaginary Money.

Le sigh. Even in my imagination, I am destitute. ::silent tears::

Ah well. Pet virus is still humping my leg, but at least it isn't trying to chew its way into my skull and lay eggs there.

It not dengue at least.

Now back to studying.

Sick. Again. STUPID VIRUS KEEPS ON MUTATING AND COMING BACK TO ME.

On the bright side: regardless of how much glop I've been secreting, I still have yet to develop a fever. But now that I've called it, I'm going to bet imaginary money that I'll get one tomorrow. ::sigh::

Or better yet. This turns out to be dengue. Oh happy days. My blood type is A-. Just letting y'all in elljayland know. Y'know. Just in case.

I've decided to think of this virus as a horny puppy with a bad skin condition and severe abandonment issues: annoying, really REALLY persistent, and kinda pathetic. Because no matter how many times, you kick it or try to push it away, it'll come back, wagging its ragged little tail. Then, it'll stare up at you with its watery googoo eyes and start humping your leg. Again. And again. AND AGAIN.

...except that regardless of how gross or awkward the horny puppy is, it's still a LOT cuter than a rhinovirus.

So... I have a pet mutant virus. And it doesn't even have the decency to be cute.

...

I should have just gotten myself another kitten.




I miss Dobbie. /suddenly depressed