By: Iris P. Concepcion
This time around, the nuggets of wisdom I had inherited from my ascendants won't come to naught. For unobliterated years, they had taught me the value of dignity even in the face of firecracker doomsayers popping on stranded kids' gaggle of giggles (nothing beats the "isa pa, isa pa" of a two-year old encouraging you to give more armpit squeezes like I am a battery of laughter).
I have seen these ascendants fought devils wearing their muddied feet and craggy faces. One thing I noticed: they never speak much. A sentence, a pause can suffice as paragraphs of spiritual and transformational undertones, sometimes hiding their majestic gloriousness in calm and quiet sobriety.
I am trying to compete, word for word, one of these admired writers but I always fail beside this towering, un-inferno scribbler. Here:
I felt peace upon reading that we are on same rocking shuttle, battling laser(s)words of annoyances. It feels good to have a human being accentuating what is obvious and sharing my happy clubfoot. Even if we do our defenses via quirky lollipops, humungous biscuits, funny candies, enormous diapers and underground music, the forefront is still with us. We do not need an I-pod; we aspire for body-enhancing melodies to stuff our ears with wax in G-clefts and notes.
On another note, one of my ascendants, in our weird, coming together gatherings, blurted needlessly: "I hate him. He is obtuse." I laughed, of course. It was exactly my point of contention, boiling as it were at the back of my critical mind.
I need to allow these kind of earthlings to flourish. You can sell everything in your life for that rare gift of formenting even a single, productive deed.
Then, you can walk and write and talk and laugh and smirk and contemplate even if psychotic animals are prowling on the road.
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE. Thank you for visiting this corn page over the years. The cob is still strong and lately, wearing pink.