My Freedom

Tuesday, June 8, 2010


when all the laughter dies in sorrow

and the tears have risen to a flood

and all the wars have found a cause

in human wisdom and in blood.

do you think they’ll cry in sadness?

do you think the eye will blink?

do you think they’ll curse the madness?

do you even think… they’ll think?

when all the great galactic systems

sigh to a frozen halt in space,

do you think there’ll be a remnant of beauty

of the human race?

do you think there’ll be a vestige,

a sniffle, or a cosmic tear?

do you think, a greater thinking thing,

will give a damn…

that man was here?

(Canon, the Chicago’s first album, 1972)

Reflections of a Tree Trunk

The knowing smiles from the worn out faces make me smile myself, especially when the owners are old friends, talking about the "know-it-all" posturing of their teen children. "How can i study without that Ipod?, i need music!" or " I need soccer in my activities or else how can I cope with first year?" huh?
Tired faces who’ve seen better days. There was a time I saw them like fresh daisies, all glistening with the sweat of youth, running around campus, leaflets in hand, passing out schedules and rally points, debating on puns and dialectics, even sharing the latest playboy in the safety of the science lab. Or dead drunk, with saliva slowly making that shiny journey from mouth to the floor.
Now, who’d ever imagine that after all those glorious days that never seem to end, we’d all come down to this: pudgy blobs of french fry fat, sitting drinking coffee and pathetically reduced to following the dictum of that age-old-tradition where one is imposed upon to attend reunions and relive the "good-old-days" ?
"I hate my children", my friend says. "They’re too much like me! All day till dinner, i sit with a bunch of clones who hug my tv and rob me of my favorite channels. I go out and play golf and my " prodigies" pile up in the car and try to put on their best dad joke. my neighbors think I’m cool but really, cool to the touch is more like it… almost dead cool."
As for me, I’m with my son everyday. Almost every second of the day to be exact. He’s eight, calls me tree trunk, likes to reads Greek Mythology and invents monsters and legends as if he had a copyright to them. Clutters of drawings, rough sketches and cardboard posters litter our house so much that I’ve numbers of times swore to the high heavens that I’ll never clean up again, ever.
He thinks the ATM counter is the place where grownups get money given by the government. Free. So why can’t I buy him the latest K-Zone, when he knows I have money right? He likes to call me "My King" and sometimes fixes the bed to look like a throne, compleat with a tray of juice and biscuits, but he bosses me around the house and reminds me to stop being stressed whenever i shout "you're killing me!". At least i don’t hate him. love that little guy so much, i still hug him tight when he sleeps. oh well, what do you know, the old tree trunk’s a softie.
The day is almost over and the color of the day turns into an earthy shade. The neighbor’s kids along with the neighbor’s dogs intrude upon the serenity of memories. Time to fade once again. Let’s crawl back to where we came from. Till next reunion.