Sacrifice

There are few concepts more easily misinterpreted than sacrifice.

Its etymology is strongly religious, as in a precious offering to a deity (to appease, to atone for sins committed, to heed a request, etc.). The modern dictionary says that it is “the destruction or surrender of something for the sake of something else.” This then gives us three kinds of sacrifices:

Beneficial sacrifice The surrender/destruction of a lesser value for a greater value. Example: pawn “sacrificed” to capture a queen in a game of Chess.

Detrimental sacrifice The surrender/destruction of a greater value for lesser value. Example: saving a stranger’s life at the expense of your wife’s.

Trade (non- sacrifice) The surrender/destruction of something for the sake of something of equal value. Example: exchanging your bills for coins.

The third is actually a problematic type of sacrifice, but is ultimately necessary to express the concept clearly. In other words, sacrifice is a form of “exchange” (though not necessarily between two entities) that is undertaken consciously. It can either be advantageous, disadvantageous or neutral from the perspective of the party involved.

For all practical purposes, I consider only the first type as genuine sacrifice. A detrimental sacrifice is just plain stupidity and a trade, well, is technically not a sacrifice.

In order for us to make sense of the concept of sacrifice, we must first have a working hierarchy of values -- one that is universally sound and will stand to intense scrutiny. It does not need to be definite and detailed, for we can make it up along the way or even change it as we deem fit. The important thing is that it coincides with what we believe in and in no way contradicts our individual principles.

The framework God > Country > Family > Self or a similar permutation may work just fine for most people. But we all know it’s never as simple as that. What’s curious about values is that it has often become a philosophical end-in-itself. Most rationalizations point to values as a foundation, a starting point of everything, to the point that nobody has bothered to explain how they are formed and where they come from.

But no one has to. We just know. We know that giving up smoking is nothing compared to the well-being one will regain from it, and the eventual joy it would bring those who care about us; we know that relinquishing one’s role in a loved one’s life is nothing compared to the happiness derived from doing the right thing; we know that something is always better than nothing; and we all know that the self infinitely extends to everything we value. We just know these things.

There is no such thing as an unselfish sacrifice. That’s an oxymoron.

My Condolences Just Doesn't Cut It...

I wish that my father was alive, if only to ask him what he was going through when he was twenty-three.

I really think this is a good age to live life: our incomes are significantly greater than our responsibilities; change is still that sexy stranger; the future is bright enough to shed light on the past; and love, love is not yet boring.

But this is also the age of anxiety – a torturous, sleep-stealing anxiety that will just not go away. It hides in everything we deal with; often disguising itself as excitement until we realize that the masquerade was all our own making. I tell a friend of mine to stop preempting forever, because it will happen on its own. What exactly did I mean by that? When I was (we were) in college, any idiot could get laid for being spontaneous. Now it seems that permanence and stability are the most sought-after values. Permanence and stability – what has the world come to?

My mother says that I’m my father’s son (I was like, “Really? Thank God then…”). Seriously, she tells me that I have his walk (swagger), authority (arrogance), love for the written word and music (cultural elitism), and respect for the primacy of the moment (a blunt refusal to consider the future). She says that we both have the resiliency to overcome all obstacles to our goals (Yeah? I wonder what kind of obstacles a prominent Tausug scion faced…) and that we always seemed to be in control of the situation (the key word being “seemed”).

There are more parallelisms. My father changed his surname from Baginda, a name associated with his father and clan, to Asama, his mother’s maiden name (it means “Lion”, how cool is that?). Mine was changed from Baginda Ibn Asama (a name that screams “muslim terrorist”) to Valdez (they even added Angelo to complete the Christian effect). Hell, they even changed my given name from the imposing "Muhammad Jafar" to the wussy "Jeffrey". My father changed his name to cement his hatred of his own father onto what people would call him everyday. It was as if he cherished his hate and wanted to be constantly reminded of it. My mother’s family changed mine because they thought it would give me a better chance at a decent life. In hindsight, I cannot find the heart to balme them.

I was suddenly reminded of my father not being here anymore by someone’s grief at the loss of her mother. I mean, my father died when I was four – I just remember him as this tall bald man who didn’t speak Tagalog, who got me the wrong Transformers set (I wanted the Aerobots and I got the Insecticons!). I wanted so badly to say something wise and profound about my friend’s loss but I couldn’t think of any, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I came across as apathetic. I am not. I have lost so many things that meant so much to me, enough for me to know loss like a lover. Perhaps I was too scared to put into words the gravity of her loss. No eloquence could do justice to a person’s pain at the passing of her mother. Still, I want to give it a try…

My father’s remains lie at the Muslim Cemetery in Zamboanga City. I find this extremely ironic. His image strikes me as someone who believes that when people die, they’re gone. Nothing is left but our memories of them. Perhaps the influence of his two Christian wives put him in a grave. Growing up, I believed without anyone telling me that my father was cremated and that his ashes were in the bronze jar that we took home from Zambo when he died. I just assumed it. I didn’t realize until my maternal grandmother (who will forever be my favorite person in the world) died the reason why my father was buried. We just can't reconcile the fact that people go away. I started making up my own personal heaven specifically for my grandmother and that’s where I know she is right now. She lives in my heart forever.

It took me twenty-three years Pa -- and the friendship of a beautiful, amazing woman -- but now I finally acknowledge that I could certainly use a father like you.

What Is Your Favorite Color?

I get a twisted high whenever I realize how complicated “simple” things can be. We, as human beings, are socialized to make mental shortcuts that allow us to deal with life with as little fuss as possible. Faith and stereotypes, to name two, are examples of how we get to “truths” without going through all the hassles of understanding what these are about. Instead, we claim to accept these things for what we believe them to be. See below,

Faith My parents, my teachers, the Church and most everyone worth respecting tell me there is a God and He sent His son Jesus (who is also Himself) to wash away our sins by dying on the cross… so I took their word for it.

Stereotype Most blue-collar workers I encounter are not very intelligent so I surmise that the next blue-collar worker I meet will no nothing about derivatives or M theory (or common sense).

Not all of us have had the benefit of theological (or philosophical) training that would allow us to discuss categorically how faith is to be understood (or is it not supposed to be?) nor do we possess enough socio-psychological creds to digress about stereotypes, but we all know that any idiot could see from the examples above that conceptual shortcuts can either be good or bad, depending on how we use them. This bit is about neither faith nor stereotypes. Those two are just examples of things that we pretend to understand and accept as “simple”.

Let’s take the verb “to like”. What does it mean? Where do our preferences come from? In what are they rooted? Try this simple exercise… Think of your favorite color (the one you like the most). Now think of why you like that color. Think hard. Is it simply because it looks good on you? Or maybe your parents decorated your room with it when you were a kid. Or probably it was the color of your favorite Teletubby (but then that would be begging the question, “Why is ______ your favorite Teletubby?”). Think of anything or anyone (or any place, for that matter) you like. Can you say honestly that you, as a thinking creature, know why you like that thing or person (or place)? Why do you prefer rock music over soul? Why do you like adobo but hate sinigang? Why do you like girls and not guys? Why do you like this person? Why do you prefer to like this person rather than not like anyone at all?

I came across this in Wiki…

“Preference is a concept, used in the social sciences, particularly economics. It assumes a real or imagined "choice" between alternatives and the possibility of rank ordering of these alternatives, based on happiness, satisfaction, gratification, enjoyment, utility they provide.

I take it that to “like” something is it to “prefer” it over something else and that the ordering we use to prefer things over others is based on how happy/satisfied/gratified they make us feel, how much we enjoy them, and the use we derive from them. And by the way, they can be real or imagined.

So how does yellow do all that for me?

It’s okay. What’s important is we agree that “to like” (like a lot of other simple concepts) is not simple at all. Let’s not pretend that it is.


Coming up soon… “taste”

Work-Life Balance

This "myth" of a concept has been a buzz-word among HR departments and third-party recruiters for years now. But like God, love, gender and sarcasm, it inexplicably defies universal definition.

Most of us interpret it from a time-anchored point of view. Basically, we evaluate how well we do in this department by asking ourselves how many hours we spend at work, at play and at sleep. Then we mentally check the percentages against our own projected targets and we either feel good or bad about ourselves. Now this interpretation is blasphemy to the ears of slave-driving organizations (uhm, like all of them) and thus they have formed a supergroup of PR specialists to make sure that we don't see it that way (this are the same spin doctors responsible for the "money is not everything" propaganda). But since we love our job security more than our personal dignity, we need to explore other interpretations of Work-Life Balance...

A good alternative to the above-mentioned is to see it as "Compartmentalization". Simply speaking, this paradigm offers the metaphor that we are cabinets, bags, and Japanese cars with many different and exclusive storage spaces or (sic) compartments. Here we store the different facets, priorities, values and activities in our lives where they do not interfere with each other. For instance, you may "separate" your faith from your politics and from your love-life and social life (as you should) thus, giving you a secularly-compartmentalized life. Or you can swear upon your grandmother's grave that you will never have any sexual interaction with your co-workers and in the process "separate" your sex-life from your work. The beauty of this approach (the reason why it is endorsed by corporate suits) is that it does not in anyway have considerations for time and money - the two things we want from them the most but will never get. On the upside, you can claim that you "don't care" much about cash or, say sardonically that "sleep is for the weak". Idiot.

So I offer a new, refreshingly radical approach that is guaranteed to trump the first two. It's called the What The Fuck Just Screw It method. It involves, among others, not planning your schedule, playing harder than you work, and doing things as you deem necessary. Eventually, things will fall into place on their own and you will find that you will always have time for the things that you really love. This way of seeing things is based on the principle that we work to live, definitely not the other way around. Your work is your source of resouces that will enable you to do what you think is important -- be it buying expensive things, saving for the future, starting a family or even eating exclusively at all-you-can-eat buffets.

I defy you to liberate yourselves from your oppressors (your selves) and live life the way you think it should be lived. All it takes is to say, "What the fuck? Just screw it..." everytime somebody talks about Work-Life Balance.

Peace.

PS. If you take this the wrong way, it's either you're stupid or you're gullible.

Of Junkies And Fixes

Seven straight years of thinking got me nowhere. Two of not got me where I am now, lonely and confused. And did I mention how amazing it is to be here? No? Great, it’s not. But that’s entirely beside the point. We all have someplace we want to be, something we want to have. We go through life directing our efforts towards these, uhm, goals and we rejoice at every minor triumph that helps our own unworthy cause, however insignificant it is even to ourselves. Really now, what is your goal in life? See, I told you…

We force ourselves to commit to aspirations we have no way of knowing that we really want. Like drug addicts, we grope blindly for a fix, however temporary and superficial. And we go on aimlessly as if we have a secret stash that will never run out. Life is a trip, people are suppliers, and we all want to get high on rewards—definitely not the best analogy for existence but it rings an achingly familiar tune. And what to make of purpose in all these then, you may ask. Tell you what, don’t bother looking for one. If you feel the need for searching for a reason, then you don’t deserve one. Don’t worry though; you probably don’t need one either. And if all else fails (you know it’s bound to happen), take relief in the fact that you can always make your own—purpose not drugs, you addict.

So here’s to moving along living with our eyes closed (which, by the way, is easier according to a friend of mine) and hoping that wherever we end up and whatever we come up with when we decide to finally see, we won’t be blinded by the light.

Peace.

PS. You just stay put, sweet thing...

Of Memories

I’m the kind of kid that can’t let anything go. I got that line from a song I know I’m not supposed to like. It got me thinking what letting go realty means in today’s vernacular. Common usage is often something like “Let it go man”, usually followed by an emphatic “Just get over it”. A similar, somewhat older form of this expression is “Leave it behind” but all of these were derived from the classic, now almost idiomatic, “Forget about it”. It seems all too simple, right? I think not.

Forgetting is a cognitively anomalous concept. It cannot be willed psychologically. I mean, you can teach the mind to learn something new but you cannot make it unlearn something that it has already ingested. Perhaps this is why letting it go / getting over it / leaving it behind / forgetting about it is more difficult for individuals with relatively more powerful memories.

And speaking of memories… The context of a certain event, situation, interaction or whatever it is a person is trying to forget is almost entirely responsible for the intensity and duration of a particular memory. Of course, I’m just making this up but let’s pretend for the sake of passing the time that I’m right. Now, here the subconscious plays an important part. Stimuli perceived by the body but not interpreted properly by the mind undergo processes that we do not understand but most definitely feel – according to someone very smart, “What we perceive as real are real in their consequences”.

The point is that we have no control over what we cannot “let go”. We just don’t. We can choose what to think of but not what to remember. Just one of the many ironies of life.


PS. Study hard and please stop taking drugs. I want you sober and whole...

Sentimental Precipitation 2

It has stopped raining after an entire day of wet sobriety. The street outside is still wet and people continue to wear their jackets and tracksuits. I somehow enjoyed today's rain -- enjoyed in a sober, lucid and boring sort of way. It' okay, I guess. There'll be more fun rains to come.

No more rain for now.

The only things that' are precipitating right now -- apart from my sentiments -- are the tar and carbon monoxide in those little sacs inside my lungs (I think they call it alveoli. Rainy days make you smoke a lot more apparently.

Anyway, what made me write about corny, mushy stuff today were two couples that I saw walking in the rain earlier.

The first were pretty young, college student types. They didn't look particularly attractive (or intelligent) but they caught my attention because they appeared to be quite affectionate with each other. It was drizzling/raining (somewhere in between) and the guy held his hand palm-down on top of the girl's head. It was more a gesture than a protective act. She smiled in appreciation when he did this and he hugged her close as if to say "I got you covered babe".

The second couple was older, around fifty or so. They looked like market vendors, perhaps because they were carrying bayongs. There was really nothing special about them except that they were very quiet, much like a couple usually is after a fight. They did not look angry though, just serious. Then the man suddenly held the bayong being carried by her wife, and she let go of it without saying a word. The man was being chivalrous in a very unromantic context. It felt like something he needed to do, like it was his responsibility.

Which what love really is supposed to be -- a responsibility.

Just like I could spot a drug addict or a closet queen effortlessly, I know love when I see it. And I saw it in the older couple. It was a stripped-down, worn out, no bullshit type of love. It needed no words or smiles or gestures. It was rootd in the knowledge that one person loves the other to death. No fancy lines. No sugarcoating. Simple. Perfect.

How we wish we could feel that for ourselves. Not me. No love for The Stellar Muser just yet. I don't smell it in the air. I don't feel it pumping in my veins. I don't hear its music in my ears. Nothing.

Hopefully things change by Sentimental Precipitation 3.

Peace.

PS. Sleep well you...

Sentimental Precipitation

It's a lazy rainy afternoon. I use to like rain, in fact I still do, but there's something about today's rain that's different. I don't know. It's weird.

Perhaps it's the fact that I can't afford to be lazy, as I have very important things to do (yes, even more important than being lazy). Or that I'm nowhere near where I want to be. Or that I hardly even know where it is I really want to be.

You all know how hard it is to be confused and helpless because of lack of information. We need certain knowledge to work with in order to arrive at well-informed decisions. That I have no problem with. It's very easy for me, as with most people I know, to use my mind to sort my way out of a mess. But sometimes, the situation calls for something more than that. I take back what I wrote a few emtries back -- sometimes you just can't afford to be rational.

I grapple with this problem the way I reflect on whether I would go to class or not on a non-exam day. On the one hand, the decision seems like a no-brainer -- of course I won't! On the other hand, I'm scared of the unforseen consequences.

I guess there are just things in life that we cannot be certain of. Spontaneity is one of the things that make life worthwhile.

But, as with cutting class, you don't have much choice but to trust in your instincts. Even if it has failed you many times in the past.

Peace.

PS.

Wherever you are.. Whoever you are.. I want to be there. With you. Enjoying the rain.

Sleep well everyone.