writing on the evening sky

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer
Walt Whitman

When I heard the learn'd astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and
measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much
applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

~~~

I bought a book--a collection of poems--by Walt Whitman. Leaves of Grass and Selected Prose. I had walked from Balay Kalinaw. I was supposed to buy a book there, but the UP Press Bookstore was closed. Dismayed, I walked under the hot sun. I wanted to write. Just write. Without thought of what words formed inside of me and dripped as inkblots onto the blank pages of a notebook. But, since I was walking, I could only write in my mind.

Many times, I have reverted to writing when I was just too depressed. I am a very emotional person. My face is very transparent. I have trouble silencing my feelings and keeping them shut inside the windows of my soul. Frowns would just mold into my lips. Tears would just leak out of my eyes. Sighs would just frolic out of my larynx. Writing is an attempt for me to rein in the cavorting outbursts, make the flood flow on a well-designed drainage. It's difficult, yes. It's like making dominoes stand on a single file. With just one mistake, the whole assembly topples down, and again, the flood begins.

Speaking of writing, Dr. Aureus (CL 121 Literary Theory) and Sir Abad (CL 151 Philippine Literature) have asked literary works for our final papers. Dr. Aureus wants us to write a poem in exchange of a kilometric critical essay. Sir Abad wants us to write a short story which is as good as Joy Dayrit's "The Walk." If you ever get to have a copy of that story, read it. It's good... although I don't like the way the main character has released her emotions. I would agree more with the character in Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo's "The Art of Understatement." The main character there chose to release her 'pain' in writing. Sadly, though, she gave up; she couldn't face the reality of her pain and 'play her violin.'

I've been thinking. I hate my course at this point in time. Maybe I will like it at another point in time. But this time, I want to look at the stars and not hear them being talked about by learned astronomers. I want to write.

...