7AM
this is the particular time of morning you like best. you are one with humanity in the crazy race to get to work on time. you leave the house dressed-to-the-nines but are as much as at sixes-and-sevens with the rest of your middle-class class. you ditch the idea of driving. it is too mental for you at this early hour. you make up your mind to fight your way to get aboard a crowded bus – never mind if you get pushed and shoved with scores of others also wanting to get a ride. but you do have an ace. you know exactly where the alternative FX vans turn.
ten minutes later, you are ensconced in your favorite FX spot. it is that seat close to the rear door on the left side of the vehicle parallel to the driver’s seat. you are comfortable there. there is a space behind you where you tuck your umbrella in and free yourself from inconveniencing the passenger seated in front of you whose knees you rub your knees against. there is enough light that filters through the net-like sunshield stuck on the windows. there is the door which, when locked, provides you with a protective wall where you could securely nestle your right shoulder and lean your head a bit. the coveted space, nevertheless, offers a few hassles. for one, you automatically if unwillingly become the appointed white-collared doorman – opening and holding the door open when a passenger alights in a huff and closing after a passenger gets in – never mind if in between, your toes get occasionally squashed under the weight of careless co-commuters. you also do not get as much ventilation from the air-conditioning that oftentimes spews more hot than cool air. from where you got on to where you get off, it is a 40-minute drive if the traffic is kind enough. obliviously, you laze in the comfiest of position, far from the faint sound of the radio that benefits only those who sit on the first row, and then you do the thing you routinely do after shelling out your hard-earned P35.00 fare: reading.
today, you are reading the book of galatians. this is your day’s designated reading after making a covenant to re-read the entire Bible yet again – all 66 books, genesis-to-revelation – as a matter of review and daily devotions. six chapters and 149 verses later, you realize that paul was actually telling off the church in galatia because he was upset that some had been led astray by having themselves circumcised in the flesh without understanding the full merits of being justified by faith. and you admire paul’s rhetorical ability to nail his point home with so much passion – like a father berating his son. and you bow to his authority and scholarship. and when he shared the story about his disagreement with the jews and his disdain of peter’s hypocrisy in jerusalem , you like to embrace him for championing the cause of the gentiles.
and then you juxtapose the events in this reading with the scenes you saw at the tricycle station earlier today – much earlier than when you got the prized FX seat. tricycle drivers milling about, carrying on with their shallow conversations about how mundane life is, how unbearable each day becomes with the rising costs of everyday living, how – because of the circus in today’s politics – we allow ourselves to get screwed by the very same people we helped put in office to represent us. one driver relentlessly inhales poison stick after stick. one stands up and “secretly” finds himself a corner to urinate. one pokes his middle finger into what is perceivably another driver’s asshole to induce a machine-gun-like round of expletive from the latter’s mouth as he automatically thrusts his pelvis forward in a fucking motion, which drew raucous laughter from the onlookers.
it didn’t make sense to you at first - this pursuit of godliness in the midst of too much worldliness. the weaving of the spiritual and the carnal. the inward journey to your ever-metamorphosing spirituality and the everyday journey you record in your head as you face the day-to-day rhythm of the living dead. until you get hit by the fact that, yes, this life won’t be this life if it isn’t about a series of the opposites. and then you smile a very sad, a very hypocritical smile.
ten minutes later, you are ensconced in your favorite FX spot. it is that seat close to the rear door on the left side of the vehicle parallel to the driver’s seat. you are comfortable there. there is a space behind you where you tuck your umbrella in and free yourself from inconveniencing the passenger seated in front of you whose knees you rub your knees against. there is enough light that filters through the net-like sunshield stuck on the windows. there is the door which, when locked, provides you with a protective wall where you could securely nestle your right shoulder and lean your head a bit. the coveted space, nevertheless, offers a few hassles. for one, you automatically if unwillingly become the appointed white-collared doorman – opening and holding the door open when a passenger alights in a huff and closing after a passenger gets in – never mind if in between, your toes get occasionally squashed under the weight of careless co-commuters. you also do not get as much ventilation from the air-conditioning that oftentimes spews more hot than cool air. from where you got on to where you get off, it is a 40-minute drive if the traffic is kind enough. obliviously, you laze in the comfiest of position, far from the faint sound of the radio that benefits only those who sit on the first row, and then you do the thing you routinely do after shelling out your hard-earned P35.00 fare: reading.
today, you are reading the book of galatians. this is your day’s designated reading after making a covenant to re-read the entire Bible yet again – all 66 books, genesis-to-revelation – as a matter of review and daily devotions. six chapters and 149 verses later, you realize that paul was actually telling off the church in galatia because he was upset that some had been led astray by having themselves circumcised in the flesh without understanding the full merits of being justified by faith. and you admire paul’s rhetorical ability to nail his point home with so much passion – like a father berating his son. and you bow to his authority and scholarship. and when he shared the story about his disagreement with the jews and his disdain of peter’s hypocrisy in jerusalem , you like to embrace him for championing the cause of the gentiles.
and then you juxtapose the events in this reading with the scenes you saw at the tricycle station earlier today – much earlier than when you got the prized FX seat. tricycle drivers milling about, carrying on with their shallow conversations about how mundane life is, how unbearable each day becomes with the rising costs of everyday living, how – because of the circus in today’s politics – we allow ourselves to get screwed by the very same people we helped put in office to represent us. one driver relentlessly inhales poison stick after stick. one stands up and “secretly” finds himself a corner to urinate. one pokes his middle finger into what is perceivably another driver’s asshole to induce a machine-gun-like round of expletive from the latter’s mouth as he automatically thrusts his pelvis forward in a fucking motion, which drew raucous laughter from the onlookers.
it didn’t make sense to you at first - this pursuit of godliness in the midst of too much worldliness. the weaving of the spiritual and the carnal. the inward journey to your ever-metamorphosing spirituality and the everyday journey you record in your head as you face the day-to-day rhythm of the living dead. until you get hit by the fact that, yes, this life won’t be this life if it isn’t about a series of the opposites. and then you smile a very sad, a very hypocritical smile.
posted by joeylgarcia at 1:59 AM
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