Excavations of hollowed words

“I’m bored. I don’t really know what exactly I wanted to do, but I know I wanted to do something, right now.

If only there is internet, I would probably be surfing and reading something.” I finally decided to do something worthwhile.

I scoured an old and dirty collection of books in the office library.

Honestly, it was one of the most revealing boring nights I’ve had this decade.

An exaggeration, it could be.

Would you think of monotony if you find a combination of books from Franklin W. Dixon, Ricardo Manapat, Donald Abel, Angela Stuart Santiago, and a Time Magazine 1941 Capsule.

Yes, Dixon wrote the syndicated series The Hardy Boys and Manapat is no other than the author of “Some are smarter than others. The History of Marcos Crony Capitalism.” — From an undated and unfinished entry entitled “Walter is bored” in a desk top file I recovered recently.

Remembering and forgetting are relatives, and as relatives they are opposites. A relationship one cannot mistake because if one is The One, then the other is not The one. When you remember, you don’t forget and vice versa.

There is mystery of course on the gray line between when do we start remembering and forgetting just as we could never be certain, which is which between reality and the imagination.

And before getting lost myself in my own textual misadventures, my little crux of the matter is that if we lose grip of the context (or the North Star?) we lose sense, momentarily first and then, forever.

I thought I felt I was experiencing amnesia (three action words in a phrase to the tune of I came, I saw, I conquered?), when I found those lines above in an old computer’s desk top; I was grappling for even a memory of the situation I was into.

I remembered I need to take Glutaphos; that brain vitamin they recommended me to ward off memory loss. I never really believed them that stress have made me forgetful until now when I began doubting if I really wrote that “half-piece” or somebody was cloning, if not taunting me.

I was reading SixBillion.org’s Narrative Journalism that night when I accidentally “recovered” the pieces of written words maybe encrypted out of boredom indeed, as the title proposes.

I was tempted to rename the file a “Sagel Cave excavation” paying tribute to the confirmation by National Museum archaeologists that indeed the cave in a Maitum village in Sarangani Province is a prehistoric burial site.

The same as the old computer’s desk top, which served as the burial site of “Walter is bored” Sagel cave’s intestines became known because they became unknown. Now I’m digging deeper into my old files because the file might not be alone; just like what goes with anthropomorphic jars in forgotten dungeons?

And so I go back to my proposition that losing context, means losing sense. It’s nothing earthshaking. But when I realized that many things could exist that we think did not exist but we know they do; I paused the world’s play list and trained my eyes on the string of words in front of me.

“If only there is internet, I would probably be surfing and reading something.” I finally decided to do something worthwhile.

I scoured an old and dirty collection of books in the office library.

Honestly, it was one of the most revealing boring nights I’ve had this decade.

Then it became clear. The situation began to unfold as if it has to happen yet and I was not imagining it.

Now I can recall. The DSL connection then in the office where I stayed and worked, fucked up and I was pressed to deliver deadline outputs. And then when I went to the library to see if the books I recorded indeed where from the same library; I found out it was reality.

And in the corner of that library; now arranged and looked closer to how libraries appear is a volume separated from the rest. The cover was covered by dust but the title is still clear: “Time Magazine 1941 Capsule.”

And in one of the yellowed pages was stuck a makeshift bookmark made of folded thin cardboard; my old calling card.

I was stuck in that page; and probably when I discovered the file in the old desk top earlier; I was just beginning to pick up the pieces of the past.

All the while, a part of me was left in that page months ago marked by my own old calling card in the rush of probably writing “Walter is bored”.

And in the spirit of closure and of course endless departures; I swear to the full silver moon tonight that I want this to end. Am not bored. I probably was getting bored, but not yet.

About mindanaw

A Journalist from Mindanao

2 responses to “Excavations of hollowed words”

  1. angela says :

    hi, istambay, salamat naman! pasyal ka sa blog ko😉

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  1. c magazine - April 23, 2008

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