An ode is sung. Vocal chords vibrate, the jaw moves from closed to open
and phonemes stick in the air. Yet, unlike an ode with verses and its
chorus, the lines on this page are less sing along and more of a daily
musing, a drive to write and title the reflection with sweet internal
rhyme: ode, word. The drive feels like the stories, songs or laughs that
bring you back to earth—keep you grounded, humbles your spirit, reminds
you that countless universes exist, not beyond the atmosphere, but the
next mind closest to you. The new frontier and every explorer’s dream
location is the greatly uncharted, eternal human mind. The one created
by experiences, from the time you fell down your first flight of wooden
stairs as a three-year old to the most vivid color you have seen. The
drive is similar to when make believe is confused with the real, a
separation that has found peace in their marriage.
The idea to word it out and write can come from the simplest of
questions and seemingly mundane of instances. Example. Your esthetician
asked, “any love interests,” you chuckle a bit, and she edits the ‘love’
drop with like, “any likes.” Then the mind races and becomes anxious for
the facial’s end and the next time your fingertips touch the silver
laptop’s keys and muses—amuses at the question. Then after money is
spent, people’s debit cards slide, the most amazing of drives and
stimulation to paraphrase your eyes, as they record life, is not in the
materials and superficial collections, but in the stories and memories.
The forgotten feeling of playing all afternoon in the warm, tropical
rain is remembered, as a sister shares that her friend’s two-year old
son currently dances in the rain, in his grandfather’s arms, in a
momentous instant that creates a small room in the home of your being.
Beautiful is sensory, in all of sensory’s definition. Beautiful is
heard, music, touched, skin, seen, green volcanoes, smelled, squatters,
tasted, mangos, the sixth sense, a mind’s universe.
From a theocratic nation’s hunger to strike at a recently created state
to a teenager’s reflection of self in fashion, the pick and choose
attitude is the core of identity. From your childhood friend addressing
you with elderly greetings: out of respect because she desperately needs
money to buy school uniform and materials for a project to the parallel
amount of scholarship costs and the latest jeans resting on leather
coffee shop cushions. It’s not all relative. Writing as a craft has the
power to encompass a lifetime of thought, memory’s experiences and daily
meanders.
An ode to words explains the importance of storytelling. The craft
unites seemingly chaotic thoughts into one page, one banner and thus
bringing divided cultures closer to understanding. In this second week
of my Philippine internship stint, instances prove otherwise. At times,
streets move faster than a mind can filter and respond to behind a
vehicle’s impenetrable, tinted windows. In a storm’s relentless
downpour, groups of children kick at pools of water, a boy sets his
white weathered plastic chair under a gutter’s waterfall, a shoeless
blind man begs—is led by another with her eyes wide open. Open
opportunities are incredibly scarce. In these moments, take the edges
and turn them inside out, without knowing how to raise the dead, at
least know we are more similar than different. In words, similarity is
emphasized with color: like green graffiti on grass.
An ode is sung. Vocal chords vibrate, the jaw moves from closed to open and phonemes stick in the air. Yet, unlike an ode with verses and its chorus, the lines on this page are less sing along and more of a daily musing, a drive to write and title the reflection with sweet internal rhyme: ode, word. The drive feels like the stories, songs or laughs that bring you back to earth—keep you grounded, humbles your spirit, reminds you that countless universes exist, not beyond the atmosphere, but the next mind closest to you. The new frontier and every explorer’s dream location is the greatly uncharted, eternal human mind. The one created by experiences, from the time you fell down your first flight of wooden stairs as a three-year old to the most vivid color you have seen. The drive is similar to when make believe is confused with the real, a separation that has found peace in their marriage. (more…)
