Henerala
Beneath the Ice
the ICE is floating with the freezing breeze
beneath it
...the chilling stops
...the heat goes up
...the water starts to boil
for there dwells her heart.
There, the ice melt into tears...
I hate materialistic people...
I am materialistic...
...I hate myself
I don't believe in second chances
Thursday, November 23, 2006
I miss my passion
I had just finished Anne Rice's "The Feast of All Saints." It took me several days to reach the back cover. It has always been hard for me to do something else when I opened a book. Just like now, a line-up of several research and writing was set aside to accommodate the heartrending and still triumphant novel. This is a simple time-off from work, just similar to this bookreview-like essay. I missed the times when I could write my heart out on several pages of paper without minding any deadlines or formats that constrain my style. They might love those constrained essays that lack the emotions that the writer should yield. Yes, I hate those 1-inch margined articles that are now waiting for my attention. Yet, I need to face them since they help me survive my materialistic life.I bought the book for the author and not for the title. The first few pages made me think that it is just another story of racial discrimination and hatred. How could I think of that when I only found myself crying with each character’s grief for the time and people they have to live with? It’s not just a story of a white, a black and a man of color. It touches different aspects of life such as love, ambitions and blood. It’s hard to imagine a time when a person have no right just because of a judgment made with his skin color. There’s nothing realistic when I read that women of color were more respected if she became a mistress of a white man than facing the church with someone of her people. I should remind myself that this is a historical novel and that these situations might have really existed in that far from fictional town.I should feel grateful for my life because I did not have to endure such brutality of those times. Still, I spite myself and envy the young Marcel St. Marie who faced his fate and still survived even with the crumbling of his dreams. He was born of a white father and a colored mistress. He could never pass as a white with his features. His father promised an educated future in Paris. This was reverberated while the monsieur would stay in their home saying “send him in style.” All of his childhood, he readied himself for that time. A moment came when he was called to his father’s attorney’s office to learn that nothing of this would ever happen. This event was followed with several miserable incidents with his family and the other people in their community. It almost destroyed him but in the end, he followed his heart and eventually found happiness in a rough life he had not experience in his childhood. I wish I could also have such strength to keep my life with purpose. I am not contented, I need direction.I am jealous of Marie St. Marie for having a man like Richard Lermontant. A turn in the story that I thought would lead to the estrangement of the couple because of duty to family, pride and reputation. I love the man’s character wishing that someone still exist who could personify him.The novel touched me more than the tedious telenovelas and movies of repeated themes. And now, back to reality. So much for the break, I need to get back with the three more articles I should finish. I need to go back to my one by one margin and pressuring deadline of the weekend. Wish I could have another opportunity to give in to my passion and away from this dead writing I call my job.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
