A Wayfarer that I Am

What the teaching profession taught me

Innocent Dreamer — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 14:35:39 +0000

1. Be patient. These people mostly depend on you to learn new things and they might screw up sometimes but being patient goes a long way. Who knows, you can be the only person who believes in them.

2. Love, unconditionally. Here’s an opportunity to know the different faces of humankind without any blood relations to you but still treat you more than a relative.

3. Listen. The shortest phrase can sometimes define the whole outcome of their learning and possibly, their childhood or their life experience.

4. Keep your feet on the ground. It’s important to be within reach to everyone.

5. Do the RIGHT thing. As a teacher, you are expected to be a model of righteousness. If you can’t do this, then how can they be enlightened to do good than commit bad acts?

6. Play different roles but don’t forget the goals. You may be a sister or a friend for a minute and be a mother the next hour. Goal should withstand these roles and should not change for any exemptions unless it is really necessary.

7. You are an open book. Let them vicariously experience different things through you that these people may find beauty in life and the value in sharing and education.

8. Believe. This can just change someone’s life.

9. You do not know everything. That’s a fact, you can’t avoid that. You’re no superhero. Therefore, you have to be in control of your mastery in the subjects.

10. Never cease on improving yourself. Remember the Renaissance Man?

11. Optimism and open-mindedness. Their ideas might be crazy but that IS what keeps us sane, doesn’t it?

12. You are also human. Use your authority in accordance with your role. You can commit mistakes and be honest enough to admit them. Empathize.

13. Please and Thank you. If these words are heard from you, it will be a plague to your audience.

14. SMILE. There are just too much things to be happy about than frowning.

15. Do the task with a passion. No matter what kind of task is that, do it with credibility and creativity. Your passion is the key to contentment.

Beauty in small things.

Innocent Dreamer — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 12:53:29 +0000

And there it is again. The natural high kicks in, the happy hormones are engulfing me in such a way that nobody can ever imagine. I am physically tired but this feeling is incredible! No words can explain how happy I am. The reason? I have no idea. There’s just a glitter of hope to look for in the corners of this earth.

When you consider the smallest of things and find beauty in them, you do not get disappointed .There are too many debris of these small things around and sometimes they lead to something with depth. They possess the beauty a person like you would never recognize your entire lifetime. How flat.

Ever considered a thunderclap and lightning of aesthetic substance?

Notice how vast the universe is and how invisible you are in that system?

There are just too many things to prey on. It is not the superficiality of these things that make them so special. It’s you, your appreciation that changes how you view what’s there and what’s not.

Why can’t you take time to do the same? I swear you’ll never go disappointed with this one.

The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana – Umberto Eco : A review

Innocent Dreamer — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 14:49:56 +0000

Remembering is a labor, not a luxury.

The snowball effect. The avalanche slides toward the valley, gaining speed as it goes, because little by little it gets larger, carrying with it the weight of all it has been before.

Paola observed that when I try to speak English, I mak mistakes, but I do not when I speak German or French. "That doesn't surprise me," she said. "You must have absorbed French as a child, and it's still in your tongue the way bicycles are still in your legs. You learned German from textbooks in college, and you remember everything from books. But English, on the other hand, you learned during your travels, later. It belongs to your personal experiences of the past thirty years, and only bits of it have stuck to your tongue."

Do you know, you're the only man in the world, the only man on the face of the Earth from Adam up to now, who when his wife sends him out to buy roses comes home with a pair of dog balls?

My memory is made of paper.

I was seeing my own shit for the first time (in the city you sit on the bowl, then flush the toilet right away, without looking) I was now calling it shit, which I think is what people call it. Shit is the most personal and private thing we have. Anyone can get to know the rest - your facial expression, your gaze, your gestures. Even your naked body: at the beach, at the doctor's, making love. Even your thoughts, since you usually express them, or else others guess them from the way you look at them or appear embarrassed. Of course, there are such things as secret thoughts, but in general, thoughts too are revealed. Shit, however, is not. Except for an extremely brief period of your life, when your mother is still changing your diapers, it is all yours. And since my shit at that moment must not have been all that different from what I had produced ever the course of my past life, I was in that Instant reuniting with my old, forgotten self, undergoing the first experience capable of merging with countless previous experiences even those from when I did my business in the vineyards as a boy.

I said to myself: Yambo, your memory is made of paper. Not of neurons, but of pages. Maybe someday someone will invent an electronic contraption allowing people to travel by computer among all the pages ever written, from the beginning of the world till today, and to pass from one to another with the touch of a finger without knowing any longer where or who they are, and the everyone will be like you.

Is it worth to be born if you cannot remember it later?

To die is to remove oneself from the beating of one's heart.

I can't bring myself to believe that all these things we see around us - the way trees and fruits grow, and the solar system, and our brains - came about by chance. They're too well made. And therefore there must have been a creating mind. God.

past-present-future

Innocent Dreamer — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 13:14:07 +0000

My brain tags along with memories that I have over and over, until such time that all I can do is let it come from my mouth. These days, while I was on my road to recovery, I’ve remembered past memories of which I have proven that I became the present person that I am. From the moment I have opened my eyes in the morning, the lingering feeling of past is there. This has nothing to do with any amount of attachment to anyone or anything. It is simply the act of remembering – the act which most of us take for granted.

I remembered how simple life was before, how it was easy to let words flow without haste.

I remembered how I sat there in that itchy office chair with a backdrop waiting for students to attend their classes where we can see each other vis-a-vis (pun). I remembered my limited friendships I’ve made there, how we exchanged food from time to time, how we met at the pantry to talk about whatever there is to talk about. I remembered being there and looking down on such colorful, brightly lit spot. There are so much to remember and I reckoned now what’s in me that loves to remember this much.

For me, it is all about looking forward, looking at the future and shaping it with the present. Maybe that sort of thinking is wrong for when I am in the present, I tend to look at the past and that is the only moment to relish it. Sacrificing the time being hurts me, I’ve never realized this till now.

So much to remember and even more to forget. A hobby well remembered, a self well forgotten.

In the end, we’re all alone as everyone else is.

Just something about waiting at this moment

Innocent Dreamer — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 14:03:08 +0000

It feels like an eternity of waiting when you are suddenly there, waiting, for that person whom you have not heard for hours. It does feel like eternity. Every second is excruciating in itself, more painful internally than the stitches you have. The feeling is like being trapped without a way out. It is like sinking so deep without someone catching you from where you will land. I hate this feeling of course, it’s like getting your heart broken without apparent reason for crying out loud. It is the simplicity in it’s complications. It is pain and pleasure at the same time. The waiting is killing me, but in the end, it’s worth the wait.

10-2-11

Innocent Dreamer — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 15:00:40 +0000

I sit in front of the computer for work and destressing reasons. In some days, I will look at this post in a different way. I may jump for joy or dig my self deep into the ground (mattress) maybe because of my operation. I don’t know. The time is 11pm but it feels like a 9pm and vice versa.

Okay. back to work.

While waiting for you.

Innocent Dreamer — Sat, 13 Aug 2011 00:27:24 +0000

I wake up really early and go home really late but no worries, it’s because of work and school. While waiting for you, I line up in very long queues not minding the time because I’m in no hurry. While waiting for you, I drown myself in songs which help in passing up time. While waiting for you, I write down my grocery list and think of food that I can actually cook for you. While waiting for you, I’ve already summed up in my mind a year’s event. While waiting for you, I keep myself busy as a bee even on rainy days. While waiting for you, I also wait for myself to be as happy as when you were here. While waiting for you, I work on auto-pilot. While waiting for you, the sound of my typing is not as irritating as the ones who destroy the keyboard. While waiting for you, I drink coffee, tea, milk, juice, and water to keep me hydrated. While waiting for you, I spend longer hours on the internet trying to keep my mind away from the lonely feeling. While waiting for you, my thoughts are not in order but my body dictates what routine should I do on that day. While waiting for you, there is always extra time. While waiting for you, the world goes round but I can’t really make sense of it. While waiting for you, I just imagine hearing and feeling you. These all happen while waiting for you.

I am Venting machine

Innocent Dreamer — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 15:05:20 +0000

I’ve lost a lot a lot but gained a lot as well. Still, a part of me, well, my memory, disappeared like the vapid waves along with those that I’ve lost. It’s a moment for me for moving on. My life suddenly pulls back but goes forward with age and experience. Still, my memories are with me and sometimes they haunt me with the kind of life I’ve lived before. I missed how it was and it is indeed true that when a habit is broken, you’ll tend to look for it, of course only if it is a good habit. I missed holding and smelling books. These books are waiting for me to pick them up but I am always preoccupied with work-related and academic-related stress, thus, forgetting myself in the process. Help, I need help. I need someone to knock another’s consciousness that what we are doing is not really humane. Give me the time and rest that I fully deserve. Here’s my blog for venting out what cannot be vented out by voiced and unvoiced fricatives and plosives and stops.

Sunday

Innocent Dreamer — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 09:21:06 +0000

Dearest Sunday,

You are the earth I have never smelled. You are the rays of the sun I have never felt on my tanned skin.

You are the inevitable storm in the perfect weather.

You are everything that I have ever hoped for, you are the only reason to feel at ease.

You are everything but nothing at the same time. I can’t feel you. I can’t find the jumpstarting happiness there is to you.

It’s so hard to shift moods when you’re around.

What we’re living for.

Innocent Dreamer — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 06:21:25 +0000

Our lives are seemingly divided into scenes, chapters, and volumes. Sometimes it becomes a sequel but sometimes, it is just as plain as a word in a short story where there’s not even a climactic event that ever happened. Life is like that. Our lives are like a house where the doors open and close for people to come and go and for windows to let them see who we are before letting them in first.

I feel that I am silently eating up this chapter in my life and be humble about it. I once lived in a carefree way but it is true that when you get older, you muster all the responsibility this world needs. And true to itself, the world needs you to be someone for somebody. Hence, we forget to be the ‘one’ for ourselves. This demand wears and tears our flesh up if we do not take into consideration the physical body that we live in. Suddenly, everything deteriorates and you won’t know it because you have this messianic complex that stops your purpose for living for yourself.

People get tired and they sometimes stop talking, writing, reading, or even caring. They turn the other cheek and drop everything at hand because they realized that they are missing a lot in life. Is this what living is all about? Sustaining a small amount of sanity for the soul?

This goes for all, my resounding thoughts.