I'm not good at summoning memories of glorious experiences. And to address the threat of a failing faculty to upgrade remembrance into a confrontational encounter with packets of memories about to be discarded, I write this blog entry.
So I begin by saying that I am in Kabacan, my hometown. And I am going to write something about this town only to serve one purpose: to remember that at the exact moment I was typing this sentence, "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da" of The Beatles was playing in the background, a fitting accompaniment to a realization only captured in this line -
"Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da life goes on, brah!!!"
Yes, emphasis on 'brah' that screams out a batallion of unexpressed battlecries. I don't care about the rest of the lyrics' contextual relevance.
I will not write that unknown to many, Kabacan is a first class municipality. It is home to an excellent state university. To walk along the University Avenue in the afternoon when the sun is about to set is to witness a commanding picture of a promising future - you would know from the heavy but happy strides of students retreating from a full day's battle. There will be smoke all over the Avenue; these are fanned smoke from barbecue stands and kitchens of cafe's and diners that have mushroomed over the years. Business is good in the avenue. And the faces of the people that walk along this path reflect simple joys and sharpened ambitions. When the sun rises the next day, the University is brewing with optimism and its colors green and gold reflect growth and harvest.
I did not want to mention that in this town, residents can spell fear in many forms. But they can sing victory songs even better. Every stone in this town acknowledges that it once trembled restlessly when the sound of canons vibrated through the walls of houses and shattered many windowsills. This town is home to people who stood still on shaky ground.
I will surely not mention that life in this town may be slow, but life's motion can never be measured by how you watch the clock tick in staccato.
But there you go. I've said those things. I have not even made mention of family and friends.
"Happy ever after in the market place...
Desmond lets the children lend a hand...
Molly stays at home and does her pretty face...
And in the evening she still sings it with the band...
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah!...
Lala how the life goes on...
Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on, brah!...
Lala how the life goes on."
The monuments of our memories are built by our active selection of things that appeal to our subconscious. We construct stories in the past where we play the protagonist. Our ability to summon these stories back to the present can be facilitated by the monuments of our memories we once built in the past.
And the process goes on.
"And if you want some fun,
Take Ob-La-Di-la-do"
