Nakasulat sa susmariosep na nakokonsumisyon, a este, nakokomisyon ako ng mga kaibigan sa kolehiyo na gumawa ng kanilang mga write-up sa yearbook. Matatamis na salamat ang sukli dyan kaya masayang-masaya naman ako nuong mga panahong iyon!

Itong si Jol, kasamahan sa block angas, ang pinakahuli at pinakanagmamadali sa kanilang lahat. Pinakamahaba pa ang hinihiling na sulatin sa KAL! Kaya isa lang ang naibigay ko, wala na siyang napagpilian. Ayos na ang kanyang sariling blog kaya't inaasahan kong mapapadali ang aking misyong ibugaw ang nilalang na iyan. Balita ko nawala raw niya ang kanyang kopya para ipost.

O heto. Uunahan ko na para sa akin ang cut pag nabenta na siya.

Mjolnir

Jol seems to want to live up to his namesake, the Norse Mallet (sans the inclination to divinity). You feel the pounding of strange, puissant beats undergirding the scathing sentimentality of his poetry. The forceful description behind his narratives articulates and mutes him at the same time - as the smith is silent among his blows.

The Beetle named Kikai is his vehicle of choice, of identity. The Bug's the only thing, it seems, exempt from his cold critiques. We fancy that he's learned to commit under her tutelage. His rapture's an ugly sight. We dare call it love.

We call the artist brooding - but why stop there? - call him angsty-feisty. The point is to irritate him by boxing him into these adjectives. But we may have misled. You see, despite all his political rancor, hermetic predisposition, and the ever-excusable artistic temperament, Jol still practices the art of the hearty laugh - alcohol or no alcohol.

His humor wears many faces and is most (in)famous for being boisterous, unsubtle, sardonic, morbid, black, disgusting - the stuff that takes the spirit to transcendental heights. Very charming.

The Mjolnir principle of creation-critique isn't too far off. Blunt, frank, hammer-heavy. Slicing's just too clean and final for him. Pummeling sounds much better. He always loves gory, messy repetition. He can't be accused of finesse, but his operations are deathly methodical. His art - comic strips, posters, essays, fiction, poetry - reveal this uncanny path to beauty. He'll bludgeon it into you.

Ah Jol! - Poor guy thinks self-deprecation is fashionable. False humility, the works. It's ugly. And, somehow shamelessly, we love him.

Happy today?

January

Janus is the nominal divinity for the parts of the world that follow the Roman calendar and start their years with "January." With delinquencies in my Bulfinch and Hamilton noted, I say Janus was one Roman god who was not copied from some Greek precedent. If the scholars are right, he was formed before much of the Greek influence came. He evolved from the native Latin spirit of doorways, ianua.

As you may have read in the volumes or heard in homilies of the more classical-thinking priests, Janus was remarkable for his head. It had two faces, one looking forward, another looking back. He was a god of new beginnings, new years. He also presides over ends. As the deity of the doorway, he is the god of both entry and departure. His immortal eyes stare down both things to come and things past.

Down on the mortal, local, and more culturally significant plane, we have our very own saying about people who do not acknowledge their origins:

"Ang hindi lumingon sa pinanggalingan,
di makararating sa paroroonan."

Despite the resonance of this theme in our contemporary literature and even in popular culture products such as films, somehow the still mechanistic world-view tells us that we don't have to look back. Where to and where from are two distinct points in any map. Alpha is irrelevant and Omega is entirely up to you. No need to confuse the two.

Well, that is one way of looking at it. Nevertheless, someone can always stand up and dare say, despite all the points and lines, it's still just one map. It's just one door.

Whatever. Happy new year.