Feelings
Be not sad!
By Emmanuelle
Melancholia. Depression. The latter much worser than the former, ungrammatically on top of dramatically. This is the writer’s self-diagnosis of what regularly ails her all of the days leading to Black Saturday, starting from Ash Wednesday. Every year. All of the years of her beautifully miserable adult life.
Just to give you a peek into the reasonably unreasonableness of the ailment, question me an answer, and I’ll answer you a question:
Father, forgive them for they do not know what they do. They do, they did! They still do. Father, why have you forsaken me? Why, why? Why nga!
In a musical play depicting the last few days of Christ’s life, He and Mary Magdalene and Judas sing out to the Father, to each other – I don’t how to love you.
Actually, I, too, don’t. And that’s not a comma poem.
Father, forgive me for thinking thus; but am thinking thus.
Speaking of poems, which I was not, let me turn a moody, whirly thingamagig. Crazy cats, please step with me through the Alice-mirror. Forward bound, from depression to smiling disposition.
On the way to spend Holy Week in Baguio City, only the blind, the apathetic or the sleepy overlooks Joyce Kilmer’s “Trees”. With bold letters printed unto four or five carefully-thought-of, not-too-large billboards one side of the road then the other, the poem’s sentimental lines fill us with guilt for neglecting Mother Nature:
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree . . .
And so on. Whoa! Speaking of downing us with an overload of downers, heavy! But then, let me share this parody written by American humorist Ogden Nash, his form of protest against billboards:
I think that I shall never see
A billboard lovely as a tree.
Indeed, unless the billboards fall,
I’ll never see a tree at all.
And a smile begins to burst forth from this writer’s lips.
Then a pout threatens again to tug the tear ducts as the writer is served eel-like sea creatures for lunch, the cook gently reminding that everybody has to offer a sacrifice in one form or another sometime and meat deprivation seems to be the easiest or the most magnanimous whichever way one prefers to look at it.
Again, Ogden Nash saves the moment:
I don’t mind eels
Except as meals.
And the way they feel.
Thus, this writer swallowed the eels.
And, let me end my irreverence, with an authorless prayer found in an ancient cathedral in England:
Give me a sense of humor, Lord
Give me the grace to see a joke,
To get some happiness from life
And pass it on to other folk.
(For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/)
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