By Rex Catubig

 

EVERY culture has its own unique way of grappling with the concept of death and redemption; of life here and life hereafter.
It manifests itself in some odd rites and rituals: perhaps bizarre, absurd, irrational and fanciful. But beneath all that, they are ultimately ennobling because they allow us to touch base and come to terms with our primal fears and demons and in some inexplicable way, conquer and subdue them.

Thousand of years ago, the Greeks through the rite called drama recognized the power of catharsis in bringing about the wholeness of self.

Thousand of years hence, we are yet inventing and re-inventing ways to achieve such unity.

We have since turned variously to the prophets and listened to the poets and rock stars; made a mission of creating and recreating a motley assortment of psychological projections–so as to give form and meaning to our innermost fears and passions.

At one time or another, or all at once, we have zombied through Michael Jackson’s Thriller; recently, through the magic of Tik Tok, we have pushed the boundaries of fantasy and reality and indulged in schizophrenic reinvention of self; after making a beeline to the Hunger Games and swearing allegiance to the Games of Thrones, here we are again all agog and falling prey to the Squid Game.

But somewhere in between, in an homage to the subconscious, at once death-defiant, deferential and irreverent, we have brilliantly fashioned and configured the primeval, colorful, horrific and unapologetically juvenile Halloween.

Whether dressing up in gay abandon with grotesque masks and garish costumes or simply engaging in trick or treat, or locally, the serenade and prank of lost souls codified as “tawtawag” and pankamarerwa“, the magic of Halloween provides our schizoid community and the Christian world a typically gaudy, festive and playful way of balancing its yin and yang.

It’s a way of saying I’m ok if you’re ok. And we’re all ok–in a manner that transcends time and reality. Beyond the political imbroglio and temper tantrum of Digong Duterte, the menace of Covid 19, the tragi-comedic hullabaloo and color confusion of political power seekers, way over the peaks and valleys of Villarica’s exchange rates; a high jump across the paranoid anxiety over obituary notices.

Ultimately, it serves as the penultimate fleece Technicolor blanket to wrap our wired, weary and wary selves with, as we bravely venture into the cold moonlit night, our untamed heart breaking into wild tom-toms to herald the grand vigil, and earnestly pin our hopes on and zealously await with Linus the apocalyptic coming of the Great Pumpkin.

Way to go, Charlie Brown! Petmalu lodi!

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