MEMORIES are fleeting. And that’s bad news because I have very poor memory retention. At 20, I think I’m already suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease, acute amnesia, and quarter-life crisis, hence, the constant dramatic nostalgias and memory lapses. I’m resorting to mnemonics, the reminder function in my mobile phone, and sometimes capsules of memory enhancers to keep me on track, but so far, a piece of paper and a pen have never failed me yet. When interesting moments and ideas come pecking on my brain, I scribble them down on any paper within reach and I try to catch them before they’re able to fly away. Most of these errant thoughts found their way into my articles and other creative attempts; maybe that’s how my love/hate relationship with writing began. Now, I have trouble throwing away pieces of paper and other rubbish in fear of accidentally letting a memory or a possible muse escape.
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In our house, we have an ancient wooden cabinet for memorabilia and other junk intended to be forgotten. I’m quite fond of that cabinet because it’s older than I am and even though battered, it’s still a handsome and useful furniture. One unfortunate day, my sister discovered that a part of the cabinet (where we keep all the albums, year books, and encyclopedias) was already home to a colony of termites. We salvaged as much as we could but the rest were in such a horrid state that we burned them. Staring at the “memory pyre”, I realized how tragic it is losing pieces of your life, especially to a bunch of termites. The following week, my computer was infected with a virus and on the verge of self-destructing, leaving me no choice but to reformat it, erasing memories and hard work (eight gigabytes of it to be exact) to cyber oblivion.
But ironically, in my current tabula rasa state I’m able to remember things more clearly, see life in different perspective, consider the endless possibilities of the future rather than recount my losses in the past. Why mope when I have a whole lifetime to create new memories, right?
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When I became an editor, one of my problems was I didn’t want to write my own column. I hardly read the Op-Ed section because I think they’re nothing but writers’ vainglory and ego-boosters. Well, that’s just my opinion. And really, who cares about my opinions or my incoherent thoughts on memories and bug-infested cabinets? But as I am both obligated and privileged to write a column (my last one) allow me to continue. Remember the constant dramatic nostalgias I mentioned earlier? I’m having an episode right now: To God, who has always been good to me, thank you. It’s just fitting that you always comes first in my life. To my family, I appreciate the continuous love, patience, and support. To my Journalism classmates (from 1JRN2 to 4JRN1) and friends/soul mates/support-group (Shar, Chuck, Yas, KC, Arlene, Mariz, Meri, Trixie, Abby, Cam, Palo, Karla, Elaine…) congratulations and see you out there. To the professors who inspired me and even the ones who pushed my buttons, kudos. To the Varsitarian (Sir Lito, SelCom, EB, happy Features family, NBSB faction, PBs, Bodoni tribe, the incoming staff…) thank you for the opportunities, experiences, and fellowship. To UST, it’s a pleasure serving you and wearing your colors. To every Thomasian I’ve encountered, God bless and hope to see you in 2011. As I am ending this, a line from the song “Closing Time” by Semisonic comes to mind as a perfect cap-off to this queer as clockwork orange column: closing time, every new beginning comes from some of the beginning’s end.
