my room: of Books and Rock Music

My Room: Of Books and Rock Music

By Jona B. Bering

Confined on the armed-akimbo-space of my room, while outside, black ink blanketed the pavements: a back draft of my fear that vigilantes or gangsters may come after me if I chilled out on some cool places, so there was nothing left to do but to open the dusty pages of my head, and wiped all the cobwebs dwelling on it.

Joe Foreman, the existentialist voice of Switchfoot, rocked the headset and I hummed with him: we were meant to live for so much more. Have we lost ourselves? Somewhere we live inside…

Ugh, and there I was, wearing the straitjacket of impoundment. The hell with Uncle Soreen Kierkegaard and Tito Friedrich Nietzsche, (Did I spell their names right?) I haven’t fully understood their writings yet, I don’t even have any idea if I spelled their names correctly. Kindly do some research? :D

Dissecting the thoughts of great philosophers was never been my forte, much of my annoyance. They are the frogs, croaking, waiting to be scrutinized, yet never been recognized by my aging head.

Lolo Gabo Marquez, my ever cool grand pop, scolded me through the voice of a Buendia guy, that, “Right there across the river, there are all kinds of magical instruments while we keep on living like donkeys.”

It was your time, grand pop. As Bamboo crooned, so far away… Does anybody stay in one place anymore?

I may not be an accidental genius like Einstein, or a clone of Rene Descartes but my arrows are aiming certain points, sometimes I hit the bullseye, sometimes not. Well, that’s the call of archery in our lives.

I turned my room into upheaval---dispersed books, unfinished poems, disarrayed sketching materials. It is so me to scatter and reevaluate everything that I had read, sketched, made and I realized how informative the book of Updike’s Rabbit is Rich was; how mais, (corny) my poem was; how gruesome my pic last summer was; how funny Julian Barnes was. The criticism went on.

I happened to come across a book entitled The Good Women of China and I scanned it, and I was elated to find out that I had finished reading that book for a week (I marked my books the date of their acquisition, the time I started and finished reading them) when normally, it took me a couple of months before I finished reading one. Whaddashame!

Feminism is the main ingredient of the book and I like the taste of its dish after eating and digesting the underlined important lines of Jin Shuai from the story The University Student, like: Those men simply see women as playthings. They despise their mistresses, or else they have married them long ago"

“Do you feel like a man, when you pushed her around? Do you feel better now as she falls to the ground?” I was amazed of the Red Jumpsuit Apparatus track, Face Down. It is pretty unusual, though not an isolated case, for a man to stand for the rights of women.

Virginia Woolf, I bet, was barking on her grieve as a signed of salutation of the words of Jin Shuai, Xinran and RJA.

I started cleaning and rearranging my messy room, while rocking and singing along with every song that my fave station has yet to offer. As what Sara Teasdale put it, I made a hundred little songs that told the joy and pain of love…

And I gonna sing it for you Tita Sara, though I can’t guarantee I owned the voice of, who is that high-pitched, Botox-eyed singer? Oh yeah, Regine Velasquez. :D

My room gained space and peace, thrown some wastes, refurnished some cobwebbed wisdom and, the most aspiring of all, reaped a smiling tenant. :D

Hmm, Jean Paul Sartre, a relative of my Uncle Soreen, may agree with me that I found contentment and happiness by simply messing and rearranging my room, and wiping every single dust of doubt, insecurity, regrets, on my head simultaneously.

Being half dead wasn't what I planned to be, now I'm ready to be free! So here I am it's in my hands. And I'll savor every moment of this…

I banged my head with the music of contentment.