Ecstasy in stasis

There is something ineffable about stasis or staying still. During the pre-pandemic (one thing I’ve been thinking about lately now that the prospect of mobility slowly resuming to new normal asserts itself), most of my time is spent on the road. Traversing Cavite to Manila on an almost daily basis just like any other student who dreamt of getting out of their small town and going to Manila to study which is to say, I’ve had my fair share of experience when it comes to the act of staying still inside a cramped vehicle for an interminable amount of time.

Perhaps the point of this article owes itself to the fact that my continuous reflection about mobility, movement, or traversing from other places is due to the fact that it’s what the pandemic has robbed us of because of the failed pandemic response. The preoccupation about movement is because that was what had to go first when the pandemic happened.

In an age where we are perpetually connected, what once was a clear demarcated line between personal life and work suddenly become blurry with the advent of instant communication. Work suddenly spills to home, etc. It has become hard to enjoy moments in stasis without the anxiety of forgetting a deadline, the constant ding! of notifications and the possibility of encountering entertaining clips when you open your phone.

There’s a slight glee for me when the prospect of commuting slowly appears on the horizon. As if life is about to happen again. Like waiting for a train that would take you elsewhere.

Commuting

There was a time during my first year in college when I received an almost-failing mark in one of our subjects. It was a horrible feeling, one that I would later, not exactly become accustomed to, but become indifferent towards considering the kind of pedagogy inherent in a particular institution or just the general system. But of course, this realization is only afforded by distance to the experience. But when I was experiencing this, there was a hollow feeling, like a chest caving in to a bullet, or sinking neck deep in the sea. To placate this feeling, movement. I found myself marching towards Sta. Mesa station, with a heavy heart. In the train, I was standing the whole time watching the derelict background of each station pass my view.

I forgot what I was thinking at that time but there’s a general feeling of losing oneself temporarily in one’s own thoughts. This realization owes itself to the realization that the train ride that day felt short. Of course, there is something to be said about our transportation system, our woes and laments about the logistics, its politics, but there were also days like this where the act of standing in a wobbly train car was not an assault to the body. It was sort of like a daze. The kind that lends structure to one’s thoughts. No earphones, no social media scrolling. Just life happening.

Household chores

There’s a rare instance where I found myself laughing with the speaker once during a class. A professor invited a professional journalist to speak about what it’s like to be in the field. Instead of just waiting for cues that signify the meeting’s end, I found the talk quite enjoyable when she was talking about how busy she has become to the point that the prospect of doing laundry and washing dishes has become a novelty. A way to take her mind off of work.

Across social media, I’ve found several posts that seem to say that household chores can be pleasurable without someone compelling you to do it. Doing it in one’s own volition, unaccompanied by rush. It’s pleasurable by way of attending to one’s life, to one’s own environment.

Walking

These days I found myself wanting to take a walk, especially during afternoons. Sure, the town is not made specifically for people to walk onto but we make do with what we have. I try to make excuses so I can do this. A quick trip to buy something for school (which might as well be true), to a nearby coffee shop, circle around, go up to the footbridge, watch cars pass by, observe people either just going to work or to their homes make a detour to the calamares stand dipping their sticks in a sweet and sour vinegar coupled with a cup of buko juice on the other the hand. I do this when I feel like the sky is not going to be overcast, the sunset as a refuge. Of optimism (and perhaps, peace?) I find lately I’m chasing.

Going home feels a little shorter. By then, it’s starting to get dark. There’s a moment of satisfaction that accompanies walking, the tactile engagement with the environment, a relief to the placelessness of online communication. After I laid down my things, find some use for the stuff I bought, I would make a coffee, sit in front of the laptop and try to write.

I think that what characterizes these things as pleasurable is the slowing down of time. The suffix -stasis in itself. If modernity compels culture towards speeding up of life, the antidote can be found in the everyday.

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