‘The end is near’

An ominous phrase, indeed, if referenc­ing noxious clumps of both real and figurative debris, which for months, have gotten more and more bloated from wars both with weapons and rhet­oric the world over, especial­ly, one tilting on a friable bal­ance, the US—where from an ad featuring both presidential candidates in a highly toxic race for the White House I borrowed the title—comes to an end 24 hours from now.

And yet, I bet like me, you can’t also turn down Frank Sinatra’s wistful sig­nature curtain-closer, which, especially if it sneaks through from starlit skies, somehow reminds you that in the cos­mic sense, or in the heart, in truth, nothing ever ends, and like stars, made of dust, we simply go on spinning in our earth-galaxies.

Election does blow in like a tornado, Filipinos know this too well, stirring a vortex of hope and despair among people, in whose hands lie the fulfillment of the first, or its rejection, hence, submis­sion to the second. It’s un­fair and ironic, to my mind, that almost always in the end, they, who wielded such power to choose, would be pushed into acceptance of consequences, the reasons of which have been either glossed over or hazed, and even hidden in the campaign melee.

From a back glance, if glued to MSNBC in New York, or elsewhere dedicat­ed to minute-by-minute re­ports on the campaign, you wouldn’t imagine normal life streaming in the streets, these past months. Still, if com­pelled those days, to check out CTown’s hot meal trays, a short walk round the corner a few meters past the #1 sub­way station at 125th, life at its most childlike robustness could have drawn you in.

Consider the long line in this community that seems predominantly Latino, most­ly Dominicanos, and Afri­can- Americans, for “carne asada,” “cochinillo,” as well as “bacalao” with “arroz Amaril­lo” and beans—among the favorites—how trusting and innocent each had struck me, as they walked to the cashier, a styrofoam box in hand, ex­changing some good word with the bagger or a friend in the line, what laughter against a livid moment I just caught on TV.

Really, for most, life re­mains unruffled, trapped in a web of promises, no matter. What a lovely thought, which reminds me of a video that circulated in the internet a few years ago on how space scientists in the International Space Station take on their internalized views of the uni­verse, but especially of the planet Earth.

“Awe,” said one of them, “is the only word” his mind could muster, hinting at its inadequacy, hence, even its paltriness, as Earth waltzed into view into their camer­as—a brilliant blue, textured, pulsing orb, sparked with ran­dom lightning, shifting colors and breath while orbiting the sun, garbed in wedding white at day and veiled first in gray to deep black at night but it’s then, when with lights turned on, becomes stunning. But some brown spots, too, as in dryness where forests have been burned, and rivers have been dredged. And because of its luminosity, Earth’s cov­ering appears as a thin aura making it look “fragile,” not­ed another scientist.

From this view of Earth, the sun appears a mere star, one of the scientists said. Against millions of stars in the galaxies that plummet and rise on camera, Earth waltzes on, gathering stardust, cos­mic particles some from bil­lions of light years before the planet Earth’s birthing. And as, unblinking, I continued to watch the video and forming an epiphany, one of the sci­entists conjured it up for me: we are, in a sense, stardust. At which point, for some reason I still can’t explain, my screen turned black and I couldn’t find my way back. But the thought wrapped me, and had sort of given me wings since.

Oh, but what stardust earthlings could be. But none of how this manifests in us, though, could be at all visi­ble from space. And yet, our breaths, our laughter, our tears, our dying must be what coats our planet and gives it its aura. Some of it must be dust from our ashes, floating and dancing on shafts of the sun and the moon. We must really be stardust and which makes us one, nothing less, with the universe, conclud­ed yet another scientist, as if it were a new thought but to him, probably, suddenly, a fact.

Each living, breathing thing in our planet has taken millions of pages to tell their stories as much as ours. But our body to this day has not been fully unraveled; some mystery still lurks in us, espe­cially that something called heart, but not that which could be held or even what ends our lives, something of­ten vaguely called love could only be taken apart by its manifestations, as what sur­faces during calamities and our struggles for peace.

Stardust, we must be but certainly more than that be­cause we can choose where we think we ought to be. As well, we can decree an end to our mistakes if ever, and spin again like tomorrow, here in the US.