Retreating into Art
It has been an incredibly difficult week in more ways than one. The news of a respected professor's passing should not come as a surprise given how old she was, but she had been larger than life for the entirety of the country's tech education history. A venerable icon, a living history, a person I could only hesitantly call a mentor because I was never directly mentored (to be recognized would be my greatest honor). The Informatics program never existed without her — until now. More than fifty years. A true legacy.
She was the only person I ever aspired to be. Resourceful, quick-witted, disciplined, smart, full of joy for learning way beyond her retirement years, and ever helpful behind the sharp edge of her words.
I had only hovered from afar, envying those who caught her eyes. I told myself I didn't have the right to mourn, but mourn I did. I planned to attend her wake, but before I could do so the entire country was thrown into chaos as riots erupted. Whispers on the streets speak of martial law coming into effect (only a rumour, for now).
A deja vu, looking at people on the streets from above. A scar twenty seven years old, pulsing beneath the surface. My office had ordered three days work-from-home, to be extended on further notice. I noticed bags of rice disappearing from stores as people started to hunker down. As someone who managed to live relatively comfortably, in an air-conditioned bedroom, and a full pantry, I feel both guilt and relief. A class traitor.
With the world spiraling down and everything cancelled in pace unparalleled since the early days of COVID-19, I thought of getting a project, taking a part-time job, opening a commission, something to replenish my dwindling account. I couldn't do it. Instead, it seems even more urgent for me to make something. To write. To draw. To code. To process the world in the ways I could.
Stay safe.