I think to myself.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
play
"Why are you guys just sitting in silence?"
"We're not."
"Yes, you are. You're not talking."
"That's because the music is."
"Is what?"
"Talking."
"Music doesn't talk, it plays."
"Either way, it fills the verbal void in ways better than we ever could."
Sunday, January 11, 2009
"these are but wild & whirling words"
I am the free laughing oceans
wild and whirling waves
sparkling shining shimmering
glinting in the melting of your eye
/
Pullpushed past direction
past intention
twisting tumbling turning
upside the inside of my soul
solely searching for the sunless sand
caressed by the tiptoeing giggle of my heart
/
Veiling strands of golden light
dance through me in turn
step by step by step
sapphire pearls encompass me in the
immediate sweeping rush of accompanied solitude
never and always one.
/
I am the free laughing oceans
wild and whirling waves
sparkling shining shimmering
glinting in the melting of your eye.
Monday, December 15, 2008
the slow unravelling of mind and me
What were once the souls of my dreams,
essences of my hopes,
masterpieces of my wishes:
My Times to Come,
have now dissolved,
washed away by salty seas,
broken in the storms of my Self.
They drown
as it emerges that
my constant delusion of reprieve
has finally come to terms with me.
And so they become
thin tangled threads,
iridescent dreams of the past,
of what was and will not be,
quietly fraying, ready to snap
I am detached
from then and now and then
past and future trailing
behind my outreached fingertips
and all I can graze
are the locked doors
to rooms in which I don't belong.
But I can't help
pressing my face into
the cloudy windows,
waiting for a Time
that Isn't
and Won't.
"And I can't stop
feeling sorry for myself."
Sunday, September 7, 2008
my childhood's home
As I pulled the mass of folded quilt out of my suitcase, I got a whiff of my grandmother's house, a scent trailing back into days long gone. I know this quilt. It used to sit at the end of the guest room's white bed. But I never thought it to be a guest room -- it was our room, the kids' whenever we came to visit. We weren't guests, we were temporary residents. There's a difference.
Whenever we travelled to visit our grandparents, on either side, we simply moved from Home to Home. I knew their houses as well as my own. I grew up in these houses. Their painted walls, worn out carpeting, quietly tiled bathrooms have recorded my entire history. My childhood is a series of framed photographs strung across their open faces.
In that house, we used to slide down those rough steps in laundry baskets, toppling at the end, our laughter wild with excitement. The small air vents in the upstairs rooms provided perfect telephones, even though we had to speak so loud that we could hear each other through the halls anyway. Our little hands and noses would smudge the glass of the sliding doors as we pressed up against them to watch the train go by. We carefully propped ourselves up on the tall kitchen stools, wiping the sleep from our eyes as we waited for breakfast.Whenever we played hide-and-seek, that house was at our mercy, and yet we always seemed to end up in our grandparent's closet, barrelling through the clothes, curling up silently in dark corners.
In this house, the wide marble staircases offered me a game of lily pad -- going up or down, I could only step in the white spaces, avoiding black veins as nimbly as possible. The black and white tiled kitchen laid out for me the same prospects. It was during such a game that I discovered one black tile to be mispatterned. When I was seven, I lit my first firecracker in the backyard. I used to walk around outside, talking to the plants, balancing on the edged gardens (where has that grace gone?). I knocked my tooth out on the wooden framing of the upstairs living room couch. The small mark of two shallow half-moons still stands out in the dark grains. We each slept in that crib. There is always a stack of blank paper and colorful markers for us at the ready on top of that shelf. How many family birthdays have we celebrated at the square center table, only to be celebrated again on a much grander scale in the huge dining room? How many times did I rush upstairs after school, poking my head through the decorative metal bars, to check if my grandfather was sitting in his chair, before running to give him a hug?
Neither of these houses stand exactly the way they used to. Parts of my histories have been covered up with fresh coats of paint, new fabrics, rearranged photos. In their efforts to update themselves, big or small, these houses have lost track of me. And every time I go back to stay, something in the changes alarms me. Like the threads of time are being cut loose while I still struggle to hold on. It terrifies me.
It terrifies me not because I'm slipping or because my grip is getting cramped, not because my homes are becoming gradually unrecognizable. It terrifies me because I haven't found myself a new home, for right now and today, and my quietly ending childhood's homes are the only ones I've got.
Whenever we travelled to visit our grandparents, on either side, we simply moved from Home to Home. I knew their houses as well as my own. I grew up in these houses. Their painted walls, worn out carpeting, quietly tiled bathrooms have recorded my entire history. My childhood is a series of framed photographs strung across their open faces.
In that house, we used to slide down those rough steps in laundry baskets, toppling at the end, our laughter wild with excitement. The small air vents in the upstairs rooms provided perfect telephones, even though we had to speak so loud that we could hear each other through the halls anyway. Our little hands and noses would smudge the glass of the sliding doors as we pressed up against them to watch the train go by. We carefully propped ourselves up on the tall kitchen stools, wiping the sleep from our eyes as we waited for breakfast.Whenever we played hide-and-seek, that house was at our mercy, and yet we always seemed to end up in our grandparent's closet, barrelling through the clothes, curling up silently in dark corners.
In this house, the wide marble staircases offered me a game of lily pad -- going up or down, I could only step in the white spaces, avoiding black veins as nimbly as possible. The black and white tiled kitchen laid out for me the same prospects. It was during such a game that I discovered one black tile to be mispatterned. When I was seven, I lit my first firecracker in the backyard. I used to walk around outside, talking to the plants, balancing on the edged gardens (where has that grace gone?). I knocked my tooth out on the wooden framing of the upstairs living room couch. The small mark of two shallow half-moons still stands out in the dark grains. We each slept in that crib. There is always a stack of blank paper and colorful markers for us at the ready on top of that shelf. How many family birthdays have we celebrated at the square center table, only to be celebrated again on a much grander scale in the huge dining room? How many times did I rush upstairs after school, poking my head through the decorative metal bars, to check if my grandfather was sitting in his chair, before running to give him a hug?
Neither of these houses stand exactly the way they used to. Parts of my histories have been covered up with fresh coats of paint, new fabrics, rearranged photos. In their efforts to update themselves, big or small, these houses have lost track of me. And every time I go back to stay, something in the changes alarms me. Like the threads of time are being cut loose while I still struggle to hold on. It terrifies me.
It terrifies me not because I'm slipping or because my grip is getting cramped, not because my homes are becoming gradually unrecognizable. It terrifies me because I haven't found myself a new home, for right now and today, and my quietly ending childhood's homes are the only ones I've got.
Friday, July 11, 2008
the flyswatter
A slight buzz flits by his ear just as he closes the microwave. He quickly turns to the noise and, out of the corner of his eye, catches the movement of a giant black fly darting around the kitchen. He turns back to the microwave, punching in numbers, instinctively flicking away the pest whenever it comes near. But in a quick second, the fly returns with full force, zooming around his head like a Chaser in a Quidditch match.
This means war.
He grabs the nearest weapon: a bright red flyswatter, ready for action. He scans the air for any sight of the target. He listens for any buzzing, any swift change in the wind. Sensing his enemy to the left, he whips his head around, crouching low behind the kitchen island. Stealthily, he crawls around the corner, keeping his eyes on the air above him. He realizes with a curse that his enemy has an aerial advantage. He would have to be on extra guard for this battle.
He follows the loud buzzing with both ears and eyes on guard. He can hear it getting closer and closer, lowering itself, ready to attack. And suddenly, the noise stops; the kitchen is blanketed in an ominous silence.
Suspicious, he slowly inches himself up towards the counter, looking over the edge, only to find ... He was face to face with the fly itself. It's giant red eyes glare at him; its furry tongue unwinding itself, taunting him, daring him to take a swing. At such an angle, he realizes the fly is actually a deep metallic green. Phaenicia sericata. Looking closer, he cringes as he sees his distorted, crimson reflection, several times over, staring back. Quietly, he raises his arm and with all his might, brings the flyswatter crashing down on the countertop.
The silence persists.
Lifting the flyswatter -- expecting the gore of a battle's aftermath, the splayed guts of his foe flattened against the cold granite -- he finds nothing. A faint buzz travels over him.
With an ugly scowl on his lip, he stands, frantically searching for the fly. Every buzz sends him into a whirl of panic, every flitting movement sending spasms down his arm. He grips the flyswatter tighter, refusing to give in.
One buzz here, then suddenly over there, above him, behind him. There is more than one fly, he thought, there has to be. He began swinging his flyswatter around like a madman, believing himself to be engulfed in a swarm. The flyswatter swishes through the air, claiming phantom fly lives one after the next. And then - contact.
With a resounding smack, the flyswatter slams into the counter. This time, he stops swinging. He feels something different about this attack. Inching closer towards the counter, he notices the shimmer of a broken wing lying a few centimeters from the swatter. He peels the flyswatter away, pulling up the pancaked remains of the fly. A small black hole in the center of the swatter. Annihilated.
With a malicious laugh, he mercilessly scrapes away the crushed corpse, reveling in the glory of his victory. He slams the trash lid closed just as the microwave begins to beep in monotonous applause.
This means war.
He grabs the nearest weapon: a bright red flyswatter, ready for action. He scans the air for any sight of the target. He listens for any buzzing, any swift change in the wind. Sensing his enemy to the left, he whips his head around, crouching low behind the kitchen island. Stealthily, he crawls around the corner, keeping his eyes on the air above him. He realizes with a curse that his enemy has an aerial advantage. He would have to be on extra guard for this battle.
He follows the loud buzzing with both ears and eyes on guard. He can hear it getting closer and closer, lowering itself, ready to attack. And suddenly, the noise stops; the kitchen is blanketed in an ominous silence.
Suspicious, he slowly inches himself up towards the counter, looking over the edge, only to find ... He was face to face with the fly itself. It's giant red eyes glare at him; its furry tongue unwinding itself, taunting him, daring him to take a swing. At such an angle, he realizes the fly is actually a deep metallic green. Phaenicia sericata. Looking closer, he cringes as he sees his distorted, crimson reflection, several times over, staring back. Quietly, he raises his arm and with all his might, brings the flyswatter crashing down on the countertop.
The silence persists.
Lifting the flyswatter -- expecting the gore of a battle's aftermath, the splayed guts of his foe flattened against the cold granite -- he finds nothing. A faint buzz travels over him.
With an ugly scowl on his lip, he stands, frantically searching for the fly. Every buzz sends him into a whirl of panic, every flitting movement sending spasms down his arm. He grips the flyswatter tighter, refusing to give in.
One buzz here, then suddenly over there, above him, behind him. There is more than one fly, he thought, there has to be. He began swinging his flyswatter around like a madman, believing himself to be engulfed in a swarm. The flyswatter swishes through the air, claiming phantom fly lives one after the next. And then - contact.
With a resounding smack, the flyswatter slams into the counter. This time, he stops swinging. He feels something different about this attack. Inching closer towards the counter, he notices the shimmer of a broken wing lying a few centimeters from the swatter. He peels the flyswatter away, pulling up the pancaked remains of the fly. A small black hole in the center of the swatter. Annihilated.
With a malicious laugh, he mercilessly scrapes away the crushed corpse, reveling in the glory of his victory. He slams the trash lid closed just as the microwave begins to beep in monotonous applause.
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