It's later in the day when you say, "No, I've done nothing today, I haven't done anything."
But you have done so much.
Do you know what Wan-Ah said, when I was complaining to her how quickly my day had ended and how little I felt I had accomplished?
She said, well, first she said, "You gotta, you gotta." I thought she was teasing me, because "You gotta" means "That's all good and well" in my language.
But then, I found out.
What she was trying to say to me was that I shouldn't worry, because it just meant that I had a very bad memory.
A terrible memory, for forgetting all that I had done during the day. "You can't think of anything else but the things you think you haven't finished, all because the things you have done have sadly been erased from your mind. Yes, how sad!"
I don't write in order to remember. I write, so that I can forget. When I am writing, I don't have to feel so bad about my very bad memory erasing everything in my brain.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sands
Lying face down in the sand, Medrijev wonders, "Do I really live in this world?"
The sand covers his eyes and ears, and shifts in soft whispers over his head.
How the wind blows.
In the wind, Medrijev whispers, too, "I cannot be realistic." No sense of time, no ability to cooperate.
He leaves when no one leaves. He enters after everyone else has entered.
He is only able to grasp the future as it has already happened. Seagulls land, turtles float up the river until they hit the first stone that put them in trouble long, long ago.
Medrijev felt sure and unsure. To every living thing, he said, "Peace be with you," but to himself, he said, "I can't, I can't."
Time, please do not stop, please keep moving, but also remember that some of us never knew you existed. In fact, you do not exist.
Time, you are what does not exist.
The sand covers his eyes and ears, and shifts in soft whispers over his head.
How the wind blows.
In the wind, Medrijev whispers, too, "I cannot be realistic." No sense of time, no ability to cooperate.
He leaves when no one leaves. He enters after everyone else has entered.
He is only able to grasp the future as it has already happened. Seagulls land, turtles float up the river until they hit the first stone that put them in trouble long, long ago.
Medrijev felt sure and unsure. To every living thing, he said, "Peace be with you," but to himself, he said, "I can't, I can't."
Time, please do not stop, please keep moving, but also remember that some of us never knew you existed. In fact, you do not exist.
Time, you are what does not exist.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Not a Mannequin
Portret Manana doesn't miss the church dinners, but he misses the oak smells of the sanctuary walls.
He misses the red church cushions, too, and the choir seats.
He also remembers. There was a vagrant who had wandered into the church grounds. He was hungry, but acted as if nothing in the world mattered to him. His hair was dashingly the color of wet straw, a dirty, unwholesome color.
The vagrant had wanted to know if pipe organs, usually loud and boisterous, could sing quietly. Portret demonstrated, and the vagrant was persuaded. Yea, the organ could sing softly and lovingly.
The vagrant then went off to eat in the meeting room.
Portret had to revise the impression of the vagrant, who was not actually an indifferent ball. Far from it. Everything in the world mattered to him. Absolutely everything. That is why he was a vagrant.
He wanted to be an exception in the world so full of models and examples. And he was destined to find exceptions in all things.
A mannequin, he was not.
He misses the red church cushions, too, and the choir seats.
He also remembers. There was a vagrant who had wandered into the church grounds. He was hungry, but acted as if nothing in the world mattered to him. His hair was dashingly the color of wet straw, a dirty, unwholesome color.
The vagrant had wanted to know if pipe organs, usually loud and boisterous, could sing quietly. Portret demonstrated, and the vagrant was persuaded. Yea, the organ could sing softly and lovingly.
The vagrant then went off to eat in the meeting room.
Portret had to revise the impression of the vagrant, who was not actually an indifferent ball. Far from it. Everything in the world mattered to him. Absolutely everything. That is why he was a vagrant.
He wanted to be an exception in the world so full of models and examples. And he was destined to find exceptions in all things.
A mannequin, he was not.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Summer
In a way, you never arrive
You are always ending,
Like a reverie.
Oops!
Please don't say, "Like a reverie." It sounds egregious. Monster Royce will pounce on you.
You are always ending,
Like a reverie.
Oops!
Please don't say, "Like a reverie." It sounds egregious. Monster Royce will pounce on you.
Liberation
If you know your ship is sinking, why not save it?
If you can't save it, then don't die with the ship. Escape, evacuate.
"In the case of an emergency," the woman was saying, "please don't complain. Be calm. Do not panic."
I will not panic, I will be calm, or try to be. But I will complain.
I will always complain.
"Please," the woman was saying, "you are too young to complain. Wait until you are 40 to start complaining."
Then with a smile, she added, "Until then, just try your best."
But I know better. I know that a little while ago, the woman was saying to a 46 year-old man, "Now, sir, it is too late to complain. You are old enough to know, mature enough to understand. So please, don't complain. STOP."
Then yesterday, the woman was saying (I overheard) to a 40 year-old woman, "Now, ma'am, you should wait a year or two, just a year or two, before you start saying bad things about XYZ. You need slightly more experience, and life experiences, to be able to say such things"
The next moment, the woman, not the 40 year-old but the dictatorial one, was saying to another 40 year-old woman, "Nancy, dear, you've lived enough to know. When you're 40, you'll know better than to complain. You'll know it's better to keep at it, without complaining."
But I will complain, oh yes I will, no matter how old I may be, or how young. I will complain that the ship is sinking. And that it might be too late.
Then, I will make my escape. Everyone, follow me.
If you'd like. It's now, or never.
If you can't save it, then don't die with the ship. Escape, evacuate.
"In the case of an emergency," the woman was saying, "please don't complain. Be calm. Do not panic."
I will not panic, I will be calm, or try to be. But I will complain.
I will always complain.
"Please," the woman was saying, "you are too young to complain. Wait until you are 40 to start complaining."
Then with a smile, she added, "Until then, just try your best."
But I know better. I know that a little while ago, the woman was saying to a 46 year-old man, "Now, sir, it is too late to complain. You are old enough to know, mature enough to understand. So please, don't complain. STOP."
Then yesterday, the woman was saying (I overheard) to a 40 year-old woman, "Now, ma'am, you should wait a year or two, just a year or two, before you start saying bad things about XYZ. You need slightly more experience, and life experiences, to be able to say such things"
The next moment, the woman, not the 40 year-old but the dictatorial one, was saying to another 40 year-old woman, "Nancy, dear, you've lived enough to know. When you're 40, you'll know better than to complain. You'll know it's better to keep at it, without complaining."
But I will complain, oh yes I will, no matter how old I may be, or how young. I will complain that the ship is sinking. And that it might be too late.
Then, I will make my escape. Everyone, follow me.
If you'd like. It's now, or never.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
The Blade
Sadness shines like a kite,
A blade, a stone, a cabinet.
Too fatigued for words, you search for meaning in the emptying well of your brain.
No, that's not it. That's not it.
No?
You need a wall on which to hang a lot of pictures.
Pictures.
Pictures stop the world from bleeding, and paint is an antidote to all that is shed.
The answer?
The answer lies at the back of my eyes, where I cannot see it.
You say: "The world is food I cannot eat,
Cannot grasp, cannot take."
Such cruelty no longer surprises me.
I would like to spend a lazy summer afternoon, seeped in hot, sweet iced tea.
Under the grass, inside the glass, and above,
In the exhaust
Where everybody knows that a good song starts, must always start, in pain.
Blades of grass shoot away to form a giant drape that hangs over the world in thirty, forty flaps.
Fifty flaps, and more.
Good-bye, blade.
You are so high up and floating, like rain clouds in the sky.
A blade, a stone, a cabinet.
Too fatigued for words, you search for meaning in the emptying well of your brain.
No, that's not it. That's not it.
No?
You need a wall on which to hang a lot of pictures.
Pictures.
Pictures stop the world from bleeding, and paint is an antidote to all that is shed.
The answer?
The answer lies at the back of my eyes, where I cannot see it.
You say: "The world is food I cannot eat,
Cannot grasp, cannot take."
Such cruelty no longer surprises me.
I would like to spend a lazy summer afternoon, seeped in hot, sweet iced tea.
Under the grass, inside the glass, and above,
In the exhaust
Where everybody knows that a good song starts, must always start, in pain.
Blades of grass shoot away to form a giant drape that hangs over the world in thirty, forty flaps.
Fifty flaps, and more.
Good-bye, blade.
You are so high up and floating, like rain clouds in the sky.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
The Sea
The sea took me to an island.
The island took me to the sea.
The tide keeps changing, and I, too.
The island took me to the sea.
The tide keeps changing, and I, too.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Gogol
"My brain is a frozen brain, devoid of life," Gogol said.
Gogol talks funny.
"Is that true, Gogol?" I asked. It startled me to think that someone as alert and as thoughtful as Gogol would be frozen in the brain. Unthinkable, of all people.
But here he was--or she was, for that matter, since I never knew Gogol's gender--complaining that his or her brain was devoid of life.
All but impossible. But true. Perhaps.
Gogol revealed to me then that he or she was suffering from a physical ailment. And the physical ailment was what had shrouded Gogol's brain in a thick, freezing mist.
"In some people," Gogol said, "physical stress induces mental clarity and well-being."
I nodded.
"But in me, the opposite," Gogol said. "Physical stress wreaks a very adverse effect on my mentality. I don't know why."
I didn't know, either. Nonetheless, I felt bad for Gogol.
Then the conversation turned to whether it is possible to exist as a person inside books.
"Of course, it must be possible," Gogol said. But Gogol was careful to say "must be" instead of "is."
"You know," Gogol said. "Some answers are just impossible to be completely sure of. This is one of those."
I urged Gogol to go on.
Gogol obliged and said, "It is entirely natural to want to pull out hair, especially if it is sticking out by itself. But sometimes, just sometimes, you cannot pull it out. You may not even be able to tug at it."
"We are always trying to pull out hairs, in one way or another," I suggested.
Gogol thought for a moment, and said, "Yes, yes. I think ultimately, we want to get to our brains. Or get at our brains, perhaps I should say. In my case, to or at my frozen brain."
Suddenly, I didn't know what to do, and so I ran away.
The next day, Gogol had turned to ice. Impossible but true, a chilling story in the heat of summer.
Gogol talks funny.
"Is that true, Gogol?" I asked. It startled me to think that someone as alert and as thoughtful as Gogol would be frozen in the brain. Unthinkable, of all people.
But here he was--or she was, for that matter, since I never knew Gogol's gender--complaining that his or her brain was devoid of life.
All but impossible. But true. Perhaps.
Gogol revealed to me then that he or she was suffering from a physical ailment. And the physical ailment was what had shrouded Gogol's brain in a thick, freezing mist.
"In some people," Gogol said, "physical stress induces mental clarity and well-being."
I nodded.
"But in me, the opposite," Gogol said. "Physical stress wreaks a very adverse effect on my mentality. I don't know why."
I didn't know, either. Nonetheless, I felt bad for Gogol.
Then the conversation turned to whether it is possible to exist as a person inside books.
"Of course, it must be possible," Gogol said. But Gogol was careful to say "must be" instead of "is."
"You know," Gogol said. "Some answers are just impossible to be completely sure of. This is one of those."
I urged Gogol to go on.
Gogol obliged and said, "It is entirely natural to want to pull out hair, especially if it is sticking out by itself. But sometimes, just sometimes, you cannot pull it out. You may not even be able to tug at it."
"We are always trying to pull out hairs, in one way or another," I suggested.
Gogol thought for a moment, and said, "Yes, yes. I think ultimately, we want to get to our brains. Or get at our brains, perhaps I should say. In my case, to or at my frozen brain."
Suddenly, I didn't know what to do, and so I ran away.
The next day, Gogol had turned to ice. Impossible but true, a chilling story in the heat of summer.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Ice Cream
Whenever someone made her angry, she said, "Thank you."
She didn't thank the person, oh no, and she never said it loud enough to be heard.
But she said it, and as she was saying it, she always knew she would survive.
That is, survive her anger, live longer than her anger.
She would outlive her anger.
Already the anger was not hers, it was someone else's, and now, she was just walking barefoot on a mound of soft clay and ice--mmm, anger! mmm, ice cream!
She didn't thank the person, oh no, and she never said it loud enough to be heard.
But she said it, and as she was saying it, she always knew she would survive.
That is, survive her anger, live longer than her anger.
She would outlive her anger.
Already the anger was not hers, it was someone else's, and now, she was just walking barefoot on a mound of soft clay and ice--mmm, anger! mmm, ice cream!
Someday
Oh, never relent. Oh, never relent.
Someday, you will have to relent.
So never relent, while you can't.
Someday, you will have to relent.
So never relent, while you can't.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Stars Inside
If you want to be intellectual, what can you do?
Where should you be?
On the island, or off the island? In the sea among green and orange waves, or on the shore, sprinkled with glass and silver?
Should you move? Should you swim? Should you fish or hunt? Or sleep all day? Then you cannot eat.
Like a starfish, I extend the palm of my mind in five different directions. When I stretch, I see the stars clicking inside in the most chilling, but alluring way. Where should I go? What should I be?
But then it is not about where or what. Or when, as long as you can stretch. In five different directions, that is, as I said above.
Wherever I go, whatever I'm doing, whenever I'm doing it, as long as I am stretched in five different directions and seeing the stars inside go whooomm, I'll be okay, I'd like to think.
Where should you be?
On the island, or off the island? In the sea among green and orange waves, or on the shore, sprinkled with glass and silver?
Should you move? Should you swim? Should you fish or hunt? Or sleep all day? Then you cannot eat.
Like a starfish, I extend the palm of my mind in five different directions. When I stretch, I see the stars clicking inside in the most chilling, but alluring way. Where should I go? What should I be?
But then it is not about where or what. Or when, as long as you can stretch. In five different directions, that is, as I said above.
Wherever I go, whatever I'm doing, whenever I'm doing it, as long as I am stretched in five different directions and seeing the stars inside go whooomm, I'll be okay, I'd like to think.
A Camera
A most amazing flower, flowers, showers, flowers.
Leaves, oh leaves! Most terrible leaves at the back of my mind.
Look, a camera, does nothing but look!
Leaves, oh leaves! Most terrible leaves at the back of my mind.
Look, a camera, does nothing but look!
Imaginings
What is hidden inside your bald, shaved head?
Do you hide nothing behind your violent façade?
Could you be a starving monk shouldering a day job, to contemplate by night?
Why does no one bring you food and all the sustenance a man needs?
And why, if I may ask, did you become a monk in the first place?
Did you inherit a temple, or had you an experience so devastating beyond my, or anyone's, comprehension?
Perhaps I am making unwanted waves in the reflections of your happy face, which you had directed not at me, but at the children, your customers.
Do you hide nothing behind your violent façade?
Could you be a starving monk shouldering a day job, to contemplate by night?
Why does no one bring you food and all the sustenance a man needs?
And why, if I may ask, did you become a monk in the first place?
Did you inherit a temple, or had you an experience so devastating beyond my, or anyone's, comprehension?
Perhaps I am making unwanted waves in the reflections of your happy face, which you had directed not at me, but at the children, your customers.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Theory
Why does no one believe me?
The Tale of Genji was written in 1783 by a group of highly educated but debaucherous monks over the course of four summers. Everyone says the novel was written in the 11th century. But that's part of the novel, as it were - it's fiction. The non-fiction part is the debaucherous monks, but they did everything they could to mask their identity. Good job, sirs. And if I may add, there were two female writers among them. They did not pour tea.
Lady Murasaki, the purple one, is a dead person. As soon as one is dead, one becomes a fictitious character. Is this not true?
However, Mr. Goode, the 3rd grade teacher, says, "Don't make things up."
But, oh, isn't it almost better to make things up than to get the facts wrong? How accurate can you be when you are talking about someone who lived in the 11th century?
Not very.
Please, don't be fooled. It's better to fool than to be fooled. Fiction is an antidote to all the trickery-mockery in the world.
Don't you know?
The final word Michael Jackson uttered was: "Joker."
How do you know? No, no!
The Tale of Genji was written in 1783 by a group of highly educated but debaucherous monks over the course of four summers. Everyone says the novel was written in the 11th century. But that's part of the novel, as it were - it's fiction. The non-fiction part is the debaucherous monks, but they did everything they could to mask their identity. Good job, sirs. And if I may add, there were two female writers among them. They did not pour tea.
Lady Murasaki, the purple one, is a dead person. As soon as one is dead, one becomes a fictitious character. Is this not true?
However, Mr. Goode, the 3rd grade teacher, says, "Don't make things up."
But, oh, isn't it almost better to make things up than to get the facts wrong? How accurate can you be when you are talking about someone who lived in the 11th century?
Not very.
Please, don't be fooled. It's better to fool than to be fooled. Fiction is an antidote to all the trickery-mockery in the world.
Don't you know?
The final word Michael Jackson uttered was: "Joker."
How do you know? No, no!
Friday, July 17, 2009
Puala
Is your name Paula?
No, Puala. Puala Mendinguez:
I have a daunting day ahead,
My brain feels dead, like a stone
But my heart isn't sinking.
Inside, I feel like a bird on her toes, getting ready for - not a fall, not a fall.
No, Puala. Puala Mendinguez:
I have a daunting day ahead,
My brain feels dead, like a stone
But my heart isn't sinking.
Inside, I feel like a bird on her toes, getting ready for - not a fall, not a fall.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Isocrates
Isocrates, not to be confused with Socrates.
Isocrates was a rhetorician, teacher-businessman, and possibly a student of Socrates, or at least an acquaintance.
If Socrates is the father of philosophy, Isocrates is the father of education, apparently.
And you can see in Plato's Phaedrus, that even though the (1+i)Socrates had been friends, they were also enemies; even though they were enemies, they had been friends.
Philosophy and education.
Plato has Socrates, the philosopher, say: "May I consider the wise man rich."
Then Plato has Socrates add, like an afterthought: "As for gold," oh, as for gold, "Let me have as much as a moderate man could bear and carry with him."
Let education teach this to every student, every pupil, every learner.
Let him, her, shim/sher know that wealth, external, material wealth, that is, is a burden, not wings.
But then Isocrates, the educator, was not really a philosopher, apparently. He had turned education into a lucrative, money-making business.
Really, tuition should be free. Art museums and concerts should be made free. Then the wealthy could ease their burden--yes, their burden, their wealth--by donating to the teachers, artists, and those who provide administrative or logistical support.
Because art is philosophy.
And because gold is a burden, like weights, stones, and sorrow.
Isocrates was a rhetorician, teacher-businessman, and possibly a student of Socrates, or at least an acquaintance.
If Socrates is the father of philosophy, Isocrates is the father of education, apparently.
And you can see in Plato's Phaedrus, that even though the (1+i)Socrates had been friends, they were also enemies; even though they were enemies, they had been friends.
Philosophy and education.
Plato has Socrates, the philosopher, say: "May I consider the wise man rich."
Then Plato has Socrates add, like an afterthought: "As for gold," oh, as for gold, "Let me have as much as a moderate man could bear and carry with him."
Let education teach this to every student, every pupil, every learner.
Let him, her, shim/sher know that wealth, external, material wealth, that is, is a burden, not wings.
But then Isocrates, the educator, was not really a philosopher, apparently. He had turned education into a lucrative, money-making business.
Really, tuition should be free. Art museums and concerts should be made free. Then the wealthy could ease their burden--yes, their burden, their wealth--by donating to the teachers, artists, and those who provide administrative or logistical support.
Because art is philosophy.
And because gold is a burden, like weights, stones, and sorrow.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
An Impossibility
KOTORI: Would I have gone to war, if I had been given a chance? DeeDee, do you think I would have? Or, do you think that I could have?
DEEDEE: (Says nothing.)
KOTORI: Oh yes, absolutely.
DEEDEE: (Suddenly rising to her feet) To prove yourself to those who said you were too weak. To prove yourself to yourself.
(They walk toward a small stream and gaze at the water.)
DEEDEE: Then, would you have killed? That's what they do in wars, apparently.
KOTORI: Yes, but no, I wouldn't have killed. I would have killed myself or been killed by my fellow men and women before I could kill anyone else. That much, I know.
DEEDEE: And killing is only a small part of wars, supposedly.
KOTORI: But I would still go to war. That's how much I need to see it, with my own eyes. I cannot trust what I see and hear in books, through books. I need to taste the dirt in my own mouth.
DEEDEE: You will, you certainly will, if you go to war. Would you really go to war?
KOTORI: Yes, I would.
DEEDEE: But then, you couldn't. How could you, when you would kill yourself first, before killing anyone else? You would be long gone then, before you had spent any significant amount of time in the war.
KOTORI: Yes, that's fine. That's how I envision it.
DEEDEE: No, no, but it's impossible. It's a logical impossibility. It doesn't hold.
KOTORI: Right, that's perfectly right. But I'm still going to make it hold together.
DEEDEE: Okay, but no one will know. No one will understand.
KOTORI: Sure, that would be an understatement, but sure, that's how I envision it.
DEEDEE: (To the audience) Kotori will fly away.
(Kotori flies away, leaving DeeDee by the stream.)
DEEDEE: (Says nothing.)
KOTORI: Oh yes, absolutely.
DEEDEE: (Suddenly rising to her feet) To prove yourself to those who said you were too weak. To prove yourself to yourself.
(They walk toward a small stream and gaze at the water.)
DEEDEE: Then, would you have killed? That's what they do in wars, apparently.
KOTORI: Yes, but no, I wouldn't have killed. I would have killed myself or been killed by my fellow men and women before I could kill anyone else. That much, I know.
DEEDEE: And killing is only a small part of wars, supposedly.
KOTORI: But I would still go to war. That's how much I need to see it, with my own eyes. I cannot trust what I see and hear in books, through books. I need to taste the dirt in my own mouth.
DEEDEE: You will, you certainly will, if you go to war. Would you really go to war?
KOTORI: Yes, I would.
DEEDEE: But then, you couldn't. How could you, when you would kill yourself first, before killing anyone else? You would be long gone then, before you had spent any significant amount of time in the war.
KOTORI: Yes, that's fine. That's how I envision it.
DEEDEE: No, no, but it's impossible. It's a logical impossibility. It doesn't hold.
KOTORI: Right, that's perfectly right. But I'm still going to make it hold together.
DEEDEE: Okay, but no one will know. No one will understand.
KOTORI: Sure, that would be an understatement, but sure, that's how I envision it.
DEEDEE: (To the audience) Kotori will fly away.
(Kotori flies away, leaving DeeDee by the stream.)
Doubles
Loss of face, loss of a finger ensues, and Sabina grates her teeth against the metal bar.
Grating her teeth, Sabina asks, "Am I invincible?"
Far away in the distance behind a cornroot tree, Sabina's half-sister, Moon, yawns, "Am I invisible?"
Sabina takes a bite out of the cake; Moon takes a smaller bite out of the same cake.
They both eat cake, the two half-sisters.
Where were their mother and the two half-fathers, or their father and the two half-mothers? They had no one to tell them.
Hand in hand, the half-sisters ask, "Am I invisible? Or am I invincible?"
Together, they sing in low, impossibly soft voices, "We are invincible. But also invisible."
Grating her teeth, Sabina asks, "Am I invincible?"
Far away in the distance behind a cornroot tree, Sabina's half-sister, Moon, yawns, "Am I invisible?"
Sabina takes a bite out of the cake; Moon takes a smaller bite out of the same cake.
They both eat cake, the two half-sisters.
Where were their mother and the two half-fathers, or their father and the two half-mothers? They had no one to tell them.
Hand in hand, the half-sisters ask, "Am I invisible? Or am I invincible?"
Together, they sing in low, impossibly soft voices, "We are invincible. But also invisible."
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Running
You have exhausted yourself. Yet, instead of sinking, you grow in size, like a pear.
No longer the firm you you used to be, with outlines bolder than this small piece of rock, which I am holding in my hand, and is disappearing, all of a sudden, like shadows turning into sunlight.
But you are growing. All of a sudden, you grow. Then, I no longer know you whom I have known for eight years, ten, eleven years. Or more.
Back to the solitude of the grassy summer, when you, whom I had known for a long time, passed and glided by without any greetings.
Oh, please, wake up! The novel has just ended and you, my friend, are quite at a loss as to what to do. March, parade.
Walk through the rain, and be happy.
No longer the firm you you used to be, with outlines bolder than this small piece of rock, which I am holding in my hand, and is disappearing, all of a sudden, like shadows turning into sunlight.
But you are growing. All of a sudden, you grow. Then, I no longer know you whom I have known for eight years, ten, eleven years. Or more.
Back to the solitude of the grassy summer, when you, whom I had known for a long time, passed and glided by without any greetings.
Oh, please, wake up! The novel has just ended and you, my friend, are quite at a loss as to what to do. March, parade.
Walk through the rain, and be happy.
The Wall
Paul talked to the wall, a wall.
As he was walking past, he said, looking at the wall, "How do you find the current state of affairs?"
The wall did not answer. It simply stood firm and wide, as Paul passed by.
"A dead-end," it might have said. But it didn't say.
It couldn't have said, "An opening." Where the wall ended, there was a small path leading up to a vague darkness.
Paul missed the wall.
As he was walking past, he said, looking at the wall, "How do you find the current state of affairs?"
The wall did not answer. It simply stood firm and wide, as Paul passed by.
"A dead-end," it might have said. But it didn't say.
It couldn't have said, "An opening." Where the wall ended, there was a small path leading up to a vague darkness.
Paul missed the wall.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Rest
Violin sounds.
And now, I've forgotten the rest.
Sofya's tired eyes rest on mine. My eyes, inscrutable, rest on hers.
Agitated, in the agitation of day, I've forgotten everything. Everything, I have forgotten.
Let all experience inspire you. Don't let it stifle you. And the reason why I've kept experience in the singular is because all experiences are tied: connected but bound, truthful but all so full of lies. In the end, it is you who must remain.
Then a respite, in a slowly retreating cascade.
And now, I've forgotten the rest.
Sofya's tired eyes rest on mine. My eyes, inscrutable, rest on hers.
Agitated, in the agitation of day, I've forgotten everything. Everything, I have forgotten.
Let all experience inspire you. Don't let it stifle you. And the reason why I've kept experience in the singular is because all experiences are tied: connected but bound, truthful but all so full of lies. In the end, it is you who must remain.
Then a respite, in a slowly retreating cascade.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
The Name
"Yolanda," David called.
David had called, "Yolanda."
In the distance, a yacht drifted, leaving a singlemost star.
By the way, you shouldn't refer to these passages for exemplary usages of English, the English language. For that, go to the New York Times, or any of the respected newspapers. They will have the answers for you. Usually.
My island, our island, is where confusions and mistakes are not shunned. Trees grow, leaves scatter, and especially, palm trees stand still in a jagged line. And yet, the world is not perfect.
The world is not perfect.
Could he have called out, "Jocasta"? Vaguely he remembered the countours of a queen's head, buried in a pack of playing cards.
The continents, the continents. They confused him. They pushed him, shoved him, and also cajoled him. Those blocks of land, those blocks of clay, how could they exist? How do they not dissolve in the churning oceans? How do they not sink under the pressure?
David came to the island. He vaguely missed the continents and their faceless faces. Calling out the name, he knew, in that moment that was like a spark, that the island could disappear now, or never. And no one would ever know, or even remember.
David had called, "Yolanda."
In the distance, a yacht drifted, leaving a singlemost star.
By the way, you shouldn't refer to these passages for exemplary usages of English, the English language. For that, go to the New York Times, or any of the respected newspapers. They will have the answers for you. Usually.
My island, our island, is where confusions and mistakes are not shunned. Trees grow, leaves scatter, and especially, palm trees stand still in a jagged line. And yet, the world is not perfect.
The world is not perfect.
Could he have called out, "Jocasta"? Vaguely he remembered the countours of a queen's head, buried in a pack of playing cards.
The continents, the continents. They confused him. They pushed him, shoved him, and also cajoled him. Those blocks of land, those blocks of clay, how could they exist? How do they not dissolve in the churning oceans? How do they not sink under the pressure?
David came to the island. He vaguely missed the continents and their faceless faces. Calling out the name, he knew, in that moment that was like a spark, that the island could disappear now, or never. And no one would ever know, or even remember.
Happiness
I worry. I worry about cell phones overtaking the world.
In my mind, I can imagine a cell phone the size of a person hugging me in my sleep and waking me up in the morning.
In fact, my cell phone already does that. It's just that it hasn't reached the size of a person yet.
But soon enough. Soon, it will.
For one, I worry about cell phones replacing books: paperbacks, notebooks, handbooks.
The new book, as it were, will be able to talk, and on top of that, you will be able to talk into it.
A revolution!
Many years ago, books replaced people. Living people, and the poets and the musicians in them. Silent books replaced the living, beating hearts of singing, dancing people.
O technology, you are like art. You are never happy with yourself.
Just be.
In my mind, I can imagine a cell phone the size of a person hugging me in my sleep and waking me up in the morning.
In fact, my cell phone already does that. It's just that it hasn't reached the size of a person yet.
But soon enough. Soon, it will.
For one, I worry about cell phones replacing books: paperbacks, notebooks, handbooks.
The new book, as it were, will be able to talk, and on top of that, you will be able to talk into it.
A revolution!
Many years ago, books replaced people. Living people, and the poets and the musicians in them. Silent books replaced the living, beating hearts of singing, dancing people.
O technology, you are like art. You are never happy with yourself.
Just be.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Worst
Crippled in both legs, I run across the field in search of the worst.
The worst.
The most wonderful worst.
The worst.
The most wonderful worst.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Hands
My name is Compri.
Understood, in one way, and misunderstood, in another way.
I am always, always misunderstood. I cannot make myself understood. I understand very little of everything that surrounds me, that fills me, and threatens to become me or destroy me.
Often.
Often, I get scared of the world I live in. Is it just I who occupy this world, instead of that world? No one seems to be in this world, in which I find myself.
I am all alone.
Not, not I.
Not if anything was anything but I.
I am not alone because I am not here. Not even here.
If you touch me, you will touch my cheek, but not me. Because I'm not here. Not really.
You can find me swimming with the waves in some strange patch of ocean that stretches, rather furtively, across the palm of your left hand. Your right hand. Your right and left hands.
Understood, in one way, and misunderstood, in another way.
I am always, always misunderstood. I cannot make myself understood. I understand very little of everything that surrounds me, that fills me, and threatens to become me or destroy me.
Often.
Often, I get scared of the world I live in. Is it just I who occupy this world, instead of that world? No one seems to be in this world, in which I find myself.
I am all alone.
Not, not I.
Not if anything was anything but I.
I am not alone because I am not here. Not even here.
If you touch me, you will touch my cheek, but not me. Because I'm not here. Not really.
You can find me swimming with the waves in some strange patch of ocean that stretches, rather furtively, across the palm of your left hand. Your right hand. Your right and left hands.
The Carrot
Marie had said, "There is no meaning."
She had said, "There is no meaning." Then she had added, hastily, "There has never been any meaning."
Poggy, the silly two year-old going on three, had asked, "Is meaning delicious?"
"Poggy dear," Marie had replied, "Poggy dear, no one knows. No one has eaten it."
Poggy had begun to fidget and had sung, "I'm eating, I'm eating, I'm eating it!"
Father had stood up from his chair and said, "What does it mean?"
Mother had ignored Father, also stood up, and had said to Poggy, "Don't eat meaning, please."
Everyone, not just Father and Mother, but everyone, had stood up and said, "Poggy, please don't eat meaning. Meaning is not delicious. Meaning is bad for you."
Poggy had cried. Cried, unable to bear the burden of the word "bad." Bad? Her cheeks had turned bright purple, too bright for anyone to see.
"Oh, it means nothing," Todd had jumped in. We had not ever known who Todd was. But Todd was the one who had said it.
The family had begun to eat their dinner when the air yelled, "What is nothing?" The air reverberated , for a while, with the question it had yelled. How, I do not know, I had not known.
"Nothing," Poggy had echoed the air.
The air had echoed Poggy, "Nothing."
Had air been full of something, or was it emptiness that we had had no choice but to breathe in, for months on end, for our own survival?
The family's dinner was all steaming and smelled too good. Everyone was too happy, even every thing. Except for one carrot. The carrot had said, "Nothing is meaning."
I had wanted to be that carrot, until it was eaten, swallowed, and turned into mush.
"I can't do it, Todd, I can't do it," I kept on telling this Todd, whom I had never seen or met.
She had said, "There is no meaning." Then she had added, hastily, "There has never been any meaning."
Poggy, the silly two year-old going on three, had asked, "Is meaning delicious?"
"Poggy dear," Marie had replied, "Poggy dear, no one knows. No one has eaten it."
Poggy had begun to fidget and had sung, "I'm eating, I'm eating, I'm eating it!"
Father had stood up from his chair and said, "What does it mean?"
Mother had ignored Father, also stood up, and had said to Poggy, "Don't eat meaning, please."
Everyone, not just Father and Mother, but everyone, had stood up and said, "Poggy, please don't eat meaning. Meaning is not delicious. Meaning is bad for you."
Poggy had cried. Cried, unable to bear the burden of the word "bad." Bad? Her cheeks had turned bright purple, too bright for anyone to see.
"Oh, it means nothing," Todd had jumped in. We had not ever known who Todd was. But Todd was the one who had said it.
The family had begun to eat their dinner when the air yelled, "What is nothing?" The air reverberated , for a while, with the question it had yelled. How, I do not know, I had not known.
"Nothing," Poggy had echoed the air.
The air had echoed Poggy, "Nothing."
Had air been full of something, or was it emptiness that we had had no choice but to breathe in, for months on end, for our own survival?
The family's dinner was all steaming and smelled too good. Everyone was too happy, even every thing. Except for one carrot. The carrot had said, "Nothing is meaning."
I had wanted to be that carrot, until it was eaten, swallowed, and turned into mush.
"I can't do it, Todd, I can't do it," I kept on telling this Todd, whom I had never seen or met.
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