ir a principal |
Ir a lateral
Arrowhead sipping the colour from my eyes.
He she may not recognise me in my disguise
as a river, with my knees bent into a rush
and my arms dispersed to hide in the gush.
I'm nowhere to be found, having never been lost,
having not been taken apart and further tossed
into the oceans of other minds. Where I belong,
I drink from the wavelengths of a conscious song.
What I would call a hush, a murmur, I hear,
and see without vessels that worlds can tear
into estuaries. Listening, I am blind and deaf,
but a fingerprint on the window to the self.
I stream through, as he she wanders about
through the mistakes of believing in doubt.
Before I named it, that was it.
Those abundant skies are beyond
the vapor in my lungs, but there's closer.
The reflection in the puddle on the sidewalk,
the tears behind the water.
I did not cry to be heard, nor seen.
Before I named it, that was it.
Now it's just words on a canvas,
the paint about a picture of regret.
Now it's a second guess, mistaken
for the way it could have been
but taken as the nail that bled.
Before I named it, that was it.
Heaven's doppelganger's wish fulfilled,
directions misremembered, spilled
coffee, blood, thoughts on the carpet;
and leaves. Now, I've forgotten.
So now, I can remember again.
I have responsibility
to let go of sensitivity
lest it break the trust
that pours through me
and waters down
all it cannot see;
and sensitivity
hurts my honesty
blindly keeping at bay
the falling ashtray
supposing mistakes
rookie mistakes, it takes
heaven from its own
and mine, and home
it brings me back
and all it asks today,
all it asks right now,
is that I let it free,
sensitivity,
to cure me.
My responsibility,
all it asks of me,
is not to hold my scream in
nor boil my anger,
but to let the river flow
and wash the horror
from my eyes, and tongue,
and brain cells.
It will be the same day
that I wait in patience,
no longer waiting for love.
That same day, this day,
I christen with my soul
as it moves into redemption.
From my little home-made raft
I've gotta board the ship aside.
The sea's holding it for me in place.
The sea floor is like an anchor
and I'm trying to move, to shift
my weight from one vessel to the other
so that I can have a smoother ride,
one with a happy ending
i.e. one that takes me through the storm
and doesn't leave me to drown
holding on to a plank of wood.
I don't need my oars,
I don't need my baggage.
All it wants is for me to come
ride with it to paradise
through paradise
until I realise we're there.
I want to bring water from the source in my cupped palms to those who are stranded on the shore, gasping for a mouthful of that all-restoring substance. I don't care if some of it drips out through the thenar gap or the spaces between my fingers, there will still be enough to quench the thirst of those who are dying, impaled in place by the spear of their senseless habits, or those who are still looking for the stream, not knowing that it runs just beside them. I want them to drink so that I can share the solution of life with them and finally wash our problems away like dirt off our skin. I want us to be clean, not dirtied by the dust we make when we fight amongst ourselves on the land. I want the children that line up to take a swim in the stream to all just dive into the flow and be taken away to wherever the current heads. I can imagine swimming elsewhere, encountering drought sooner or later, hitting the dam I would build in front of myself so I would have some obstacle to overcome. I would not perish there while I can still drink and bathe in that which life deems most precious, its miracle panacea. I want to cure the ailments of those who cannot find breath in the oxygen that surrounds their weakened bodies. I want to follow the course where it leads, pulling those marooned ashore into the river where they may drown and become part of it. I want to give the gift that was given me, that I would receive it myself by seeing the seedlings grow into saplings, and the parts become whole.
Unfinished writing on a half
written page of a half-
filled book of words
that would mean something
if sentences would
complete,
paragraphs would
end,
chapters would
close,
verses would
flow
down
further
down a falling wave,
suspended continuity,
forgotten serenity,
down
further to
a whitewash of text
that doesn't really make any sense
but it keeps gurgled suspense
that extends
outwards
towards
And your tears dilute the cracks
of pain you're keeping pitched up
like a tent; nothing left to track
upstream, want of release: stop.
And think of everything inside
a sharpened log, down the river
let it amble, drowning in pride.
Let it gurgle in a tense shiver.
And effuse the marauders down
as well, let them pass by the room
with nothing in it. Let them frown
and torrent; gone they be soon.
And listen to the sound of brackets
that idle around requests. Life is
the full sentence, the pouring best
outside the cup without the fizz.
And protect the call of the wild from
that which materialises. Encounter
a scene with waterworks, a comb
to graze the ground as not to falter.
And feel what you do, and feel what
you are, and feel what streams trickle,
and feel what waters you had forgot.
See, chased happiness is the most fickle
because the mercurial is but a despot
in disguise, waiting with a broken sickle.
On a sailboat, I sprint for the purpose of my life. I run faster than I can, outrunning the pursuing thoughts with their wood-splintering weapons. I speed my way past the glare of onlookers, past my friends who wave blank regards. Past them, I see my fear, exploding with excitement. What I never did was stop to look, to awe and be terrified. No potty on the seas. The sea is my potty and, ironically, I have indigestion. I transcend my walls and go where no fear has ever been before.
Why does my writing sound like this? Self-conscious, self-aware (sometimes), self-concerned... it's embodied my insecurity for me. If I don't look at myself - my writing by extension - I feel I don't make sense, or that anything else I write doesn't matter because it doesn't directly include me. Me, me, me, me. Selfishness is with me on a sailboat. Let's drown. I will survive.
I am obviously hiding.
I try to find the forest inside the book so I
Can rediscover the mists where I dreamed I
Was not fictional.
I haven't yet found that familiar path I
Carved through the paper and roots I
Left behind.
I am clearly hiding.
I wish to discover a fountain with a gurgle I
Can capture with cupped palms so I
Can be reassured.
I walk among the wisps of light I
So dearly wish to be seen by but I
Flicker.
1) Live the Life You Want
Emotion. Such a thing courses through my veins under the deceptively persuasive guise of lifeblood. It surges from my aortic pump into places of other biological import and teaches them shades of shared sentiment: la tristesse, la colère, la honte, la peur, or a viable concoction consisting of any combo of the previous and the unmentioned so that, on demand, when the command center utters its instructions, the expansive plethora of feelings can dip into its colors and manifest a condition under which each organ can play in an orchestral manner. This rich culture is further enriched by long sentences, symbolic of their journey, but also of their ephemerality. That decisive punctuation mark, little in size, is a segment of finality. Its presence is telling. It is defiant and seemingly otherworldly. It ceases, it ends and as such it is feared. It is a doorknob which can, when turned, open the door for emotion to enter. In it comes. Out it goes. Personne ne comprend. Nobody. It is with this apparent caveat that I ponder emotion in vague vagues. The road behind me was paved with good intentions, with the silent hope that there would be something ahead, and voilà. I never wanted to go to hell. I forget where I came from, but I made a wrong turn somewhere I can't go back to. No loading a previously saved game.
2) Corners
Nobody looks at me. I walked on, giving in to clichés. I played my cards with subtlety as to not give away my game but I created an image for the other players to look at. Call it my poker face, sans the sexual undertone introduced by Lady Gaga, or maybe just a little of that dressing, for influence my behavior it did. This image, which glues all the players together, which builds them up when they are down, worked for a while, when thoughts could be manipulated. But things have changed and I don't have the same cards in my hands. I can't play the same way with the different circumstances. I can change my tactics, but... I want to stop playing, really. You could mistake my jeu de cartes as a metaphor for life, but I precisely mean it to be an ironic symbol for the absence of made-up rules. Language, socialisation, is all a game with apparent winners or losers. But nobody looks at me. I sometimes think of myself as a winner, walking down the street, music in my ears. When I play the loser, I walk slower, head down, to the lament of a sad song that I feel is attempting to capture my sentiment. Life is not a music video. There's nobody watching each one but the people that make them, with their stories, so it's all in their heads. No one else cares. Everybody is too concerned with their own card games . So there's really no reason to lie in the corner, hunched, seemingly protected by the two walls that join behind. There might be a singer crying and validating somebody's abandonment, but they don't know, they aren't aware. Disillusionment is not revolutionary. I wasn't going to do anything very impressive actually, but attention is something we give and receive. The balance is ever-present and unchanging. This is why nobody looks at me. I don't like to look at them and when I do, I don't always want them to look back at me because, just maybe, they might see truth in my eyes, sign/sneer, and turn away. In those eyes, I might see myself, but there would be no place for me to turn, cornered.
3) The Silence of Those Who Lie
Deception plays its part and li(n)es are cast in the waters, baiting the restlessly foolish, begging them to fall into the net and believe. Losers... they'll want to be winners later which means that there will be more losers and then we'll have a food chain. But you know, it's all fake. There's no meaning anywhere, no significance that we can point to and say "This absolutely means something." In God, we do not trust. In ourselves, we have no faith. In nothing, do we believe. In nothing, we do believe. When it's dark, we turn away, avoiding what is not there, because we think it is there. And we lie about it. We say we are strong, we are brave, we are wonderful, we are powerful, we are free. We mean something, we are more, yet we call each other less. We play with meaning like it's something when it's nothing. And while we play the game, we are silent.
Notice the irony?
Naked are you? Your fingers are clutching down on the keys of the piano like a foothold. Why are you trying to anchor yourself amidst such a flood? You know you'll drown. Don't you worry, you don't have to go with the flow, no matter where the waters lead. There's a spirit in you, a fire, a focus that's inextinguishable and yet here you are, trying to force the world around to stop changing by fixing yourself in one spot.
You are not gravity. You're not.
But you don't need to be. Surrender and you shall be set free. You can swim, but you don't need to unless you let the waters take you. Where they go is where you are.
And here is where the key turns inside the lock and the door lies shut. You know, I probably closed that door myself unconsciously because I feared what would be on the other side. I thought it'd demolish me. Somewhere on my side of the door there's a scared little boy with tears in his eyes. He looks at me all the time, and whenever I am near the door begins uttering a cry - when I touch the key he moves his little body forward, ready to jump and hold on to me, and his expression turns grave. He doesn't want it open. He wants to stay there in his corner, safe with his headless teddy bear. I don't know what to do, because when he cries, I cry. I feel his pain, every chord that strikes within him I feel. I am stuck in this dark room, key in the lock. I want to open the door, but the little boy's fear grips me right before I bring myself to turn the handle and I am trapped. I cannot move, for fear that the boy will perish and thus that I will perish. He doesn't want to fall, he doesn't want his teddy bear to leave him. He doesn't want me to abandon him, but I know that I can't take him with me. I know what is beyond the door, but I am finding it difficult to remember as I am in the clouds, the evaporation of the little boy's tears, with teddy bear heads floating around me. I must break through. I must turn the key, turn the door handle and open the door, then step out.
On the other side, there is another little boy standing. He's smiling. There are no corners here, no shadows to hide under, no walls to lean on, no ceiling to cower under. There is total freedom, something which I cannot understand.
Who am I? If on this side of the door I am a coward, a fool, a scared little boy, then who could I possibly be on the other side?
There, I am whole.
Avec condition
He lives in a box, in a field, of glass.
Scared it will shatter and slice him open, he does not like to move about much. He does not want to prod at the glass or go up for air. He is afraid of shards, reflections cutting deep. Deep enough to wound. Deep enough to kill. Yet inside he is using up all the oxygen and he cannot breathe for too much longer without getting out. The life he lives is a trap, a trap that promised love but delivered only a Valentine heart and a few red roses which soon withered anyway. In a desert, roses don't grow, they wither. In a desert, there is no water, so the roses wither. In a desert, without water, there is little oxygen, and so all he can see in amongst the dunes of sand are mirages. Dreams: open arms, innocent laughter, smiling, are merely chalk drawings on the sidewalk, to be washed away by rain. If he holds his hand out and opens his parched mouth, will his thirst be quenched by water that is not there to quench his thirst but to wash away the mirage? In a field of glass, in a desert of dreams, on a wall, in a box, he lies. He lies. And he doesn't even know it.
Sans condition
He lived in a box, in a field, of glass.
One day, before the oxygen ran out, he smashed the glass open. The shards glittered in the air as sunlight smiled. The first impact meant he was cut, a few bruises; conversely, the reflection perished, shattered under the feather of freedom. He had gained wings of liberty, able to soar beyond the yonder's reach into heavenly realms, distanceless. Here, the walls are crumbled and any dreams, any mirages, any illusions, are gone. Everything he is, is love, and so he sees, he feels, he breathes, he touches, he smells, he hears it being whispered in the wind, being grown within the glade. At the mouth of a river, water gurgles downstream, cascade-bound. And here he is, standing looking at the rush rush by, aware. Palms cupped, he lifts up a goblet filled with fresh water up to his parched lips and drinks. There is no thirst, for he has what he needs. He can breathe amongst the pines, the firs, the aspens, the poplars too. They share their oxygen with him who needs it. He smiles a grin of thanks. In such a place of peace, he is true. He is true. And love knows it too.
Everything is happening now - that is how it's always been and how it always will be. Otherwise, you're lost somewhere else, somebody else.
A young boy is walking along the pier, half-skipping every other wooden plank. It's an easy task, legs being short, step being steady. Off he goes, further and further toward the mouth wide open, fangless (and therefore deceptively fateful). Ahead, the last plank widens and grows. The tiny feet ginger across the brown piano keys. Unheard music radiates with each minuscule descent of wood. The piece being played is one that the universe hears and is now harmonising to. It looks to be a lonely road, but no road ever is, having the company of pastures, fields, buildings, people, animals, plants, stars on each side. The young boy journeys, descending into the gaping maw destiny-bound. His pace the same, the melody joyful as it changes. The final note: eyes wide open, he bends down and there are two posts that hold up the whole instrument. The left is identical to the right, but they are not the same. See, on the right, over there, is a watermark, one that the other post does not share. A line that could easily be mistaken for an everpresent shadow that coils around the wood. Below is the lingering territory of the sea; above is within the pool of land, divided by horizon. The other post suffers dearth.
The boy's teeth glare out of his own maw as he faces the older, adult maw. Once, this was Poseidon. Once, this was Neptune. Once, it was Life. Once, it was Death. That moment - the same moment that the boy placed his belly on the planks and gazed down into two thirds of the world - the swallowing took place.
When Noah rode his ark, there was a flood to ride on, or so the story goes. Here there was no flood, but a pact. The decision made is today's remark, passed over and assumed. Land met sea and an exchange took place. Earth dove in the realm of water and learned how to swim as it penetrated the world to its recessive depths. After, either it lost air and remained at the bottom without the ability to resurface, or it meditates today, not awaiting anything in particular as we do. Water's wish was to rise, so it did, in the guise of a veil, a secret hymen. Now the sea and land are one, but they are magnificently and yet deceptively divided. Is the air that the young boy breathes not an ocean? When he swallows, he drinks. When he swims, he reaches touches land and honours the partnership, the union.
Where sea meets land, where mountain greets yonder, and where welkin touches the ocean, a great peace descends. There is no conflict, no fighting, no struggle, no strife, no defeat, no victory. There is a watermark, the place where the scales of balance stand now; a guardian of peace, never interfering, but always there to be witnessed, felt. Legs apart now, amphibian feet supporting him, the boy stands. Soon his melody is in reverse. Footsteps garnish the silent opera as it plays itself into a deeper quiet once more, where it remains.
