Your life is your life
Don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
Be on the watch.
There are ways out.
There is a light somewhere.
It may not be much light, but
It beats the darkness.
Be on the watch.
The gods will offer you chances.
Know them.
Take them.
You can’t beat death, but
You can beat death in life, sometimes.
And the more often you learn to do it,
The more light there will be.
Your life is your life.
Know it while you have it.
You are marvelous
The gods wait to delight
In you.
Fin
In the impenetrable darkness he sat, strains of Borodin’s 3rd symphony accompanying the quintessential glass of whiskey, (half empty with a rapidly dissolving ice cube, for those fixated on the details). A lazy circle of smoke floated gently up from the cigarette enslaved between his short stubby fingers. Unremarkable fingers. In fact, ugly fingers almost.
Yes, those short stubby unremarkable ugly fingers, amusingly inept and worthless though they may seem, once had the power to make grown men weep, and beautiful maidens throw their virginity to the winds. It made old maids young, and young and virile boys ancient. It made summer seem like winter, and autumn spring.
To say the least, those fingers once created magic.
But not today. Today, those ten instances of perfection arising from a glorious imperfection were nothing more than a prop; a mere tool to satisfy the whimsy of an already whimsical man. An utterly despicable waste one might say.
And one would not be wrong.
“After all, genius is meant to be shared.
Or is it?
Does being a savant and a prodigy mean that you must expose yourself to the vagaries of prurient human curiosity and vulgarity, all in the interests of entertainment?
Or does it mean you get to sit in your mother’s basement and twiddle your thumbs; a dunce hat and a lab coat your only companions; the only aim in life being to entertain yourself?
Do you have a duty to mankind, or to yourself?”
He shrugged, then smiled imperceptibly in the darkness; a smile of resignation
He fingered the edge of the blade; running his fingertips over the serrations idly; lost in his own thoughts.
He picked up the knife.
Walked to the Steinway grand.
Took his seat.
Opened the lid.
Slit his wrists.
And proceeded to play.
Schubert’s Symphony No. 8 had never been left unfinished this fittingly.
Yes, those short stubby unremarkable ugly fingers, amusingly inept and worthless though they may seem, once had the power to make grown men weep, and beautiful maidens throw their virginity to the winds. It made old maids young, and young and virile boys ancient. It made summer seem like winter, and autumn spring.
To say the least, those fingers once created magic.
But not today. Today, those ten instances of perfection arising from a glorious imperfection were nothing more than a prop; a mere tool to satisfy the whimsy of an already whimsical man. An utterly despicable waste one might say.
And one would not be wrong.
“After all, genius is meant to be shared.
Or is it?
Does being a savant and a prodigy mean that you must expose yourself to the vagaries of prurient human curiosity and vulgarity, all in the interests of entertainment?
Or does it mean you get to sit in your mother’s basement and twiddle your thumbs; a dunce hat and a lab coat your only companions; the only aim in life being to entertain yourself?
Do you have a duty to mankind, or to yourself?”
He shrugged, then smiled imperceptibly in the darkness; a smile of resignation
He fingered the edge of the blade; running his fingertips over the serrations idly; lost in his own thoughts.
He picked up the knife.
Walked to the Steinway grand.
Took his seat.
Opened the lid.
Slit his wrists.
And proceeded to play.
Schubert’s Symphony No. 8 had never been left unfinished this fittingly.
Never Date a Writer.
Never date a writer because she’ll fictionalize everything. She’ll write about things you have done to her, or things you never did for her. She’ll write about how you never bought her flowers. Not once. She’ll say in well-constructed prose how the whole time you were together, she never came home from a long week to see a vase full of roses, or daises, or anything.
She’ll describe times you embarrassed her, like at a party. It was her party because she was leaving for three months, and all her friends were there to see her off. People bought her champagne, which was never chilled, but you drank it anyway and that was after you had had whiskey. She’ll talk about how you played strip poker with others. And she walked in to see your clothes bunched up on the floor, next to smashed cigarette butts. She’ll say how she had to cover you with a coat because all her friends laughed about it, and so did you. Then she’ll describe how later, when she didn’t want to leave you and she wanted to be held, she heard you vomit in the bathroom. She’ll say how she had to make sure you were still alive and how she saw your face pressed against the toilet and how your legs shook on the tile. And she said your name and asked if you were okay and you just stared at her through half opened eyelids and looked away. She’ll say she couldn’t make love to you and she had to stay up and make coffee, before you took her to the airport.
She’ll continue this emphasis on what you had done to her, by describing things she had found, but said nothing about. Like when she opened your wallet to slide twenty dollars inside, because you had bought her dinner. She’ll say how she sat on the hardwood floor where the heat couldn’t reach and she shivered. She’ll explain the condom she found, and how it was lubricated and had small writing on the package she couldn’t see because her eyes watered. She’ll talk about the note she found from a girl she didn’t know but you did because in the scribbled handwriting she could make out your name. You were asleep on the bed and she was on the floor. She’ll tell the reader how she held her legs and tapped her chin against her knee. And she decided that it’s not wrong for men to have friends, because all men have friends, so she closed the wallet and slept without a blanket on the floor.
She’ll later describe the moment in the bedroom when she sat at the foot of the bed and you kneeled in front of her. She’ll give you short choppy dialogue, so that you sound distant. She’ll tell the reader how you said it’s not that you didn’t love her but you couldn’t be with her and that it’s more your fault than hers, except she’ll tell it much more compellingly. She’ll describe how she choked on her tears and tried not to vomit right in front of you. And how she looked at the poster on the wall, the one she bought for you and how the different colors turned together when you spoke. She’ll say how the bed you had brought from your place felt like steel and she couldn’t move because her legs were welded there and she could only listen to you and watch the colors of the room turn gray.
And she’ll send you a manuscript and you’ll be on the couch where you both had sat and you’ll read every word. You’ll notice she didn’t tell things, like the time you had to see her because she had been sick with the flu and unable to get out of bed. And you ran from the campus to her apartment to make sure she was okay. You ran in the dark and there was so much snow that your legs began to freeze. And she won’t tell the reader how you didn’t have gloves or good shoes and you couldn’t see the patch of ice and you slipped. She won’t tell them you slipped. You twisted your ankle and your face landed in a snow bank. She won’t describe the taste in your mouth, how you pulled yourself up and limped up to her apartment. You used the key she’d just given you and she won’t say how nice it was being able to enter unannounced. And she won’t say how good it was to see her asleep and that you kissed her on the top of her head and then staggered home. She won’t move into your head and explain how much you really loved her. How you almost started to cry when you walked. You shook from the wind but felt safe because she was.
You’ll sit alone on that couch where you made love to her and you won’t move and the glass of whiskey on the table will not be touched. You won’t get up to turn up the lights and you won’t get up to use the restroom even though you have to. You’ll sit in the dim of your living room. And you will read.
She’ll describe times you embarrassed her, like at a party. It was her party because she was leaving for three months, and all her friends were there to see her off. People bought her champagne, which was never chilled, but you drank it anyway and that was after you had had whiskey. She’ll talk about how you played strip poker with others. And she walked in to see your clothes bunched up on the floor, next to smashed cigarette butts. She’ll say how she had to cover you with a coat because all her friends laughed about it, and so did you. Then she’ll describe how later, when she didn’t want to leave you and she wanted to be held, she heard you vomit in the bathroom. She’ll say how she had to make sure you were still alive and how she saw your face pressed against the toilet and how your legs shook on the tile. And she said your name and asked if you were okay and you just stared at her through half opened eyelids and looked away. She’ll say she couldn’t make love to you and she had to stay up and make coffee, before you took her to the airport.
She’ll continue this emphasis on what you had done to her, by describing things she had found, but said nothing about. Like when she opened your wallet to slide twenty dollars inside, because you had bought her dinner. She’ll say how she sat on the hardwood floor where the heat couldn’t reach and she shivered. She’ll explain the condom she found, and how it was lubricated and had small writing on the package she couldn’t see because her eyes watered. She’ll talk about the note she found from a girl she didn’t know but you did because in the scribbled handwriting she could make out your name. You were asleep on the bed and she was on the floor. She’ll tell the reader how she held her legs and tapped her chin against her knee. And she decided that it’s not wrong for men to have friends, because all men have friends, so she closed the wallet and slept without a blanket on the floor.
She’ll later describe the moment in the bedroom when she sat at the foot of the bed and you kneeled in front of her. She’ll give you short choppy dialogue, so that you sound distant. She’ll tell the reader how you said it’s not that you didn’t love her but you couldn’t be with her and that it’s more your fault than hers, except she’ll tell it much more compellingly. She’ll describe how she choked on her tears and tried not to vomit right in front of you. And how she looked at the poster on the wall, the one she bought for you and how the different colors turned together when you spoke. She’ll say how the bed you had brought from your place felt like steel and she couldn’t move because her legs were welded there and she could only listen to you and watch the colors of the room turn gray.
And she’ll send you a manuscript and you’ll be on the couch where you both had sat and you’ll read every word. You’ll notice she didn’t tell things, like the time you had to see her because she had been sick with the flu and unable to get out of bed. And you ran from the campus to her apartment to make sure she was okay. You ran in the dark and there was so much snow that your legs began to freeze. And she won’t tell the reader how you didn’t have gloves or good shoes and you couldn’t see the patch of ice and you slipped. She won’t tell them you slipped. You twisted your ankle and your face landed in a snow bank. She won’t describe the taste in your mouth, how you pulled yourself up and limped up to her apartment. You used the key she’d just given you and she won’t say how nice it was being able to enter unannounced. And she won’t say how good it was to see her asleep and that you kissed her on the top of her head and then staggered home. She won’t move into your head and explain how much you really loved her. How you almost started to cry when you walked. You shook from the wind but felt safe because she was.
You’ll sit alone on that couch where you made love to her and you won’t move and the glass of whiskey on the table will not be touched. You won’t get up to turn up the lights and you won’t get up to use the restroom even though you have to. You’ll sit in the dim of your living room. And you will read.
Chivalry
Chivalry is certainly dead,
Long ago it went to bed.
We're done with chasing windmills!
Don Quixote's gone over the hills.
Sancho Panza cares no more.
Without a clue, what's in store.
Was chivalry started in Spain?
It brought England some pain.
We seem to have lost all our manners.
The new human state is all that matters!
Long ago it went to bed.
We're done with chasing windmills!
Don Quixote's gone over the hills.
Sancho Panza cares no more.
Without a clue, what's in store.
Was chivalry started in Spain?
It brought England some pain.
We seem to have lost all our manners.
The new human state is all that matters!
Caprice
A strange melancholic grimace flashed across his face as yet again he glanced at the persistently dark screen of his cellphone.
But it failed to understand his yearning-it stubbornly still displayed the same disappointing blankness.
The cerulean ocean seemed to be mocking him-its incomprehensible calmness of it almost driving him to insanity. He stared out to sea-the maelstrom in his mind in stark contrast to the tranquil blue-a flash of lightning against a sunny azure sky-an inexplicable phenomenon viewed with equanimity!
A long drag on his uncomplaining companion only seemed to accentuate his acute loneliness-the twirling swirling smoke seemingly drifting towards the heavens of its own volition-released from captivity rather unknowingly, its benefactor lost in his own miseries.
The white sand was a pristine backdrop for his memories-a big screen TV with no end-channel surfing seemed out of the question too! He laughed at his own jokes; mocking his helpless despondency: a victim of his own desires.
Seemingly endless, the pallid sand stretched on mile after mile; a mirage of paradise stretching off towards the horizon-a placid sea culminating in a snow white beach fringed with green palms fluttering in the breeze-candy striped huts offering a refuge to those tired of perfection in both Nature and man ( or rather, mankind ). But what it concealed was a huge cauldron of hidden desires and jealousies-unsuccessful with love businessmen contemplating yet another failed relationship over yet another scotch on the rocks; a celebrated beauty mulling over her sixth ( or was it seventh?) divorce; or rather, the contents of her pre-nup; ably assisted by her martini; a young hungry for success lawyer daydreaming about his latest client, and more importantly her millions that would be coming his way in legal fees.
A veritable mélange of sins-oddly out of place in this last paradise. But then again-that explained his presence in that paradoxical oasis of peace and transgressions.
Yet another lost soul seeking redemption-or actually more like a fresh start. However she just refused to vacate his mind; unlike the efficiency and haste with which she left his apartment she remained obdurately lodged in his memories; creating a monochromatic monologue, a silent black and white movie of reminisces and recollections that haunted his every waking moment; and quite a few of his sleeping ones too.
But then again:
“The only thing that’s worse than one is none”.
“The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows”.
The randomness of the inane thoughts flashing across his mind provoked an involuntary laugh from him-causing his youthful face to crease as he examined his own mind-surprised that he still remembered how to laugh.
He took pleasure in the minute details of life: the way the sky looks minutes before it pours; the second laughter turns to hysteria; the look on someone’s face as she smiles in her dreams.
He lit yet another of his cigarettes. Something someone had once told him stuck in his mind: “people smoke when their willingness to live is equal to their willingness to die.” Strangely it seemed apt.
“Dreams are the meeting point of wishes and fears.
When the wishes and fears are the same-people call it a nightmare.”
He was dreaming with his eyes open-dreaming of a past when life had seemed worthwhile; perfect even. A past when the sky was devoid of clouds; when perfection was a way of life.
Perfection perhaps not in the eye of any and every beholder-but to him: yes; perfect.
The suddenness with which that happiness had turned to despair still amazed him.One minute you’re rejoicing-the next you feel as if your heart has just been ripped out from your chest.
The transience of life still never failed to amaze him; in fact if anything-that was the only constant in the variable called “life”.
And then; once again, like the fickle maiden it was, Life turned on its head.
Knock knock…
But it failed to understand his yearning-it stubbornly still displayed the same disappointing blankness.
The cerulean ocean seemed to be mocking him-its incomprehensible calmness of it almost driving him to insanity. He stared out to sea-the maelstrom in his mind in stark contrast to the tranquil blue-a flash of lightning against a sunny azure sky-an inexplicable phenomenon viewed with equanimity!
A long drag on his uncomplaining companion only seemed to accentuate his acute loneliness-the twirling swirling smoke seemingly drifting towards the heavens of its own volition-released from captivity rather unknowingly, its benefactor lost in his own miseries.
The white sand was a pristine backdrop for his memories-a big screen TV with no end-channel surfing seemed out of the question too! He laughed at his own jokes; mocking his helpless despondency: a victim of his own desires.
Seemingly endless, the pallid sand stretched on mile after mile; a mirage of paradise stretching off towards the horizon-a placid sea culminating in a snow white beach fringed with green palms fluttering in the breeze-candy striped huts offering a refuge to those tired of perfection in both Nature and man ( or rather, mankind ). But what it concealed was a huge cauldron of hidden desires and jealousies-unsuccessful with love businessmen contemplating yet another failed relationship over yet another scotch on the rocks; a celebrated beauty mulling over her sixth ( or was it seventh?) divorce; or rather, the contents of her pre-nup; ably assisted by her martini; a young hungry for success lawyer daydreaming about his latest client, and more importantly her millions that would be coming his way in legal fees.
A veritable mélange of sins-oddly out of place in this last paradise. But then again-that explained his presence in that paradoxical oasis of peace and transgressions.
Yet another lost soul seeking redemption-or actually more like a fresh start. However she just refused to vacate his mind; unlike the efficiency and haste with which she left his apartment she remained obdurately lodged in his memories; creating a monochromatic monologue, a silent black and white movie of reminisces and recollections that haunted his every waking moment; and quite a few of his sleeping ones too.
But then again:
“The only thing that’s worse than one is none”.
“The brightest lights cast the darkest shadows”.
The randomness of the inane thoughts flashing across his mind provoked an involuntary laugh from him-causing his youthful face to crease as he examined his own mind-surprised that he still remembered how to laugh.
He took pleasure in the minute details of life: the way the sky looks minutes before it pours; the second laughter turns to hysteria; the look on someone’s face as she smiles in her dreams.
He lit yet another of his cigarettes. Something someone had once told him stuck in his mind: “people smoke when their willingness to live is equal to their willingness to die.” Strangely it seemed apt.
“Dreams are the meeting point of wishes and fears.
When the wishes and fears are the same-people call it a nightmare.”
He was dreaming with his eyes open-dreaming of a past when life had seemed worthwhile; perfect even. A past when the sky was devoid of clouds; when perfection was a way of life.
Perfection perhaps not in the eye of any and every beholder-but to him: yes; perfect.
The suddenness with which that happiness had turned to despair still amazed him.One minute you’re rejoicing-the next you feel as if your heart has just been ripped out from your chest.
The transience of life still never failed to amaze him; in fact if anything-that was the only constant in the variable called “life”.
And then; once again, like the fickle maiden it was, Life turned on its head.
Knock knock…
Revolution Roulette
Jesus sits and plays with his iPod
Creating playlists for lack of something better to do,
Watching as the people around him hurry through their daily ritual.
Jesus sits on suburban sidewalks
as he checks his email for the third time
in ten minutes, looking, but not really seeing.
Jesus sits with his cell phone
Checking the time as the grandfather clock chimes 2:45
unable to decipher the strange X I symbols that circle the antique face.
Jesus sits in front of the television.
The woman out front ignores the man who almost ran her over
She’s too enraptured in the text message she just received.
Jesus sits in front of the television
as a little girl stares confused at the sink.
She waves her hands around under the faucet
and nothing happens.
She leaves without washing her hands.
Jesus sits by Marc in silence
Texting Luc who is across the room.
Jesus sits with wires in his brain
and a Game Boy in his hands
as blank eyes become riveted, unblinking, enraptured
with the screen as it flickers.
Creating playlists for lack of something better to do,
Watching as the people around him hurry through their daily ritual.
Jesus sits on suburban sidewalks
as he checks his email for the third time
in ten minutes, looking, but not really seeing.
Jesus sits with his cell phone
Checking the time as the grandfather clock chimes 2:45
unable to decipher the strange X I symbols that circle the antique face.
Jesus sits in front of the television.
The woman out front ignores the man who almost ran her over
She’s too enraptured in the text message she just received.
Jesus sits in front of the television
as a little girl stares confused at the sink.
She waves her hands around under the faucet
and nothing happens.
She leaves without washing her hands.
Jesus sits by Marc in silence
Texting Luc who is across the room.
Jesus sits with wires in his brain
and a Game Boy in his hands
as blank eyes become riveted, unblinking, enraptured
with the screen as it flickers.
A Spotless Mind
“Sunset crimson sunlit stardust glancing moonlight stygian starving junk”
Junk.
Utter and absolute junk.
He slumped over his desk, fatigued and drowsy. Another night spent coursing rivers of verbiage. A million souls shouting out words of obscene poetry, empty sounds substituted for real thought.
Pseudo-intellectuals.
He abhorred them. He despised it-this speciousness of art, this lack of substance.
But what else was there? Science, with its rigor and significance? Its apparent lack of subjectivity, its refusal to pander to human weakness?
He loathed that too.
He raised himself to a slouching posture and began to type,
“An equation has no soul, no matter what the more verbose mathematicians claim. Math, and indeed science, has nothing to do with intellectual stature; it has more to do with intellectual slavery.”
He hated Math, Physics. Chemistry too, despite its wonderful foreign names.
A million souls intoning words of cant, droning on ridiculously.
“To make any single important discovery, a man must squander half his life mastering a specific sub topic in the subsection of a particular branch of science. He must discipline his soul to littleness”
“To make any single literary contribution, he must fight his way thru the oceans of debris, debris that robs of surety, of quality. He must discipline his soul to vagueness”
“And neither vocation can be married to philosophical appeal”
“It is impossible to do great things without having an unrealistic view of your own abilities; unless your abilities match your goals. Arrogance is the greatest asset of creative ability. A blindness to most: and a blindness to the ultimate insignificance of any work”
“One essential truth remains: incredible creativity is inextricably linked to incredible destructiveness. The soul of a Michelangelo is a battlefield, a self-destructive amalgam of opposing and conflicting forces. From this ferment comes brilliant thought. Man must fight himself and everybody around him, must wallow in a putrid swamp of eternal discontent to gain any impetus for progress. Peaceful happiness is not the forte of creative genius”
“But it is the forte of the philosopher; or his aim at any rate”
“The artist/scientist may willingly consign his mind to the flames of raw effort, but the philosopher may not, can not, will not”
“Ultimately, science and art are inimical to philosophy”
He stopped typing and read what he had written.
For a full minute he stared at it intensely, his brow knitted in thought, a hint of a wince on his face. And with a faint derisive smile that mocked his own adherence to the laws of logic, he pulled the page out of the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in a delightful arc into the trash can in the corner.
Junk.
Utter and absolute junk.
He slumped over his desk, fatigued and drowsy. Another night spent coursing rivers of verbiage. A million souls shouting out words of obscene poetry, empty sounds substituted for real thought.
Pseudo-intellectuals.
He abhorred them. He despised it-this speciousness of art, this lack of substance.
But what else was there? Science, with its rigor and significance? Its apparent lack of subjectivity, its refusal to pander to human weakness?
He loathed that too.
He raised himself to a slouching posture and began to type,
“An equation has no soul, no matter what the more verbose mathematicians claim. Math, and indeed science, has nothing to do with intellectual stature; it has more to do with intellectual slavery.”
He hated Math, Physics. Chemistry too, despite its wonderful foreign names.
A million souls intoning words of cant, droning on ridiculously.
“To make any single important discovery, a man must squander half his life mastering a specific sub topic in the subsection of a particular branch of science. He must discipline his soul to littleness”
“To make any single literary contribution, he must fight his way thru the oceans of debris, debris that robs of surety, of quality. He must discipline his soul to vagueness”
“And neither vocation can be married to philosophical appeal”
“It is impossible to do great things without having an unrealistic view of your own abilities; unless your abilities match your goals. Arrogance is the greatest asset of creative ability. A blindness to most: and a blindness to the ultimate insignificance of any work”
“One essential truth remains: incredible creativity is inextricably linked to incredible destructiveness. The soul of a Michelangelo is a battlefield, a self-destructive amalgam of opposing and conflicting forces. From this ferment comes brilliant thought. Man must fight himself and everybody around him, must wallow in a putrid swamp of eternal discontent to gain any impetus for progress. Peaceful happiness is not the forte of creative genius”
“But it is the forte of the philosopher; or his aim at any rate”
“The artist/scientist may willingly consign his mind to the flames of raw effort, but the philosopher may not, can not, will not”
“Ultimately, science and art are inimical to philosophy”
He stopped typing and read what he had written.
For a full minute he stared at it intensely, his brow knitted in thought, a hint of a wince on his face. And with a faint derisive smile that mocked his own adherence to the laws of logic, he pulled the page out of the typewriter, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in a delightful arc into the trash can in the corner.
Souvent
Sometimes it is better to fight,
And sometimes it is better to just let it go.
Sometimes you need light,
And sometimes, when it is dark, you don't need the glow.
Sometimes things are not going your way,
And sometimes there are no things at all.
Sometimes you have your say,
And sometimes, even with your say, you feel so small.
Sometimes the woods are dark and deep,
And sometimes the sky is blue.
Sometimes you want to fall asleep,
And sometimes your dreams come true.
Sometimes time seems to stop,
And sometimes the stars don't shine.
Sometimes there is no hope,
And sometimes the whole world is mine.
And sometimes it is better to just let it go.
Sometimes you need light,
And sometimes, when it is dark, you don't need the glow.
Sometimes things are not going your way,
And sometimes there are no things at all.
Sometimes you have your say,
And sometimes, even with your say, you feel so small.
Sometimes the woods are dark and deep,
And sometimes the sky is blue.
Sometimes you want to fall asleep,
And sometimes your dreams come true.
Sometimes time seems to stop,
And sometimes the stars don't shine.
Sometimes there is no hope,
And sometimes the whole world is mine.
Aqua
The darkness seemed infinite; stretching beyond all visible boundaries. Infinite as in never ending; yet infinite as in something that never began, so can never end.
He sat perched precariously on his lonely throne; a microscopic blur silhouetted against the twin towering skyscrapers that housed the slumbering inhabitants of the hotel. All around was quiet; the abnormal peace that results when everyone finally surrenders to sleep, leaving the insomniac with a palliative to soothe his incessant mind. All alone at last.
He peered over the edge; inquisitive as to the panorama beneath.
Below, the cerulean water rippled invitingly; the tantalizing murmur a soothing backdrop against which played the symphony of his mind at various crescendos; a comforting foil to the inner turmoil that was omnipresent in his mind. Conflicting memories strove to gain supremacy; long lost memories resurfacing in the gloom; monochromatic postcards from vista’s long forgotten; uniformly black and melancholic.
A lost muse; half whispered secrets coming back to haunt him; mocking him with their lost intimacy; secret smiles; a mockery of love lost. Paradise found; only to be lost again. C’est la vie? Or is it just the random hand of Fate; the final derisive snort of a higher authority? His mind wandered; pondering the imponderable. An anachronism contemplating another. Perhaps that’s one too… the thought bringing an almost involuntary wry grin to his youthful face.
A sudden gust caressed his face; flitting thru his hair with the familiarity of an old friend; the cool refreshing breeze punched with the sharp salty tang of the sea; breaking the flimsy ties that bind together those memories.
Reminded of its proximity, he gazed out at the sea.
Inky blackness stared back; challenging the virulence of his gaze. A lone gull wheeled forlornly; it’s screeching creating a discordant background. The moon peeped out coyly from behind a puffy mass of snowy white down; struggling valiantly to replicate the success of her daytime counterpart; yet failing miserably.
The sea was illuminated in fragments; white breakers crashing against a uniform darkness as smooth as glass; chiaroscuro rearing its own multiple facets. The waves seemed relentless; battering the sea unremittingly. However the sea seemed oblivious; unconcerned almost.
Bored by a sea devoid of any form of human interest; he peered over the edge once again.
The water below presented a startling contrast to the sea just few meters away. Outside, lay an inky vastness; colossal in its dimensions; a gigantic Polaroid that had failed to develop properly; monochromatic in its coloration; pulsing with life; yet, seemingly without a soul.
However, twenty feet below lay an entirely different proposition.
Aquamarine crystal clear water reflected the harsh lights of the arc lights placed all around the pool; softening the bleak linear lines of the surrounding buildings. Empty except for a miasma of overturned deck chairs and unopened umbrellas. A desolate oasis in the midst of a desert. Free of its usual human detritus; it seemed to be beckoning him; its emptiness astoundingly similar to the blankness of his mind. A seductive temptress; beckoning one to destruction.
Led as if on impulse, he stood up.
Stretched.
And took to the heavens.
Only to come crashing down.
He sat perched precariously on his lonely throne; a microscopic blur silhouetted against the twin towering skyscrapers that housed the slumbering inhabitants of the hotel. All around was quiet; the abnormal peace that results when everyone finally surrenders to sleep, leaving the insomniac with a palliative to soothe his incessant mind. All alone at last.
He peered over the edge; inquisitive as to the panorama beneath.
Below, the cerulean water rippled invitingly; the tantalizing murmur a soothing backdrop against which played the symphony of his mind at various crescendos; a comforting foil to the inner turmoil that was omnipresent in his mind. Conflicting memories strove to gain supremacy; long lost memories resurfacing in the gloom; monochromatic postcards from vista’s long forgotten; uniformly black and melancholic.
A lost muse; half whispered secrets coming back to haunt him; mocking him with their lost intimacy; secret smiles; a mockery of love lost. Paradise found; only to be lost again. C’est la vie? Or is it just the random hand of Fate; the final derisive snort of a higher authority? His mind wandered; pondering the imponderable. An anachronism contemplating another. Perhaps that’s one too… the thought bringing an almost involuntary wry grin to his youthful face.
A sudden gust caressed his face; flitting thru his hair with the familiarity of an old friend; the cool refreshing breeze punched with the sharp salty tang of the sea; breaking the flimsy ties that bind together those memories.
Reminded of its proximity, he gazed out at the sea.
Inky blackness stared back; challenging the virulence of his gaze. A lone gull wheeled forlornly; it’s screeching creating a discordant background. The moon peeped out coyly from behind a puffy mass of snowy white down; struggling valiantly to replicate the success of her daytime counterpart; yet failing miserably.
The sea was illuminated in fragments; white breakers crashing against a uniform darkness as smooth as glass; chiaroscuro rearing its own multiple facets. The waves seemed relentless; battering the sea unremittingly. However the sea seemed oblivious; unconcerned almost.
Bored by a sea devoid of any form of human interest; he peered over the edge once again.
The water below presented a startling contrast to the sea just few meters away. Outside, lay an inky vastness; colossal in its dimensions; a gigantic Polaroid that had failed to develop properly; monochromatic in its coloration; pulsing with life; yet, seemingly without a soul.
However, twenty feet below lay an entirely different proposition.
Aquamarine crystal clear water reflected the harsh lights of the arc lights placed all around the pool; softening the bleak linear lines of the surrounding buildings. Empty except for a miasma of overturned deck chairs and unopened umbrellas. A desolate oasis in the midst of a desert. Free of its usual human detritus; it seemed to be beckoning him; its emptiness astoundingly similar to the blankness of his mind. A seductive temptress; beckoning one to destruction.
Led as if on impulse, he stood up.
Stretched.
And took to the heavens.
Only to come crashing down.
Myste
It was a still day. The clouds drifted lazily. Unconcerned about the world below. The ground was still as it always is. It wasn’t silent though. The deafening roar would have driven most people away. But to him, it was the sound of life itself. Pure, undiluted, fresh. Resolute and uncompromising. Passionate and focused.
He felt the white blade like surfaces softly with his fingers. They curved gently. Stretched out like two sun touched scythes, aching to slice the blue. He looked at the markings and the delicate black lettering on the side. The name suited her. A wisp among the clouds, floating on a dream. She was beautiful. Beguiling. Mysteriously. Enticing. Floating on a dream. Only it wasn’t a dream anymore, she was right in front of him. And the blue was above – waiting – calling soundlessly. He sat quietly, his mind wandering along with his eyes. First to the bewildering array of dials and switches around him. Then upwards again. They always turned upwards eventually. Drawn by the blue. It called again. He was the only one it called to. No one else. And now he could answer…
They didn’t understand. They just lived their lives each day, one day at a time. No. they didn’t actually live. It was an existence. Nothing more. They looked at the sky everyday too, but they never saw it. It followed them everywhere, but they never felt it. It was right there above them, but it meant nothing. They never looked up with a silent smile. Life went on. Existence persisted.
He eased her upwards. The carpeted green below melted into a blur. The ground ceased to exist. Playing the pilot’s game of balancing the horizon, he watched it dip and turn. It was strangely satisfying.
Flight. A simple word. Many more used to describe it. But words on a string meant nothing. Nothing unless you smiled every time you stood at the window and looked up, and watched the clouds and the shapes they formed; the birds – the way they adjusted their wings to ride the air currents; the sun – trying to push through the blanketing clouds.
And the sky….
The sky was never quite the same. It seemed the same. But no… look there – at that cloud. It wasn’t there before. The wind. Where was it coming from now? Southwest.
And the blue. Shades of blue wandered past his eyes, meandering about aimlessly. He wandered too, ignoring the little needle in the three inch glass circle in front of him. Compasses meant nothing to him in this world of white wings. He followed the wind. It led him northeast, so he flew northeast.
He was young. Overwhelmed. Confused even, by the same elation that seemed to envelop him. He didn’t understand it. It was all so complicated. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t. He felt happy. Yes, that was it. No other words were needed.
So he flew.
And the skies kept calling, and he kept calling. He never faltered. He never hesitated. He was home. Sky bound and free. Silent brushstrokes smeared the blue canvas, but left no trace of their passage. How many wings had these skies seen? Sliced, twisted and torn through. An effortlessly flowing blue. Not a single scar from the many knife- edges it has experienced. It was alive. She was alive too. She was an extension of him now. She felt him think, and responded accordingly. Neither would have been there without the other. They were flying!!
The wind seemed to die. It was no longer with them. It would return soon enough, he was certain, but for that brief instant they were truly alone among the clouds. No wind. And for the first time, she hesitated.
Like a child suddenly left without a playmate, she grumbled. She rocked indignantly. She wouldn’t go on without him. He coaxed her. Spoke to her gently. He didn’t lose his temper, knowing that would be futile. Instead, he eased her upwards again, reminding her of the clouds, and the sun, and all that was there in the skies- the blues….
She refused to listen. They drifted in a downward spiral, as he tried to pull her upwards. The ground entered his reality again, the verdant green below attaining a menacing hue. He was still strangely sangfroid as the white winged plane crashed into a field not far away from where it had taken off.
He ran to her and picked her up. A broken wing. A bent nose. The delicate wood had splintered. A few minutes with glue and paint would fix that. He held her carefully in his hands and cared her home.
Tomorrow was another day…
He felt the white blade like surfaces softly with his fingers. They curved gently. Stretched out like two sun touched scythes, aching to slice the blue. He looked at the markings and the delicate black lettering on the side. The name suited her. A wisp among the clouds, floating on a dream. She was beautiful. Beguiling. Mysteriously. Enticing. Floating on a dream. Only it wasn’t a dream anymore, she was right in front of him. And the blue was above – waiting – calling soundlessly. He sat quietly, his mind wandering along with his eyes. First to the bewildering array of dials and switches around him. Then upwards again. They always turned upwards eventually. Drawn by the blue. It called again. He was the only one it called to. No one else. And now he could answer…
They didn’t understand. They just lived their lives each day, one day at a time. No. they didn’t actually live. It was an existence. Nothing more. They looked at the sky everyday too, but they never saw it. It followed them everywhere, but they never felt it. It was right there above them, but it meant nothing. They never looked up with a silent smile. Life went on. Existence persisted.
He eased her upwards. The carpeted green below melted into a blur. The ground ceased to exist. Playing the pilot’s game of balancing the horizon, he watched it dip and turn. It was strangely satisfying.
Flight. A simple word. Many more used to describe it. But words on a string meant nothing. Nothing unless you smiled every time you stood at the window and looked up, and watched the clouds and the shapes they formed; the birds – the way they adjusted their wings to ride the air currents; the sun – trying to push through the blanketing clouds.
And the sky….
The sky was never quite the same. It seemed the same. But no… look there – at that cloud. It wasn’t there before. The wind. Where was it coming from now? Southwest.
And the blue. Shades of blue wandered past his eyes, meandering about aimlessly. He wandered too, ignoring the little needle in the three inch glass circle in front of him. Compasses meant nothing to him in this world of white wings. He followed the wind. It led him northeast, so he flew northeast.
He was young. Overwhelmed. Confused even, by the same elation that seemed to envelop him. He didn’t understand it. It was all so complicated. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t. He felt happy. Yes, that was it. No other words were needed.
So he flew.
And the skies kept calling, and he kept calling. He never faltered. He never hesitated. He was home. Sky bound and free. Silent brushstrokes smeared the blue canvas, but left no trace of their passage. How many wings had these skies seen? Sliced, twisted and torn through. An effortlessly flowing blue. Not a single scar from the many knife- edges it has experienced. It was alive. She was alive too. She was an extension of him now. She felt him think, and responded accordingly. Neither would have been there without the other. They were flying!!
The wind seemed to die. It was no longer with them. It would return soon enough, he was certain, but for that brief instant they were truly alone among the clouds. No wind. And for the first time, she hesitated.
Like a child suddenly left without a playmate, she grumbled. She rocked indignantly. She wouldn’t go on without him. He coaxed her. Spoke to her gently. He didn’t lose his temper, knowing that would be futile. Instead, he eased her upwards again, reminding her of the clouds, and the sun, and all that was there in the skies- the blues….
She refused to listen. They drifted in a downward spiral, as he tried to pull her upwards. The ground entered his reality again, the verdant green below attaining a menacing hue. He was still strangely sangfroid as the white winged plane crashed into a field not far away from where it had taken off.
He ran to her and picked her up. A broken wing. A bent nose. The delicate wood had splintered. A few minutes with glue and paint would fix that. He held her carefully in his hands and cared her home.
Tomorrow was another day…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)