To be forgiven, there should be something done wrong in the first place.
A crime, a harm, a wrongdoing. Nothing comes up to my mind in particular in this matter. However, how about the collective wrongdoing, the collective crime, the collective harm. The morality of group tends to be very low due to the shared guilt. As the group gets larger, the shared guilt gets smaller and smaller, until the moral level becomes negligible. This bothers me a lot lately when I’ve seen the clips of video or the news of nature suffering by our wrongdoings. The dead whales stuffed with plastic, the fishes on the shore having vinyl bags in their bellies, the hungry polar bear migrating looking for food due to the melted iceberg… so I wonder, when I take out a plastic bag from a packaged box to wrap the leftover bread, I really wonder if we can stop this madness or will this go on until the suffering comes to our doorstep, knocking.
Last spring, a large mama turtle died on the small road to my house. She seemed to be circling the road to find the place where she had laid eggs before. But the place was gone. The large apartment complex development had cut a thousand of trees and had fenced the area to the way to a creek. She got hit by a car by an ignorant driver, probably one of the construction trucks, I was very upset to see her body and eggs spattered on the road. I was angry, but I didn’t know where to direct my anger, I didn’t know who to blame for the death of her, for her puzzled existence for the unexplainable loss of her habitat, for her desperation to find the place to give birth, give birth to life. The life killed by the unknown hands, had more than one individual involved, the enormous crowd hiding behind the development, the consumerism, the everyday convenience of taking plastic bag out to wrap the bread to eat for a few more days.
Definitely, I did something wrong. And I don’t know how I can make it right. I don’t know how to start, how to be forgiven. I want to say sorry to that mama turtle for my helplessness watching all the trees cut down and witnessing the small nature disrupted in front of my nose. I don’t know how to raise the collective moral of the people living on earth at this time of the world clock. I don’t know how to cut back myself to do anything that would harm nature when I pump the gas into my car. I don’t know how to stop wondering when I see fruits at a grocery store that traveled across the continent or countries are so cheap for their miles of the travel. I don’t know how to stop thinking about the disturbed minds over the images of the suffering nature that forget easily over their convenience of living. I often think that, when we beg the forgiveness from nature that we have messed up, bending our knees to the ground wouldn’t be enough. I often think that it is already too late to stop the wheel of the human vice on earth. It has rolled downhill at an incredible speed that is impossible to stop until it crashes at some point.
<March 13th, 2019>
Something closed behind her.
She heard the sound, not the loud bang, but the slow closing of a heavy door. She didn’t look back. She didn’t look forward either.
She is standing, there, her eyes closed… finding the ground, feeling its solidity, its certainty. Her shoulders light, her wings folded neatly… even with her eyes closed, she can feel the ample light pouring into her eyelids from all the windows above, near up the high ceiling, which she can fly out when the moment comes; when the right moment comes.
“Every thought sends forth one Toss of the Dice.”
– Stéphane Mallarmé –
The crescent moon lit up the night.
It had been a while that the moon came out that bright… the stars, the clear sky.
Cold… not sub-zero yet… it will come.
Winter just started. And, it will be long.
The crystal of boredom will illuminate my window with its de-colored ice-olation.
“Music is the ambition of certain parts to take over the whole,
to command everything, replace everything – An art of spasms, of marking time, of shivering and shaking, of catching of breath, of fluttering heart, of feigning energy without bound, of abysses, of limitless doubts, of vexations and heartbreaks,… yet an art of lies of echolalia, of idiotic mimicry, of thwarted and to its humiliation, utilised.
The ideal of music is not far removed from the unbearable omnipotence
of a wet fingertip on a window pane.“
– from “Tabulae meae Tentationum”, Paul Valéry 1897-1899 –
After reading the notebooks from Paul Valéry, the sentences from the world-renowned writers got plain and lost taste.
“Hey stranger, when will I call you my own
I know I don’t know you
But there’s somewhere I’ve seen you before
Whatever your name is
Whatever you do
This living between us
I’m willing to lose.
Just hold me, if ever our paths may collide
I want you to hold me under these darkening skies
Whoever you love now
Whoever you kiss
The ones in between us
I’m willing to miss.
There’s a comfort, comfort in things we believe
But I live in danger, wanting the things I can’t see
Wherever you live now
Wherever you walk
This distance between us
I’m willing to cross.”
– from the lyric “Between Us”, Peter Bradley Adams –
whatever, whoever, wherever
willing to lose, miss. and cross
“feed your senses.
choose the right name.
certain expectations and belief systems, defy everything.”
The artist can intensify the beauty, the joy, the excitement of the moments in life. It is like watching a sunset at the peak of a grand mountain when the others watch it from a window in a house. Artists have the ability to deliver the sunset that they watched to the ordinary people who stayed in the house and make them grope the similar awe of the grandeur of the moment.
However, there is a price. This amplified sense detects everything around at a loud volume. Pain and sadness are felt acute, resonate deeper and longer in the artists’ mind. It makes everyday life harder for these sensitive souls.
Still, there is something amazing in this tragic destiny that artists cannot give up or trade. The internal transmitter of these souls can transform every corner of the earth to an incomparable beauty, even in its misery.
The black sun shines all the time in the artist’s mind. It is cold and dark in a thousand different beautiful shades.