Icarus also flew.

The doorbell hasn’t been rung once since I moved to this place a few weeks ago. I knew that it was broken, or one of my rare visitors told me that it was broken. And it doesn’t matter.

I don’t want people to come to my house, or know where I live, putting their nosy curiosity into every drawer of my space, except a very very few people. For those very very few people, the doorbell wouldn’t matter anyway.

My cyclamen flowers are growing again. I really have no idea what my life will be like from here. No blueprint, no picture in my mind… am I afraid? I’d say yes. I’m afraid. Uncertainty, insecurity, having no one around to lean on or discuss with, no intimate relationship… but didn’t I want this? The complete blank page to start, to learn to fly, to fall, to soar… one day up to the blue, blue sky, too blue for my eyes that would make me almost cry. Here I’m on the start line, the white thick solid line… like a runner lunging deep ready to take off with the sound of a starting whistle… still my feet behind the line…. trembling with the heartful possibilities sprinkled with a little fear of the unknown waiting for me… ah, life.

A New Morning

The moon waned hugging the farside tightly under its ribs.

Is it painful to do that? She asked.

It hurts to change but exhilarating. I defy staying in the old. The moon answered in its serene pale composure.

She nodded. The white half of the moon landed on the top of her hair, glistening, caressing, whispering… the new moon, a new day… and a new morning for you. She blinked once, looked up, and grinned wide.

The sunlight scattered the moon among the clouds. A new morning… she whispered to herself. A new morning.

Objectifying

“I live in the past. I take everything that has happened to me and arrange it.
From a distance like that, it doesn’t do any harm,
you’d almost let yourself be caught in it.
Our whole story is fairly beautiful.
I give it a few prods and it makes a whole string of perfect moments.
Then I close my eyes and try to imagine that
I’m still living inside it.”

– Jean-Paul Sartre –

Let the past be a series of things for now, like a stone. She can pick up one and toss it over her shoulder… or she might throw it into a river, watching it sinking deep down, under the water, unrelated, having no power over her.

from Point A to Point B

I’m physically in the place where I used as the setting of my last short story. No connection among people… just transiting from this to that.
There are lives here but this place feels lifeless. People are reduced to their minimum only concerning to their destinations. The transition doesn’t matter to them, only getting “there” matters. It somewhat resembles the life outside of this hub airport.

To me, transition matters. How to get to my destination matters.
It is a dance, a choreography… do not reduce to the minimum. Use the stage to the maximum, long arms, high jumps, splits, kicks, spins…  details… the shape of fingers, the curve of the neck, make the movement beautiful, graceful… fast ugly walk will not be mine whatever destination I’m heading to. We will all meet at dead-end eventually.

Light and simple steps.
Tread the in-between space with care and attention. Maybe this is all I got, in this life, on this earth.

The Subject Matter

“…the beauty that can never be poor at any circumstance.”

I want to write beautiful things about this world, or this life, or this day, or this breath, or this encounter, like magicians pulling out pleasant surprises out of their silk hat. I could write about money, job, power, hatred, remorse, paired with regret, pain, suffering, depression… but, I don’t want to. I could write how some human beings’ achievements are so great, can be admired; the patience, the sacrifice, the noble thoughts and deeds. Wittgenstein, Nietzsche, Woolf… But they do not interest me anymore.

The sunlight from the West of the setting sun through the window glaring my eyes when I’m typing this, interests me. The four straight stems of my pink cyclamen flowers’ confident stature, awes me. The white tail up running-away move of a fluffy bunny when my dog found it too late to catch, amuses me.  The smell, the sound, the view of beautiful things around me, tantalize the palette of my taste for life and the zeal for my fingers for writing. I’m not the same person who wrote the poems in “Walking with Shadow”. Now, surprisingly lengthened shadow of me under the morning sun treads lightly on the trail. Why shouldn’t I move to the exhilarating side of life? Why not? Lit the light inside and use that brightness as the guidance for my path of living, instead of hiding in the dark with narrowing eyes figuring out something or someone or situation, not to be deceived, not to be hurt, not to be failed.

Life, moves and stops, as I wrote in my piece “A Storm” a couple of years ago. It will definitely stop at some point, or move sluggishly without my permission or my intention, even with my rejection. Then, why stop now? To hold on to what? What are my fingers gripping onto? What will be permanent except the plastic bags in the ocean? Time erodes everything. That’s the most marvelous creation of God, that damn bastard created time to destroy what he/she created. Beautiful or ugly, good or bad, all will be gone… if this is the case, I want to turn my face to beauty at this moment.

The paper, the pen, the words are what I have. I want to create beauty or at least re-visit beauty with the meager tools I have. Maybe I should drop the desperate fiction that I started five years ago to weave poems with my fingers instead… catch the divine with the net of amplified sense and bring it to the shore to boost to the spectators. The silver glitters of scales of a shiny catch… the delicate petals of flowers so submissive to time… dense dark chocolate melting at the tip of the tongue, the mellow silence of the untouched guitar strings, the arms and the fingers, the shoulders and the waist, the sweat… the sticky, the slimy, wet to dry… warm and cold, hot and chill… oh my god… catching the moments with the pen… too much beauty, too much to be tasted… the satisfying bite of a well ripe banana and the smell… how easy to eat that thing, I am always astonished when I peel it off.

Not money, not power, not job… not the hunger for food… but the appetite for beauty of this world… the letters under my fingertips… the beauty that can never be poor at any circumstance. The sunshine, the rain, the snow, the grey clouds, the storm, the wind, the breeze, my white desk, the pale blue bedsheets, the eyes, the eyebrows, the skin, the touch, a brief sleep, the green, the trees, the bare trees, the arms, the wrists, the hands, the ears, the sounds, the sights, the tastes, the groping mind of all. The beauty here… in my gathered two hands, presenting… to… the wings that have known the thin air, soaring, in midday.

<July 15th, 2019>