Two Time Zones

Another clock tick-tocked inside for the last ten years.

But, surely, her other clock faded inside her. She often forgot the time in the East. Whatever, she is here. The night is the night, the day is the day, the sun is the sun, the moon is the moon, the afternoon is the afternoon, the morning is the morning, whatever time is now, now is now. She is one, not a half, not split, not divided, one, one and the only, in her life, for her life.

<May 29th, 2019>

The shower, the oasis, the rainbow

Longing and yearning.
She has integrated these into her life somehow over time. She might be a masochist who desires something that is unattainable and secretly enjoys the emotions generated by the strong urge rising at the bottom of her gut. An emotional masochist, she’d say it.

One of her friends said that she should look for something available, should settle in the available, in the possible, in the practical. But she is looking for an oasis… the thirst, the intense thirst is where she is at… waiting for the oasis, whether it is the real or the mirage… she doesn’t know, she just yearns for that moment of quenching her thirst with the cool water of a miracle standing on the hot sand under the blazing sun.

A bear came to her dream.
She reached, touched, and leaned herself on that surely grounding massive thing, which has four legs that can give her certainty, safety. On which there is a space that she can rest her body when she needs to. Reachable, touchable, possible, available, practical… well… she knows, still longing for enchantment, magic, and the moments that will sweep her feet off the ground and take her breath away. The shower, the oasis, the rainbow.

Hearts in spring

Bleeding hearts.
What an unusual name for a flower! K. sent me pictures of the bleeding hearts in her garden, red, pink, white ones, the droplet of petal hanging to each heart-shaped flower. They were beautiful and got their names right, I thought.

Thinking of hearts,
all hearts are bloody, full of blood, pumping it out to the veins, to the vessels far away in the body. That is what the heart is for, but the heart sits on the immense symbolic place, linking our brain to all kinds of emotions, especially to the painful ones… heartbroken, heart torn, heart ripped apart, which is impossible in the real body.

Even in the unbearably painful emotional distress or pain, the heart is intact and does its job. So the person, who might feel heartbroken, is alive and keeps living. I wonder if there is any joy or distress that a heart cannot hold, some emotions that the heart bursts open and sprays the blood all over. It seems that the body just does its work regardless of the mind’s crazy dancing, bumping, screaming, twisting, rolling all over giving out tantrums, until it finally calms down and listens to the heart, that certainty,  that regular beat playing the base of the music for one’s life.

A Lilac Tree and A Dog

She already knows what she would bring to her new house. The house that she would live by herself all alone for the first time in her life. This new house reminds of her childhood home in some way. It has an enclosed garden with the walls. There is the red door to the garden from outside and the entrance to the house is a few steps up from the garden. It has two stories, which is different from her childhood house, fewer bedrooms, but it has a taste of her old house.

There are two things she remembers fondly about her house where she grew up.
One was a big lilac tree by her bedroom window. She had the largest room in her house when she was in high school that felt like a big multi-purpose room than a bedroom. Her desk was by the window facing South and a Japanese lilac tree having white purple flowers rooted by her window, drooping its mature healthy branches. When the flowers blossomed, the breezed in scent was fragrant and strong, almost hypnotizing. Something not belonging to the earth was in that volatile invisible particles. She sat a lot on her desk, studying and reading, that enchanting fragrance associated with her time when everything was quiet, landing into the serenity of the letters that she dipped herself in at that time. Maybe she was fully present there not belonging to the place she was at, drifting.

The other thing that she loved in those years was a brown dog she had about two or three years. He was one dumb mutt. The trainings never worked for him, but he loved people a lot, maybe too much. When he saw one of the family members coming home at any time of the day, he jumped up and down circling and dancing, sometimes he tripped on his own excitement greeting his family and sprang back up doing the same move all over again that made her laugh. He was often filthy because he rolled over his own poop during his exciting dance. Also, he collected many household items in his house and made holes in every milk cartoon delivered inside through under the gate of the house. He licked all the milk. All these made her mother very mad. That must be the reason that he disappeared suddenly when she got back home from school. The house would never be the same for her after that dog had gone. But she hadn’t said a word to anyone about it at that time.

One of the reasons that she chose this new house with a small garden with the walls is her dog. She isn’t a gardening type but her dog that she has now needs an outside space. The size of her dog is pretty much the same as the dog that she had in her childhood. This one has the same fluffy tail like a big bloom, just only white in color. She often thinks her old dog ran through many lives and came to her as this one. This dog is very clever and never trips on anything. He is cautious, smart, and somewhat reserved. But he follows her wherever she goes and looks at her every move, especially when she tries to eat something he likes.

What will she bring to the new house? Definitely not the painful memories.
She wants to take a long shower before the move to wash off all the things that she had carried like a heavy baggage from her young years to now and step out with the fresh naked self to mist her life at the new place with the perfume made with the hypnotic scent of all the flowers in the garden. She thinks that this house might be the last one in her life, so when she leaves this one, she wants to hold something tight in her chest, something beautiful, something precious, something just enough for her, in this life, as a whole.

<May 1st, 2019>

Moving on to Zone for Me

Does it matter? What on earth the cryofracturing technique? Who would understand? What would it contribute to the living? Is it more marvelous when my orchid shoot a flower stem out all of sudden after a year of dormancy? Walking outside my yard with a dog under the evening sky, I know that I don’t need much. I don’t need to know or be known much either. I just need more life around me, more people that I like to be with, more heartfelt moments… those will be enough… moving on… to my zone, zone for myself… wisely, slowly, sometimes in bold steps… taking in the stars, the sunshine, and the smell of spring rain. No SCI papers, no publications necessary in this zone at this time.

The Silence between Two Mirrors

 

The silence sinks deep to the bottom of the heart.

The silence makes the eyes close and breathes its way out.

The silence tousles the top of the hair as if it knows what is going on.

The silence awes the soul in the evening of the bright orange sky.

The silence of snowfall.

 

The silence seals the lips and hardens air.

The silence droops the shoulders and hunches the back.

The silence that voice cannot gather any word to let out.

The silent screams fossilized over the years that had to be taken out by surgery leaving a round scar around the neck.

The silence lost in silence.

 

The puffed-up silence whipped to be blown up.

The silence doing jumping jacks in the head.

The silence that can shout more truth at some moments than any words.

A moment of the silence in a large group of people, one impossible moment sometimes happens.

The silence after the last breath.

 

The silence veils the house and covers every window.

The silence shuts the door and stacks the wall up.

The silence seeps through every crack.

The silence not spoken but exposed.

The silence of the old dust.

 

The heavy, the light, the wet, the dry silences. The silence of a falling leaf and its farewell to life.

The silence leaned on when one doesn’t know what to say or where to look.

The silence substitutes many prayers when the knees hit the ground with the head dropped.

The silence as a weapon or as a shield, sometimes as a trench that can be crouched in.

The silence opens the space that people can land in.

 

The silence of the onlookers.

The silence of the audience.

The silence of the speaker.

The silence after a gasp.

The silence already full.

 

The silence for the silence, or the silence for something else.

The silence tossed among strangers.

The silence of infinite languages between lovers.

The silence weeps when the heart bleeds.

The silence and the night.

 

The silence stands by the trees when they grow.

The silence watches the pink petals of a flower bud opening.

The silence guards the dog’s night dream.

The silence of the midday sun.

The silence never reached.

 

The silence after a shock, a shot, a shock after a shot.

The silence of the phone.

The silence shared, or misunderstood.

The silence contracts the ribs tight.

The silence before one word is spoken.

 

The silence before the big bang.

The silence sweeps and heals.

The silence needs to be sung.

The silence dressed in many layers but still bare.

The silence stored and never opened.

 

The silence that peeks at the corner and puts an index finger in front of the lips.

The silence kept, or broken.

The silence hides a person like a bunny in the magician’s hat.

The noun and the verb of silence feel very different.

The silence transferred or transformed from one person’s eyes to the other.

 

The silence pairs with the silence.

The silent smile.

The silent tears.

The silent icy face.

The silence, reflected.

 

When the words became the skeleton

I put a stethoscope on her chest, I didn’t hear a beat, but a melody, a sad and beautiful one.

When I got back the X-ray of her chest later, I understood the reason that her heart didn’t drum but sings. It is surrounded by her ribs inscribed with the tiny words that she’d heard thousands of times over and over when her bone grew from the size of a toothpick to the girth of pencil… the lamenting words from her close ones, the ones whom she should have leaned on in her hard days but couldn’t… all overlaid with her lifetime effort to scratch out those sad rhymes with the heart-ringing beautiful notes that she has collected in her journey in this world, in this world.