Issues in our tissues




by Johann Heinrich Füssli
(February  7, 1741 –  April  17, 1825)

My encounter to his drawings and paintings. He surely showed the human bodies in emotions. Issues in our tissues.
Of course, he is Aquarian… was.

(Featured Image: The Nightmare, From the top: The artist moved to despair at the grandeur of antique fragments, The daughters of Pandareus, Silence)


Kachina. Ah, Kachina.

My pain. My suppressed pain seeped through the pores of my skin and soaked the others. Can I retrieve it? Please? If only I can take it back at whatever cost.

Frozen wheels. Tears. Melting. Pouring. Start to move. Where will you take me?

The hearts are broken. The flowers in this house are blooming. The wind is blowing. I am standing, outside in the downpour. Why do I love the sky when the storm is coming? Why do I love the roaring sound of the trees under the mean wind?

K. What are you saying? Did I hear you right?
New people. Are they the same people in disguise?

Kachina. Ah, Kachina.
You’ve been surely working.

Memory is a tool in carving a transitory beauty of life

People say that the first memory is important to interpret a person. Her first memory was a huge bolt of lightning hitting mountain top in the summer night sky. She must have been around 3 or 4. She still remembers seeing the diverging electric beast in the pitch-black background. She didn’t feel fear. It was awe she felt.

Life carries strange things around. Strange memories, strange feelings. The sky is always her thing. Her eyes lit up whenever the sky changes its color. Especially as the last strand of the sunlight fleets to the West. Her eyes are soaked with the splendid color of the dying day. Time feels closer.

She used to carry a big DSLR camera with a tripod to catch the beauty of the sky. People loved the photos she shot. She knew how to intensify certain hues using exposure and filters. But she never got the image she wanted to capture. So, she picked up brushes to paint it. She did several oil paintings and some of them came out satisfactorily. She hung them in the front foyer and her bedroom. She loves to see her sky when she goes to sleep. Somehow, those passions faded with time. She found that grabbing the beauty with those tools was in vain. She accepted the transitory nature of the sky under the setting sun and just watched each day’s magic of colors with some sorrow.

As the possessive pursuit for the sky diminished, another light flew in. This light dissolves into her skin and makes her eyes close. The music. She loves sad tunes and sad voices. Listening to them is like holding a flickering candle inside of her chest when the gushing wind blows. Maybe this kind of beauty only can be felt with an aching heart. Maybe that is the deal.
At certain times, when her life’s events make her too weak to hold the flame in the wind, she gives up the beauty of dying light because it is too painful to listen to. When her heart regains some strength, she goes back to her playlist to listen to those songs again and again for several days until her heart becomes soft and tender.

In recent years, a miracle came to her. A pure miracle because there was every possibility that she might never have gotten this miracle in her lifetime. The beauties of the sky and the music escalate under the aura of this beast.
But as the evening sky, she knows she cannot grab or hold this one. She just contemplates it as she sees the dusk with an aching heart, carving the beauty of her miracle’s presence like the huge lightning bolt of her first memory.

<June 7th, 2017>

A Leaning Tree

I was a giving tree in my kindergarten play. A red skirt and a green top. My lips were painted red like the apples I gave to the boy. My long hair combed up to make a pretty bun on the top.

I was a giving tree in my kindergarten play. What sad lines I memorized that I had no idea at that time. I wanted to live like the boy, but I played the tree. I didn’t love the boy, but I envied him for taking things from life.

I played a giving tree but I become a leaning tree. In a quiet winter day, the sound of my back breaking will crack the air. Giving in upon a heavy snowfall. The wind will blow caressing my fallen body.

I wanted to be a straight tree growing up and up to the sky. Alone and strong. Making a beautiful ring every year to the eternity. The only type of soaring of the immobile being.

I played a giving tree but I become a leaning tree. My yearning for the sky lost to my longing for the other one. I was afraid of falling, but I couldn’t help leaning to reach; to touch. The wind, the fate, and my heart.

Self-examination is healthy sometimes

drift and cry

Whispers and Cries – Bergman’s film
even the dead weeps for loneliness.

dig, dig, dig

mother, daughter, father, son
K said, family is another “f” word.

moved 10 times in 10 years
still can’t find a place to call home

my caprice

pride and prejudice – I hate Jane Austen’s novel but the title fits me well

self-defense, self-doubt, hypocrisy

a blue hole in the sky
I want to be sucked up into it someday

naked – a trickle of innocence in that word
I love that.

I don’t mind alien’s attack
but I do mind God’s judgement

“You should work on mindfulness and openheartedness,” should I?
what’s wrong with being a pessimistic, cold, loveless person?
We should accept who we are. Shouldn’t we?

my ambition is drop-dead.
should I get a job?
what am I doing here?
Until when?

Until my dog dies after his happy life.
I will not get another dog.

that homeless guy with a brown dog
can I stand being poor?
I should ask him.

That needle poking my heart
please stab me with a knife instead.

I have my limbs. Bless me. I can do yoga.

Blame everyone around except me.

Now I am thinking that friend is another “f” word. Ha-ha.

Life goes on.
On and on. Too tedious. Alien should come now.

Get excited. For what?

we ate too many animals.
make them do their revenge.
They can write a novel called, “Human Farm”.

hanging, drowning, falling, shooting
aren’t my thing.

I love my left wrist. A little thinner than my right.
I will slash it someday
clean and calm, calm and content
All “C” words.

when the pain exceeds the resources, bullshit!
hate people preaching.
Shut the “f” up. This is not the “f” you think. Put other words starting with “f”. Use some imagination.

Inner dialogue circling crazy.
Another “C” word.
crazy crying, crying crazy

do whatever you have to do.

I shredded my ID today.

Waves, waves.
Drift, nowhere.

I am just fine. Really.

A Visitor in April

Three knocks on the door. The evening rain started to chill the area. She walked to the door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. Don’t you remember?”
The familiar voice answered. She knew who it was. The devil. Her old companion.

She opened the door. He came in dragging his large shadow behind him like a big black curtain used for the curtain call in theater. When the last strand of the shadow rolled up to its master, she closed the door and looked at him. Broad shoulders, thick round body, and blurred face. And that smell of Sulphur. The scent from the underground.

She frowned for a moment but changed her face as bright as she could pretend. She knew that the devil wanted to be welcomed. He wouldn’t forgive any hint of the unpleasant feeling coming out of her.
“You became skinny.”
The devil said looking up and down at her.
“I don’t like it,” he added.
Avoiding his gaze, she asked. “Do you want something? Drink?”
He nodded. She brought a bottle of whiskey and a glass with some ice cubes. The devil poured to the top of the glass and drank straight. And he poured another shot. His red eyes emitted a strange glare. Then, his dark skin became darker. His face distorted as if he were tortured.
“What have you done!” The devil said.
“What have you done!” He repeated in an annoyed voice.
“I didn’t do anything.”
The devil lifted his face and stared at her. She shuddered from the top of her head to her feet. She froze. The devil lifted his hand and motioned with his fingers to come to him. She slowly stepped toward him. Then, he grabbed her by the neck with his right hand. His fingernails cut through her skin. She couldn’t breathe.
“What have you done to me. What have you done!”
She couldn’t answer. She felt the breath escaped from her body with her spirit. Her limbs dangled. Then he let go of her neck. She collapsed on the floor. She knew this would happen. This is April. The cruelest month of the year. The month which took her unknown brother’s life even before she was born.  The damned month of her calendar.

The devil covered his face with his hands. Still murmuring the same words. She gathered her courage to ask.
“What did I do?”
“Don’t you know?”
She shook her head.
“You made me jealous.”
The blood depleted from her face. He must have known. She thought. Even though I didn’t tell anything to anyone, he must have known. The air got tight. Her heart raced. She squeezed the words out.
“Why did you become jealous?”
“Because I love you.”
“What happens when the devil becomes jealous?”
He gasped. He looked at her one more time with the pitiful eyes.
“The devil destroys the very thing he loves by jealousy. Then, he destroys himself by the pain of the loss,” he said with a long sigh.
She looked at the devil and said.
“Is there any way that we can be saved?”
The devil nodded. “There is one way.”
“What is it?”
“If you make a pact that you will love me. Only me.”
She stood up and looked down on the devil sitting with whiskey in his hand.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Because you are the devil to me. I can’t love my own devil.”
A confident sneer arose on her lips. She added.
“And I don’t like the visitor in April.”

The devil glanced at her and dropped his head. His body sank on the chair for a moment. Then, he straightened his massive torso and drank up the whisky. His eyes were redder than ever. His skin became darker than ever. His shadow grew larger than ever. She kneeled down. She felt that all power in her drained out. He stretched his hand again to her neck and strangled until her body slacked to lifeless. Then he bellowed a big cry, pulled chunks of his hair, and pounded his chest. The rain outside became a storm. The mad lightening hit the ground. The thunder roared wild. The devil lifted her body as gently as he could and put her in bed. The blood streaked from her mouth and dripped to the white pillow. The cuts on her neck from the devil’s nails were vivid. He looked at her one last time. He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.
“My blossom is gone.”
His eyes teared up with blue water and fell on the bedsheet. He turned around and walked to the door. His figure shrank bit by bit trailing his shadow heavily. The door slammed shut behind him.

She fell into the sleep from which she would never wake. The silence wrapped her house. And she dreamed about the very person she loved in her lifetime, forever, undisturbed. The rain stopped. The stars shed their tears bright in the night sky. Soon the morning would come. But not to everyone. Not to everyone.

<May 30th, 2017>