I am drawing shadows for you to disappear in. I put on one dark hue after another, so no light can pass through--until no question is left of darkness, no space for silhouettes to linger in.

I am drawing shadows for you to disappear in.

Daphne, once more

I cannot have you follow me
this way--

Today's dose of madness

Reading the final pages of Fanny Howe's The Winter Sun, I was struck by the similar thread through which most of what I had read in the past days seemed to run. These materials--a number of blog posts, some really striking passages on Twitter and Facebook, another book which I had reread--all seemed to resonate with a similar theme. If I had been my younger self, I'd probably be making (thwarted) attempts at deciphering its meaning, some secret message, perhaps, that the universe is trying to deliver to me, some hidden design that would make sense out of whatever's happening in my life.

As it is, the years have taught me that coincidences like these are nothing more than what they are: coincidence. The recurring themes in our lives find their way to our everyday because our choices have made them do so. And the patterns with which we make decisions can be traced to what and how we are as individuals--our backgrounds, our experiences, our reactions to those experiences.

Hence, this seeming tapestry of words must have arisen from nothing more than a chance click (or, several chance clicks) on random links, or from my mind's proclivity for certain subjects that had made me retain only the encounters with those subjects, and that had, in turn, consigned the others into shadowed blurs.

Arrggh.

Coffee.

A Starbucks table napkin found, stuck between pages 156 and 157 of a book--a collection of essays, to be specific--told me I might have brought this book with me on one of my frequent stays at the coffee shop. The napkin's edges were yellowed, and I hadn't taken the book out of the shelf in a long while, besides, so that particular trip to caffeine-and-laziness land must've been some years back.

This encounter with a napkin isn't really something to be made much out of, but I being I, my mind wandered a little, away from the paragraph I was reading, following my eyes as they landed on the rectangular, light brown object, lying flat on the desk. 

I wondered about that day and hour, irretrievable as they are from my cache of memories, when I had stuck this napkin between these pages; wondered about how I was-- my frame of mind, my mood, my clothes, my view, my companion (if there was), the weather. What song was playing in the store? Were they playing any, at all?

It is a blank that I draw, of course. Aside from its discolored edges, there was nothing in the napkin that provided any sort of explanation, or clue, that would have enlightened my musings.  There was neither an actual memory to anchor a memory on, nor an actual measurement of time and distance to base a recollection from. I had to shake off some unexpected wish to, somehow, go back to that time and place.

Some passing regret over not having scribbled anything on the napkin's surface, that time, flits by. And that must be why this bit is posted here, at all.

It is when the losses--gathered, counted--seem at their most, that the hands start teaching themselves to unlearn the act of grasping.

Caption: Triangle

They stand there, bodies and faces so close, that from a distance, the picture they paint is one of nearness, of intimacy. They are oblivious to the loud music, they are at a safe enough distance from where the dancing is: two tall, good-looking men about to lock in an embrace, until some stray beam of light zeroes in for three seconds, five, and you catch sight of the barely concealed wrath on their faces. They are both wearing blue shirts.

Their chests are heaving, impassioned.The muscles in their arms are tense, and one can imagine punches straining to break free. One realizes that they are not so much about to embrace, as to grapple. Their feet are planted firm on each one's ground, and the onlooker senses that each is insisting on a height inches above the other. The light around them is a blue haze.

They are shouting at each other, and one can make out expletives from the emphatic movements of their lips. The music drowns out any chance of the (heated) discussion ever being audible, but one can certainly make out that this is a brewing fight.

About  three long strides in front of the pair, one's eyes zoom in on a girl, diminutive, even in the heels she had so carefully chosen for the night that, hours before, stretched out before her like a gleaming promise. Her hair is one long, sleek mass, and the sequins on her white shift dress are blinking at the blue lights, as she had, when she first entered the crowded hall, hoped they would.

Her face is crumpled in an agonized frown; the cigarette she's been smoking is forgotten, as her fingers seem mechanical in their hold of it. She shifts weight more often than she would care to, but this is probably the last thing that's on her mind. Biting her lower lip, she would look upward and sigh, then blink back at the scene before her, of which she is, obviously, more than just a passerby.

Indeed, that is no mere speculation, for the girl had just been dancing with one of these two men, several minutes ago; and she had watched her world crumble down when the other shut the door behind him for the last time (or so, she had thought), a couple of months ago.

And these two men, furious at their blighted, lacking knowledge of who each was to her, all but seem to remember her presence in their lives, in this one heated moment of boyish tempers.

If she walked away now, they probably would not have noticed.

Versions

1. at the approaching sight of pain, turn
into stone

2. at the scent of pain, close
into a bud

3. at the threat of pain, curl
into a fist