We/ are we/ random

A conversation is an overture to many things: the next conversation, kinship, love. Cross this out. We redirect, retract, swerve--we talk about the weather. We hesitate to talk about love because we are proud, we are strong, we are practical, level-headed creatures; we would rather talk about things that matter--the stock market, the upcoming elections, your neighbor's latest acquisition, my last meal, your next.

And inside our heads, a voice, cooing a soliloquy: But my love, you are my miracle.

We snort at sentiment. It is shallow, it spells weakness. We are strong. We do not talk about love. The world will turn without love. We insist.

Abdicate, my love. Because the world is ruled by numbers. Ejected by the maths, the story of Eros and Psyche remains a myth. Yet we die a little at love's facelessness.

We do not admit this. We would rather have plotless dreams when we are asleep. Or grind our teeth.

We concatenate one chance with the next, and come up with a kaleidoscope of flukes. Where do they all go? We wonder. We wonder, and wonder, and on the surface, we are placid bodies of water. Stagnant, too, the voice. And on and on, we insist--what is dilatory must stay hidden.

Serendipity is underrated (or is it over? I can never tell) -- you are here because you filled out an application form; I am here because I had nothing better to do. We will never walk the same line; this conversation is flimsy. It will never hold. Art is for the foolish, I heard somebody say. But he who is not moved by sunsets and violins must have some serious searching to do, yes? My teacher agrees. Even Euclid had feelings, I'm sure. But where is it written?

There is a mathematical formula for everything. Yes, even love. We talk in tangents; the parallels outrun each other. We measure and throw away the excess. Love is an excess. We throw love away, we erase it. Or pretend to, at least. And then we cope by subterfuge.

"There will be time, there will be time," wrote one T.S. Eliot, and "Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,/ would it have been worth while,/ to have bitten off the matter with a smile,/"-- oh, hapless heart, what do you beat for? Who?

Stop that sighing, the minutes are ticking, we do not have time.

We do not talk about love. Let Apollo chase Daphne to the ends of the earth. It is a myth, as love is. Turn off that music in your head, and let's be productive, instead, so resume brainstorming, snack on these data, reconcile those figures. There is no you, there is no me.

But look, my love, you have turned into a tree.

Strings and Stones

Today is your birthday.

Today is your birthday and in my mind, we are thirteen again. It's 5 in the afternoon, and I am standing by a doorway, admiring the cuff lacing my wrist, its plastic stones blinking, wondrously catching the dying afternoon light. You are inside, talking to the shopkeeper, asking her about the crystal bracelets on the display counter.

Today is your birthday.

Today is your birthday and we are thirty-something-year-olds, miles and miles apart. I am thinking about grace, I am thinking about laughter, I am thinking about sunlight and moonshine, about dreams and oceans, about mysticism and music, about warm firelight, about friendship and constancy--because these are the thoughts people like you inspire in other people. I am looking at the bracelet I'm wearing, the mild sheen of its magenta-colored beads stark against my skin, and I remember the broken pieces of me that you had strung back together into a circle.

Today is your birthday and I am thinking of the sound of waves crashing to shore. How beautiful it is--both the thing and the memory of it. Thank you for letting me hear its music, once more. One day, we will find ourselves along another sunlit shore, scouring the sand for forgotten dreams. Or pretty little stones, maybe.

Happy birthday, Kristine. The world is one brighter place with you in it.

Summer, part 2

Water.

Oh, to soak, to sink

in dreams
of you, to wade through you, or drown, perhaps, but gloriously. Because I cannot swim.

Stop struggling, they say. The tide will bear you to safety. I find it hard to believe, but it's not wholly impossible--nothing ever is. Some things are like water;

so pour me out.

These lines are figments--I am standing somewhere square.

Trickle down my throat, or wash over me.

Solid things wear me down; edges can be scathing. Hard surfaces, those bricks, that street. A rock and a wall, you say, and I, in between.

Let me flow, instead.

Billow, crest, and fall, and start again. And again, and again. There is rhythm in repetition, but beauty lies in swirls. Oh, let me swirl. I want to swirl with you. I want to swirl in you.

It's this darn heat.

"I wish I had a river", Joni once sang. I wish I were a river.

Tonight, the moon glows bright, illuminating the rivulets coursing through my mind, liquid pathways that lead to you.

The moon seldom ever insists its presence, but it always finds its way here. Like you do.

This page is full of abstractions, invisible streams gushing everywhere, taunting my delirious brain.

Will somebody please hand me a glass of water.

Caliraya, by moonlight

Is that moonlight in the water?

I stand up to get a better view of my view of the lake. All things that could be still are still; only the crickets dare disrupt the enveloping quiet, but intermittent, as if they, too, suspect their cry a sacrilege to the calmness.

Muted rays of pale yellow light slant toward the surface of the water and I stare, fascinated. I wish the moment would go on, and on. I could feel the air and my fingertips, brushing against each other. I feel the hair on my nape rise at so much aliveness and for a moment, I picture myself, wrapped in moonlight, lost in the rapture of solitude. The mind reaches for the soul and is surprised at its nearness.

Above me, the sky is ablaze with starlight.

I shall always remember this. It is what I will take home with me. This beautiful memory of evening, lake, stillness, moonlight, and I, one with all--they shall find their way to one of my storage boxes at home; and some distant day, should the threat of chaos once more come knocking on peace's door, I will close my eyes and summon back this evening, reach out for this moonlight, and let go.

I will remember the light on the water and cast anxiety aside, push fear away. It should be enough.

Lost

I grieve my inability to turn you into what I want you to be: here.

You are always somewhere else: next month, seven steps ahead, a moment away, three hours ago, the past week; a few distances away, framed by a window, an inch apart, walled by glass, wrapped in distance, lost in thought; that indecipherable frown, cryptic vibrations, obscurity.

The wall I put up falls into shambles, but patiently, I pick up and rebuild. The foundations are weak. I make do with pretense, believing it would hold, as if it ever did, as if it ever will. Meanwhile, the distance picks up its pace, the hole deepens, your absence becomes more and more present.

And so, I I toil, I dig, never knowing what it is I work for, what it is I look for--your presence or obliteration. Am I conjuring or am I erasing?

Even this page fails to capture you. When I get to the bottom, I glance back up. In the end, I go back to where I started.

Peace Be With You

I remember the scent of burning candles.

One finds oneself at home in the crowd, the lack of space. One gets accustomed to the rush, the madness of everyday. One gets used to the lights and the noise, to losing track of time, to losing count of what was and what comes next. One becomes familiar with the randomness, the flurry, the blur of it all. One gets lost in it; one forgets what is.

One gets so used to it, that the upcoming stillness becomes an assault to the senses. The present quiet disquiets; the mind gets jolted by the lack of sound; the eyes get overwhelmed by the onslaught of space.

But how beautiful, too, these impressions of muteness. How calming, how peaceful. The heart finds itself pulled into reflection. The question of faith ceases, finding respite in the hinges. In the hush of things, one stops being lost, if only for a moment.

Our part of the world is once more taking a pause. May peace be with us all.