Sur le fil

En équilibre sans l'être soi-même

toujours sur le fil, à scruter devant,

derrière, dessous, partout, contre le vent

et jamais serein, toujours en dilemme,

sur le fil, des crampes au cœur

à regarder les autres et leur bonheur.

Les deux extrémités du fil si loin –

on a passé tant de temps sans bouger

et sans dormir qu'on a pu voltiger

que la fin est le début est la fin.

On est resté ainsi longtemps, longtemps –

et puis, d'un bond, soudain, on suit le vent.

 

The lull between the squalls

In the aftermath of the cyclone squalls

time was clocked in by the church bells

plated in between sheets of silence.

The uncharted surplus of violence

had shocked most into mutism;

the rest preached apocalypticism

or inculcated words of redemption.

Flotsam was pillaged for consumption

when news of another hurricane

sent the hopes of many down the drain

and to some others straight to the gods.

Tomorrow would see who'd beat the odds.

 

suspended

that which never was
had been for a timeless time
the only present

Free Fall

I was doing research for a poem some time ago, reading a few articles on birds of prey, when I was reminded of the hawk's incredible mating behaviour. First it's interesting to know that male and female hawks tend to be monogamous, staying with the same partner their whole life. Then they'll build their nest before the mating season begins, occasionally improving it later on during the season. Once this is done, they will engage in the mating proper.

They will circle around one another, rise up in the air at the same time, higher and higher up until the male eventually flies much higher up and lunges at the female. Both will then fly back up to that same height, and then resume their courtship with the same pattern. They will repeat this circular dance until the male finally dives and latches onto the female to mate, free-falling down to the ground. It lasts just a handful of seconds.

Hawks like the red-tailed can dive after a prey to speeds of up to 120 miles per hour (193km/h), so even though they won't reach speeds like these when mating, and even though they will be so very high up that it's not a danger, they will nonetheless free-fall, quite fast at that. It's not too hard for us to imagine what it feels like to trust someone enough to let everything go. We will all profess that we have done this at least once in our lives. And oh, of course, hawks do not endanger themselves free-falling, so like us it's a measured danger we take every time we make love with our partner.

If only we were only talking about measured danger. It's very tempting to draw parallels between hawks and us: they tend to be monogamous and to have only one lifelong partner, to build their nest before having offspring, and making improvements to it during the course of raising their chicks. Somehow, somewhat like us in that idealised, old world version of our world.

Both hawks surrender their natural instinct to fly in order to mate. They cannot reproduce if they are not in free fall. What natural capacity do we surrender when we make love? It's not a question of spatiality for us, as we do not abandon our capacity to walk or move. It's more to do with being naked and defenceless. It's about closing our eyes, lying on or near that special someone. About sleeping soundly with them. It's about surrendering our faculty to think straight, to rationalise. That's our free fall.

Our measured danger, once we have chosen a partner with whom we've built a nest, is to put our trust in them by handing a part, or parts, of our judgement so we both appreciate the distance between the apex of the spiralling up and ground zero. We trust our guts in that free fall towards the unknown, latched onto someone who like us is hurtling down – who lets themselves hurtle down with us – with only the safe knowledge that we're in this together.

And perhaps, occasionally, that poetic feeling, when hugging someone this close to our heart of hearts, of a hauntingly real, timeless free fall.

 

Camus, Scott, Camus, Sales. Yet another misquote.

Today I read this quote:

"Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken."

Attributed to, among all, Albert Camus. I had to chuckle at this.

After a quick search, it appears this quote appeared in an episode of One Tree Hill, in this form:

"Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken. But I wonder if there’s no breaking then there’s no healing, and if there’s no healing then there’s no learning. And if there’s no learning then there’s no struggle. But the struggle is a part of life. So must all hearts be broken?"

I dug deeper and found the French version:

"Heureux les coeurs qui peuvent plier car ils ne seront jamais brisés. Sont-ils si heureux que ça. Un coeur qui ne se brise pas ne peut pas guérir si on ne connait ni l'épreuve ni la guérisson on n'apprend rien et si l'on n'apprend rien on ne change pas. Mais les épreuves et les changements font partie de la vie. Tous les coeurs devraient-ils être brisés ?" 

It's funny how the Goodreads website attributes the French version to Albert Camus, but the English version first to Camus, but also to One Tree Hill (in the tags). Alternatively, I found many French websites referencing the series and quote together, and not linking it to Camus. There's more to it, but let me digress for a minute.

I know how many of you just don't care about the provenance of quote as long as it inspires and uplifts you. I've had this debate repeatedly here on this blog, during my literature classes at university and just about everywhere where books are involved. I get the 'being inspired' part, I really do. Otherwise quotes wouldn't be my post frequently used tag on the blog. But come on, you have to be intellectually honest, and whenever possible check who actually wrote the quote. Imagine you are a writer, and you come up with such a beautiful text that you share it with people. Then someone extracts a passage which they find absolutely amazing and share it with more people. You're happy, right? Your text and its message spread out like so many beautiful dandelion seeds in the summer breeze. Yet over time your quote gets misattributed to somebody more famous, because you're not famous, you're not even known. You'd be mad, and I'd say rightly so.

Back to our murky business. The person who came up with this is actually known, so please stop attributing it to Camus. He never wrote this and -- I could debate with specialists -- he never would have. It strikes me as too overtly biblical in tone, the which Camus wouldn't have done. This website probably nailed the source -- and the reason for the confusion -- for the quote. You can click on the link, but here's the entry:

"Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken."

Saint Francis de Sales.

Source/Notes: Variant translation: "Blessed are the hearts which bend, they never break." - The Beauties of Saint Francis de Sales, selected and translated from the writings of John Peter Camus (1829), p. 49. This quote is sometimes misattributed to Albert Camus.

I took the liberty to underline the names. We can see easily figure out why, after so many years, possible careless handling of names and a sloppy memory, the two people have been confused, as one fell into oblivion and the other remained up there in the pantheon of writers. And in our case it's even worse as John Peter Camus was only the translator, the real writer was Saint Francis de Sales (hence the biblical overtones). So it isn't just one person who fell into oblivion, but two.

I'll finish this rather long post (for what it's worth) by saying that of course Albert Camus isn't reaping any benefit from this. No pecuniary recompense is going to the Camus estate. My point is that more diversity in literature is always welcome, because people have a tendency to put literature into a small box in which only a handful of writers gave us a handful of memorable quotes and the rest is easily forgettable. As if, by the same token, a quote was more inspiring because Shakespeare or Camus had written than if it were a complete stranger. That's nonsense. There's power in all of us to say something true, timeless, unforgettable. Instagram and Reddit are rife with great, and as yet anonymous, talents. So look up, look around, and look sharp.

 

Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”
―Saint Francis de Sales
Read more at https://izquotes.com/author/saint-francis-de-sales

Variant translation: "Blessed are the hearts which bend, they never break" - The beauties of st. Francis de Sales, selected and translated from the writings of John Peter Camus (1829), p. 49. This quote is sometimes misattributed to Albert Camus.
Read more at https://izquotes.com/author/saint-francis-de-sales

“Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”
―Saint Francis de Sales

Source/Notes:
Variant translation: "Blessed are the hearts which bend, they never break" - The beauties of st. Francis de Sales, selected and translated from the writings of John Peter Camus (1829), p. 49. This quote is sometimes misattributed to Albert Camus.

Read more at https://izquotes.com/author/saint-francis-de-sales

“Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”
―Saint Francis de Sales

Source/Notes:
Variant translation: "Blessed are the hearts which bend, they never break" - The beauties of st. Francis de Sales, selected and translated from the writings of John Peter Camus (1829), p. 49. This quote is sometimes misattributed to Albert Camus.

Read more at https://izquotes.com/author/saint-francis-de-sales

“Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”
―Saint Francis de Sales

Source/Notes:
Variant translation: "Blessed are the hearts which bend, they never break" - The beauties of st. Francis de Sales, selected and translated from the writings of John Peter Camus (1829), p. 49. This quote is sometimes misattributed to Albert Camus.

Read more at https://izquotes.com/author/saint-francis-de-sales

Because things pass

"The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create — so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating."

Pearl Sydenstricker Buck, novelist, first American woman to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature (1892-1973)

I couldn't trace the quote back to the original. The best I could find was Wikiquote (I believe whippersnappers these days would say "lel" to this), which has: "as quoted in The 101 Habits of Highly Successful Screenwriters: Insiders Secrets from Hollywood's Top Writers (2001) by Karl Inglesias, p. 4. This has also appeared on the internet in several slightly paraphrased forms."

 

Nemesis Ex Machina

Its fiery, devilish eyes delved into mine. Not a flicker of fear, not even a frisson of war-frenzy. When out of the blue the beast landed on the window sill, time trembled on its talons and stood still. I was astonished out of my wits and beheld the behemoth, majestic, arrogant. It seemed impervious to the heat outside, caparisoned in feathers of steely pride. I was speared through by those yellow, beady eyes which decreed I was so insignificant I didn't exist. It lay there motionless, yet defiant.

The tension was so nerve-racking I could picture the howling of the wind, tumbleweeds rolling between us, and a dog barking in the distance. Time had been brought to a halt in an instant. And even though I didn't know for what purpose the colossal fiend had chosen my abode to reveal itself, but there was no doubt there was no way out of that confrontation. Warmongering was rustling its tenebrous plumage. I had to repulse the hordes of darkness.

I defied the stygian stench emanating from the demon and walked closer to the window, barring it entrance and affirming my determination to defend myself and my world it had come to destroy. Fuelled by willpower and survival instinct, I mustered a courage skaldic poets would have been proud to praise. I endeavoured to scare the brute off, executing ferocious dances of war, chanting imprecations and anathemas, cursing its offspring for generations upon generations. My arms and legs were as if possessed by the very god of war, but it seemed I only was in the grip of dread. The feral culver stood impassibly, gazing like a stoic stone idol of old.

I was left with no other choice. I had to take up arms. I quickly glanced around and there lay at my feet my camera's tripod. I raised it high above my head and with the loudest and most Viking scream I ever bellowed, and because the bugger didn't want to budge, I shoved the winged monstrosity off the edge. It nebulously flew across the street onto the opposite rooftop, and then turned around to face me, again. It had turned its appearance back to that of a normal pigeon but there, unfazed, it professed its archnemesisness. It told me in that ancient wordless language of warfare that the fight was only suspended, and that from now on I would have to watch the skies in fear.

But I have embraced my vikingness. I am ready.

 

Rawer

Not sure what I'm doing here,

in between sweaty legs,

a heavy head on my chest.

Not sure what's happening here,

hands still clung to my hips,

a breathing I don't recognise.

Not sure what I've done here.

First time I sleep with someone

since you broke up with me.

Not sure what's happened here.

I feel caught in a bear trap

the hunter's breath on my neck.

Not sure what'll happen now.

Maybe waiting to be skinned,

more naked than I already am.

Not sure what I'll do now.

All I loved once is gone.

You are gone, never to return.

I should probably get up now,

get dressed and take my leave.

I should certainly flee the shame

and run away as fast as possible

to avoid seeing your eyes now,

your shaking head and tutting mouth.

I should go home and shower off

all these tears and emotions

and wait for the night to smother me.

I just wanted to taste

what it felt like to love,

to taste the freedom

off somebody else's lips.

I will carry you inside me forever

and watch your eyes as I do now

questioning my guilty conscience.

Not sure what could have happened

if you had stayed with me

but I know for certain

that I'd still love you.

Not sure where you are now

with whom you're sharing a bed

but I want to be this person

and efface what you think of me.

Not sure how I could do this now

but I think about it every day

every, single, day...certain now

that I can't find again the grain

of your skin on that of others

nor the shade of your green eyes

nor the sound of your smile

it's as if you were dead only to me

and not for the rest of the world

some thoughts are rawer

than a naked body

sharper than headlights

on a fox's face

more bitter than the salt

off your long-lost faded lips.

FOMO

I recently developed a condition

whereby I have a violent,

borderline jealous reaction

with practically everyone.

I gape, I stare, I fall silent.

Let me put before you a case I imagined.

Picture a seven year old skydiving

for the first time and becoming a legend.

My whole existence felt so much threatened

I was stabbed by the most excruciating pang

of jealousy at the pit of the stomach.

Now a ninety year old with Parkinson?

Stab to the heart. A sneer. Enough to choke.

Father of two, in a wheelchair? A mock.

Agony of the soul drilled by a tommy gun.

I think my fear of missing out

has gone to the next level

My soul wants to go all-out,

I want to make it all out,

I want to feel how they feel.

I want to feel every possible human emotion:

from the sharpest love to the dullest pain,

from dejected tenderness to tender rejection.

I would like to be everything and everyone.

I would like to die and to live and to die again.

 

The responsibility to be oneself

"Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does."

Jean-Paul Sartre, French philosopher, playwrigtht, novelist, essayist, political activist and literary critic (1905-1980) He refused the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1964.

I do believe this quote needs some contextualisation, especially to put the use of "condemned" into perspective. Here is the passage (first in French, English following right after):

"Dostoïevski avait écrit : " Si Dieu n'existait pas, tout serait permis ". C'est là le point de départ de l'existentialisme. En effet, tout est permis si Dieu n'existe pas, et par conséquent l'homme est délaissé, parce qu'il ne trouve ni en lui, ni hors de lui une possibilité de s'accrocher. Il ne trouve d'abord pas d'excuses. Si, en effet, l'existence précède l'essence, on ne pourra jamais expliquer par référence à une nature humaine donnée et figée ; autrement dit, il n'y a pas de déterminisme, l'homme est libre, l'homme est liberté. Si, d'autre part, Dieu n'existe pas, nous ne trouvons pas en face de nous des valeurs ou des ordres qui légitimeront notre conduite. Ainsi, nous n'avons ni derrière nous, ni devant nous, dans le domaine lumineux des valeurs, des justifications ou des excuses. Nous sommes seuls, sans excuses. C'est ce que j'exprimerai en disant que l'homme est condamné à être libre. Condamné, parce qu'il ne s'est pas créé lui-même, et par ailleurs cependant libre, parce qu'une fois jeté dans le monde il est responsable de tout ce qu'il fait. L'existentialiste ne croit pas à la puissance de la passion. Il ne pensera jamais qu'une belle passion est un torrent dévastateur qui conduit fatalement l'homme à certains actes, et qui, par conséquent, est une excuse. Il pense que l'homme est responsable de sa passion. L'existentialiste ne pensera pas non plus que l'homme peut trouver un secours dans un signe donné, sur terre, qui l'orientera ; car il pense que l'homme déchiffre lui- même le signe comme il lui plaît. Il pense donc que l'homme, sans aucun appui et sans aucun secours, est condamné à chaque instant à inventer l'homme." L'existentialisme est un humanisme, 1946.

"Dostoevsky once wrote "If God did not exist, everything would be permitted”; and that, for existentialism, is the starting point. Everything is indeed permitted if God does not exist, and man is in consequence forlorn, for he cannot find anything to depend upon either within or outside himself. He discovers forthwith, that he is without excuse. For if indeed existence precedes essence, one will never be able to explain one’s action by reference to a given and specific human nature; in other words, there is no determinism — man is free, man is freedom. Nor, on the other hand, if God does not exist, are we provided with any values or commands that could legitimise our behaviour. Thus we have neither behind us, nor before us in a luminous realm of values, any means of justification or excuse. — We are left alone, without excuse. That is what I mean when I say that man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, yet is nevertheless at liberty, and from the moment that he is thrown into this world he is responsible for everything he does. The existentialist does not believe in the power of passion. He will never regard a grand passion as a destructive torrent upon which a man is swept into certain actions as by fate, and which, therefore, is an excuse for them. He thinks that man is responsible for his passion. Neither will an existentialist think that a man can find help through some sign being vouchsafed upon earth for his orientation: for he thinks that the man himself interprets the sign as he chooses. He thinks that every man, without any support or help whatsoever, is condemned at every instant to invent man." Existentialism is a Humanism, 1946.

I think the notion underlined in the quote I initially posted (and highlighted with Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov quote in which Ivan Karamazov claims that "if God does not exist, then everything is permitted") is that of accountability. We alone are responsible for our actions. We cannot make excuses other than that which we can connect directly to our thoughts, beliefs, values, actions. Condemned we are because we haven't made a conscious decision to be here on Earth, but as we do indeed live on it now we do have the freedome, the luxury, the luck, the moral obligation -- whatever you want to call it, and there's many more phrases which could be added -- to choose with our own conscience to vouch for our actions.

 

On Summer Nights

The fallen sky was full of a humming song

fracturing into crimson shards on the horizon

a murmuration of starlings heaved

as if the night was now a surging sea,

now a whale, now a billowing cloud,

now a crouching dancer now suddenly

bursting high up like a head unbowed,

now a jellyfish, swelling, slumping,

now stretching like the thinnest of shrouds

and then ball up into the fist of a titan

dusk was a cooling, clement spectacle

made us forget the day's sizzling heat

and the intense emotional debacle

blanketing our heart like an iron sheet

the flesh regardless had that sort of urgency

whipping our pulse on like marching drums

the mind laden with memories of ardency

boiling in the womb like winged thrums

the brutal insistence of the summer blaze

warded off for the night being

next morning coating emotions like a glaze

made us wish for nights less fleeting

 

Underbelly of the Night

Click to enlarge

Oh honey

Oh honey, you wreaked so much havoc.

None of this made any sense to me.

What sort of love was this? What sort?

Was it even love that we felt?

I worked three jobs, tore down walls on weekends

built them back up the next, painted them, planted hooks

for you to hang your favourite pictures.

I saw my ideas for our home slowly being scratched off

and I didn't care because I thought this was how love

was supposed to work. You were all I had.

I just wanted to see that smile upon your face

when you mouthed “I love you” across the dinner table.

Oh honey, sure I faltered on occasions

withdrew into my world because

I felt pulverised by your love

I didn't feel up to the task you had set

I didn't feel like I was good enough for you

yet I carried on for you, just for you

because you said you loved me still.

Oh honey, when I fell asleep at the wheel

lugging back from the hardware shop

you suggested a nap would do me good

then you said you'd love to see the bathroom done

because your parents were visiting next week.

I sure had to plough through this.

Who on earth loves like this?

Oh honey, I told you not to give up

that I had enough strength for the both of us.

I saw you drifting. You became silent.

You were coming home later and later.

You barely looked at my daily evening work

you no longer cared about the decoration

but still you said your love was intact.

Oh honey, I tried to save us from the wreck

but you wanted to collide against the rocks.

You steered our home full sail in the storm

and when it crashed you blamed me

and the rage you flew in I'd never seen.

But you raged in the name of love, you said.

Oh honey, what sort of woman are you?

You stabbed, shot and trampled my heart

and with one twist of your heel I was gone.

Oh honey, you carried my corpse down

the stairs, my limp head banging on each step

and you skidded off the trail of blood and laughed

rolled me up in that old carpet you hated

ditched me in the boot of my car.

And you texted me that you were doing this

and that was an undeniable proof of your love.

What sort of sick lover does this?

I wasn't ready to make any sacrifice

for I had done them all already.

Oh honey, you stripped me of my rights

you let the lawyers strip me of our house

which I had built from the ground up

and then you made sure I had no money left

so I couldn't sue you but I wouldn't have

I still loved you too much for that

for you said you never loved anyone

like you loved me.

Oh honey, I wonder if you ever loved me.

Perhaps I was all wrong and never knew true love

for when you drove through the night

to the seaside where we first dated

stopped right off the cliff

geared the car up, revved the engine

so it shot down and crashed on the rocks below.

Oh honey, you didn't even look back.

What sort of love drove you to do this?

Oh honey, you said you had your reasons

that I didn't look like I cared enough

that you didn't think I loved you enough.

So when I had no job, no money and no house

you saw fit to stab me again, and again,

you spun me around and slit my throat

and nonchalantly shoved me in the bathtub.

Oh honey, what sort of lover are you to let

my feet dangle at such an odd angle?

Where's the decency a dead body deserves?

As if everything we'd lived was forgotten

wiped out the instant you grabbed the knife.

As if I'd lost my humanity altogether.

You got away with all of these murders

only lovers of your kind can achieve this

and oh honey walk away in broad daylight

their hands, like the white bathroom tiles

spattered with blood, carefully cleaning them

waiting for the next prey because you feel

the need to love boiling in your veins.

 

Curated conscience

"The ability of so many people to live comfortably with the idea of capital punishment is perhaps a clue to how so many Europeans were able to live with the idea of the Holocaust: Once you accept the notion that the state has the right to kill someone and the right to define what is a capital crime, aren't you halfway there?"

Roger Ebert, film critic (1942-2013).

As per usual when a quote is taken from a larger text, it makes much more sense when this context is brought back to the surface. You can find the source for the quote in this here interesting film review. It's a fascinating read, even if you haven't watched the movie (Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr.).

Leviathan

He didn't know what on earth to tell her –

what words will unparalyse the fearful?

She lay on the side, knees pressed to her chin,

the frail dinghy rocked by relentless swells.

Why they were here didn't really matter –

the fear, the fear only was crucial.

Each word, each gesture amplified the spin

of a churning stomach in a churning hell.

In the end he had no choice but to cover

her face with a jute sack, it was too awful

to see her thus. And much to his chagrin

he had to bind her hands and feet as well.

It took less than a minute to be over.

And because he didn't want to seem cruel

he wrapped her body in a tarpaulin,

and without ballast she sank in a short spell.

The reason why had long stopped to matter –

the guilt and the shame were his sole fuel –

the constant lies for him the ultimate sin

which kept the ghost alive in the shell.

 

All our sunsets

A few days ago, a friend of mine asked me if I remembered the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen, because she had just seen the one she thought would stay with her for the rest of her days, high up in a mountain range. My first instinct was not to ask her to send a picture, but to describe it for me. Interestingly, she hadn't taken any picture of that particular sunset anyway, just as I didn't take any of mine. And today serendipity had it that another friend sent me a picture of the sky from her house, not at sunset but the sun clearly sunk behind the clouds, illumining them from below. The trees and the rooftops already dark. Several different types of clouds clog the sky. I could picture it for you, or include the picture, but that's not my point.

I've always been interested in those moments when we choose not to immortalise them with a picture, but rather with our senses. I didn't write “eyes”, but “senses”, and I think the crux of the matter is precisely here. Those moments are infinitely more profound when we deliberately choose to live them through, and fix them in our memories, however flimsy and transient this repository might prove over time. We forget, we correct, we transform, but perhaps not as much as we think.

This is some sort of a wager against time which we do when we record the greatest sunset we'll ever get to capture with our senses. We choose what gets to stay with us, and rather than a still picture which will be marvellous and will invariably make people think of their greatest sunset, we can describe what it was for us, why it was the greatest, and how the reds, the oranges and the yellows were like a shimmering explosion of colours in the entire sky, as if the world had come to an end and this apocalypse was mesmerising. It was the most amazing spectacle and we felt something inside us being moved to tears, or serenity. Perhaps it even changed us, who knows. It will be marvellous to tell, wonderful to share and will invariably remind our friends of their greatest sunset, or sky, or moonscape.

A snapshot of what we saw may be a more potent trigger for our brains, but those long minutes, perhaps hours, we spent watching this sunset have changed us much more than a picture can ever tell. Because ultimately what my two friends wanted me to see is how happy or serene or nostalgic they were. The sunset, the sky, appealed to something within them, they struck a chord which reverberated and filled them with an overwhelming feeling. And we bonded even more over a sunset we could never see with our own eyes, but we sure felt that sunset running along our spine.

Sure, we can't share a mental sunset with our friends, can we. We have no physical proof of its existence, haven't we. Or perhaps I just did. Its effect on us is what we choose to narrate, because it was inscribed in time. This sunset happened at a particular moment in our life and we soaked up as much as our senses would allow us. The chill in the air, the hotness of the sun-beaten stones, the light breeze of the incoming tide, the sounds of seagulls, perhaps music coming muffled from a party nearby, or perhaps the warmth of the tea in our cold hands. All of these contributed to making this the grandest, most memorable sunset of our lives...till the next came, or not

I was about to wrap up this post when I thought of something. In some weird way, these sunsets are like last words. I was reminded recently of how it's important to always say something meaningful when we part with our friends, and family. We love them, we had a great time, we'll definitely call them soon, thanks so much for coming. I don't remember what my mom's last words were to me, but there's no doubt it was something trivial. Instead, I have the luxury of getting to choose what I remember of her, I deliberately chose which sunset is the greatest for me because I have the clearest of memories of that particular moment, which no amount of pictures could even come close to brush. This sunset, which no one will ever witness, sure vibrates with people when I tell them the story. This sunset, as with all our sunsets, deserve to be immortalised, because at one point who knows, we may want to share them.

 

Fragment #19

Why, in this long string of days,

this one mattered more than the rest?

She was gone beyond reach.

He felt he had failed the test.

He had gone on a long search,

nowhere, and in none, did he find her;

ten years and never even close:

never as smart, never kinder.

 

At the bar

Tonight I went to a bar

I didn't want to get drunk

I wasn't invited by a friend

I wasn't lost either

I didn't choose that bar

I just felt so lonely I wanted to see people

to be with people but to be left alone

I stayed a long time in that bar

long enough to attract attention

so I went to the bathroom

long enough to be forgotten

I felt so lonely I wanted

to listen to all those people

who didn't seem to be as fine

as their laugh claimed to be

I wanted to sit down and hug them

but I also wanted to observe them

just look at them from a distance

to not get involved

because I was already sad enough

for a whole human being to drown

I went to that bar for

some form of closure

I went to the bar and I wrote

and I listened to music

but I didn't really write

and didn't really listen

I went to that bar

to meet the love of my life

who'd see through the notepad

and the earphones

who'd notice the sideway glances

who'd see through the subterfuge

of raising my eyes to the ceiling

to find inspiration, pen clicking on teeth

I had no choice but to go to that bar

to find out that she wasn't there

but I wanted to hear her voice so much

I don't know what it sounds like

but I'll recognise it in a flash of lightning

I went to a bar tonight

I wanted to be invited by a friend

I wanted to get drunk

I wanted it to be my favourite bar

and turn this endless night into a feast

packed with fun and peals of laughters

I went to that bar tonight

hoping I'd befriend someone nice

hoping they could show me

how to sing along,

who could teach me the lyrics

to that song we call life

I stayed long enough

I was the only one left

just to make sure

she wouldn't turn up anyway

her face flushed, her hair a mess,

muttering excuses I didn't care about

because she had finally come

I would just hug her

till they kicked us out

I realised I stayed in that bar

and I was invisible to everyone

and it made me lonelier than before

even though I wanted to be alone

because I wanted to be acknowledged

I wanted to have a friendly hand on my back

and one extended ahead of my unawkward body

to introduce me to other friends

This is why I went to that bar

because I am a walking petrified conundrum

a wrecking ball of awkwardness and of love

I'm so lonely I'm sure it shows

and perhaps people know

that it'll be different

as soon as she steps into the bar

and sees me for what I am

yet I sort of wish they felt

what I feel, though not in a bad way

I just want them to feel the pain

to palpate the sadness in my stomach

and prescribe a daily dose of friendship,

a shot of laughter, a pill of love

I went to a bar to ask my love

how her day at work went

and we'd laugh it all off

she'd stroke my cheek

I'd smile to her

and mouth I love you

and she'd mouth I love you too

and I'd tear up inside

with thousands of butterflies

beating their wings like mad

I know I could be as happy as I'm lonely right now

if she could just teleport in the bar

from wherever in the world she is right now

all these years of heartache wiped out in a second

even a fraction of a second

I'd turn into a well of joy and of love

and I'd never need to go back to that bar

unless I wanted to sit at that same spot

I sat to realise how far I've come.

 

Nightshift

3:21. 

am. 

Still wide awake.

Well, technically I did sleep,

for nigh on two hours. 

Nothing woke me up 

and that’s what’s worrying.

My heart beats with the night,

but my head spins a little.

Perhaps it’s a tumour which prevents

my brain from producing melatonin.

Or a blood vessel popped in my brain

and like the sun exploding

I’ll realise it in 8 minutes and change.

3. 2. 1.

Countdown to death.

Missing a zero, suspended,

cliffhanger to zilch.

Or perhaps I’m supposed

to read it backwards

so now it’s a countup

to the number of cancers I have.

Or will have and survive.

Or I should read 32 I am,

but that’s even more mysterious

than anything that’s ever happened to me. 

32 what?

3:59am.

Seriously, I need to sleep.

I have a presentation tomorrow,

which technically we are already. 

I took a pill for the migraine

but I think it’s a grade 4 glioblastoma.

Has to be. Hurts really bad.

At 4 sharp, it’s going to be

death o’clock for me.

Pft, gone, ready to be dissected,

every inch inside and out examined

so they finally find what’s wrong.

Cartography of a thousand and one ailments.

4:00am.

Doom downloading: 50%.

Life on pause because 

there is no broadband.

We have to taste that irony at least once.

Or perhaps I’m already dead.

No presentation, no work, no life.

Silver linings of sorts.

But tons of silverer linings:

no more wildguessing my illnesses,

no groceries to be done,

no fretting over what to cook for lunch,

no awkward social interactions.

The perks of being dead.

Also: let’s not forget the silence.

4:41am

Waiting three more minutes

because that’s oddly satisfying.

Brain overdrive though,

I might never fall asleep, ever again.

First case of its kind.

They’ll find I have a totally different brain

than anyone on this planet

and they’ll slice it up and conserve it in formol

for future generations to unravel the mystery.

I blame the tumour, it’s now out of control. 

I might even start seeing the tunnel

behind my closed eyelids

like this one time in that motel

when I think I didn’t sleep

but simply passed out from sheer exhaustion 

and right before I saw the light,

this bright beam of light, at the end of a tunnel.

If only I could see instead

the night at the end of the tunnel.

5:00am

I might as well get up

and power through that day

with tumblers of coffee

and a sign hanging from my neck

that says: “Dying from brain cancer,

please remove when dead.”

5:12am

Somebody take a hammer

and knock me asleep.

Migraine abated, I think,

even though there’s no way to be sure,

the bastard pops up again

the minute you let your guard down.

Sunlight filters through the blinds.

Birds are waking up too.

I am so not ready to start that day.

Brain, let me grab another hour of sleep, please,

and I’ll make sure you get a scan

as soon as we get home on Friday.

One more hour, just to have the impression

that I had two nights’ sleeps in one.

Just so this day which hasn’t really started yet

gets to be one hour shorter.

That I could live with.
 

Fragment #85

Eventually I'll forget the grain of his skin, the delicate bridge of his nose. Eventually.

Eventually, I'll stop thinking of him in another woman's arms, whispering words of love, fucking her, kissing her neck, burying his head in her hair.

The idea, now revolting to me, I'll eventually accept. It's not actual jealousy – it's more to do with my own happiness. I used to be happy with her because I loved and was loved. Her feelings wore out but the memories remain. Eventually, I will forget.

It's easier for him because he ran away with that other girl. That's because he doesn't want to have to forget. He deals with loss by adding more. He doesn't realise that one day there won't be anything left to add. That the running away has led to a cul de sac. No more fucking around. No more jumping from one relationship to the next.

The irony wills it that I realise she is not someone for me, that the differences between us are too great, but her eyes, her hands, her personality...eventually, I will forget all of these. I will have to forget how great a person she was, perhaps the greatest I've ever met. Will ever meet.

I don't know what I will forget first, but I know what will be forgotten last: how he made me feel special, how I mattered. He would listen, and respond with the clearest-cut words, those which touched my heart where no one had ever dared go, where I didn't think anyone would care to look. I realised too late he used his skill to read people to manipulate them.

She would chisel her words so they would pierce me through and through. She would feel every place she touched, she would measure pain with a knowing hand, she would carefully manipulate such raw feelings with ease, like a surgeon with a beating heart outside a patient's chest. It was as if she had always known me, that she had been waiting for me to heal me.

He made me want him, made me crave for more of us, for more magical moments. I know that eventually I'll wean him out of my system, but for now forgetting his face is the most fucking difficult thing I've ever tried doing.

What I'll never forget is how she helped me through such a hard time with grace, care and kindness. She truly was a fantastic person, though not one for me. How I envy the man who will get to build a home with her, graced by her presence...if such a one exists, if she ever allows herself to be touched, to be helped, to be happy. The last memory of her that I will have to shed, eventually, is her look of sadness and humility in the face of my sorrow, and the fullness of her hugs, whispering to me that I would be all right, eventually.

Perhaps, perhaps they were the saddest of us all.

 

If

If one day you feel the need to leave

know that you made us happy

more so than we'll ever be

If one day you feel the need to rage

know that we never meant you harm

that we'd trade our life for your calm

If you feel the need to mourn the dead

know that we're here for you

that sadness passes too

If one day you think you'd rather die

know that more people than you think

would pull you off from the brink

If one day you feel the need to leave again

know that you have a home in the soft

of the heart of those you loved

If one day you feel the need to speak up

know that your voice will boom like a storm

yet your words will help us keep warm

If one day you feel the need to love

If one day you feel the need to cry

If one day you feel the need to die

know that you are the most amazing person

we have been given to befriend, to love,

to laugh with, to walk with, to see smile

know that you have made us smile in turn

tear up and laugh, often at the same time

know that we're the lucky ones

that we'd give an arm to see you again

to hug you one last time in the chaos

and watch you go and blast the stars

or create a universe we'd see as a gift

to share with you, even from far away,

even a universe filled with ifs –

anything to stay with you one more day.

 

Last Letter to my Students on the Eve of their Final Exam

Dear all,

In a few days you will start the final race for what will essentially be your last days as "pupils". You will then become "students", and then "adults". You know me well enough to know I don't mark the distinction. We are all learners, after all, every step of the way, and you are in many regards adults already.

You all know that this race isn't a race against the others, but against yourself. You will have to find the mental strength, and for some of you the moral fortitude, to affront each exam. I have no doubt that every single one of you -- and I mean every, single, one of you -- has what it takes to get your diploma.

You realise that it will be easier for some of you than for others, but as I wrote earlier, this is a race against yourself: you will have to fight through your own insecurities, your own personal problems, your own doubts, and perhaps other people's doubts. Yet if I could make you see yourselves as I do, you'd sit every exam with pride in your hearts, with that sort of confidence which commands respect. You would walk with your head held high, uncaring of others, with your eyes fixed on the horizon where your goals are.

I have to be honest with you: all of you command my respect. I find truly admirable that you have come this far down the road. Some of you have had really hard lives. Some of you have issues which even adults wouldn't want to have because they wouldn't know how to deal with them. And yet you do. You have found the force within yourselves to keep on walking, against wind and tides; you have found the strength of character to move on against those who spat on the path you were treading and judged you, against your own family sometimes who didn't trust you, against situations in which you felt trapped. It is true that some of you have had to put one knee on the ground, but none of you has faltered, all of you got back up and went forward -- the most obvious proof being that you are here, now.

I have shown you, in class, that a momentary show of weakness is nothing, nothing in the face of who you will become. We are all Frodo setting out of the Shire, unsure of which way to go, conscious that every step of that way will be fraught with danger. Frodo knew what the object of his quest was, that no one before him had attempted what he had set out to do, and many had warned him against the vanity, the foolishness of such a quest. In the end, he had only a few of his friends at his side to confront the darkness.

He discovered that the darkness outside was nothing compared to that within him. Fighting his own demons was probably the hardest part of his mission. But he knew that he could count on Sam. And here I am, being a Sam for you, talking to you in the ruins of Osgiliath, with Mount Doom in plain sight across the ashen plateau of Gorgoroth. Here I am telling you that hope is not a foolish prospect, that the year it took Frodo to walk up there is the same year it took to arrive where you are now, that you can do it.

Many of us teachers have been Sams for you Frodos. We have carried you this far up the volcano, but the rest of the way into the Crack of Doom you will have to walk on your own, confident that we have done everything in our power to help and guide you, to assure you that your quest isn't futile, your efforts not vain, your weaknesses not really weaknesses after all.

That your quest shall be a success depends on you, and you alone. As a very wise lady said: "If you cannot find a way, no one will". Adversity is just a strong gust of wind which may disorient us, which may slap us so hard that we fall to the ground. Yet you will do what you have always done: get back up on your feet.

You know it is the last part of this journey. It was a rich, eventful year, which marks the end of an era which you will remember, years from now, with fondness perhaps, smiling as you realise how far you have come. Perhaps you will remember your old, daft teacher telling you about Frodo and Sam with a tear in his eye and you will wonder if your adventures will be put into songs. Well, let me tell you something: it isn't because you cannot hear the music that the lyrics aren't playing. You are writing one of these songs as we speak. Another one will soon begin after this one is sung. Remember: this is how Arda and Middle-earth were created, with a song.

So here we are, at the end of some things and at the beginning of others. I do hope you are as serene and confident as possible, ready to give it all and be done with this damned exam.

Thank you for this wonderful year. You have taught me many things; you have shown me the best, and sometimes the worst, in you; you have all grown up a bit, but above all you have been yourselves. I am happy and proud to have been part of the journey, yet it is time for me to wave goodbye from the threshold to my classroom and wish you the best possible future, the greatest possible happiness.

Take very good care of yourselves.

With fondness,

Your English Teacher

Fragment #16

I drank too much coffee today

I am way too alert, sniffing the air

like a hound on a wet trail

 

Averse

"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry."

William Butler Yeats, poet, playwright, writer, Nobel laureate (1865-1939), in Per Amica Silentia Lunae: Anima Hominis (chapter V, 1918)

I've seen this quote phrased a tad differently all over the Internet: "Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry." I'm one to right wrongs by defending traceability of quotes and authorship, and preserving quotes in their original form...so yeah, you bet I'm going to go after that one. Inasmuch as I cannot but agree that the second form "reads better", I'd rather keep the first one as it is true Yeatsian style. Content matters, but form does too.

I have to apologise to some of my friends for being a quote killjoy [insert emoji of your choice].

By the roundabout way, here is the link to the text.

The earthquake

I thought the earthquake happened thirty years ago.

The town still lies there, in ruins, in tatters, in shambles.

Nobody cared enough to rebuild anything anywhere.

Green lush vegetation now covers the walls, the houses.

Whole barley fields extend as far as the eye can see.

Where roads and streets and parking lots used to be.

Only the graveyard remains untouched by the wilderness.

Someone must be coming here often to tend to the grave.

There's only one, you know, but it is in pristine condition.

The name still shines in gold, sun-mirroring letters.

That name used to be mine, before the earthquake.

I thought the earthquake happened twenty years ago.

When its memory surfaced, like a dead body in the sea.

A dead body is what we put in coffins, like in the movies.

Crapversaries is what I call the birthday of a deathday.

That day was the crappiest crapversary of my short life.

I remember it like it was yesterday because it sort of was.

I saw his silhouette against the lit backdrop of the open door.
I pretended to be asleep but my pounding heart wouldn’t let me. 

I knew he had been waiting for mom to leave for work.

Waiting all day long and pretending to be busy in the garage.

He stepped into the bedroom and didn't switch the light on.

Maybe he thought if I didn't see anything it would be all right.

Maybe he forgot I could still touch, taste, smell, feel pain.

And that's precisely when the earthquake happened.

I thought the earthquake happened ten or so years ago.

It happened in the shower after I had sex with my girlfriend.

The smell came up to me and it burst-reminded me of that day.

I had buried it so deeply within me it couldn't come back.

But it did because we all know the dead can't stay buried.

Because I smelt what my dad smelt when he was done.

That sort of smell is bound to wake up the dead.

That sort of smell is the motherbomb of all deathsmells.

It smothered me and I choked I thought I'd die in the shower.

Maybe it's not as bad as it sounds but I didn't die anyway.

But the earthquake was rattle-ravaging everything inside.

I thought the earthquake happened yesterday, of all days.

He called me on the phone while I was at work.

I hadn't heard of him in more than two decades.

When mom realised the earthquake had gone on for years.

He said he was sorry, that he had become a different person.

Though his name still resounds like a coffinful of bones.

But I got better but I said I didn't want to see him ever again.

Today I am still smiling when I watch the sky.

Today like yesterday I tend to the grave of that child.

I cut out tiny pieces of sunrays to gild the letters.

The horror happened but I acknowledged it and let it go.

I let it slide over me like a tsunami a few years ago.

So I could trade pain for happiness, rage for serenity.

And I am serene not because I survived the earthquake.

I am serene because I found out who I am despite the earthquake.