We who work in vision

"A scientist is in a sense a learned small boy. There is something of the scientist in every small boy. Others must outgrow it. Scientists can stay that way all their lives."

Speech at the Nobel Banquet in Stockholm, December 10, 1967.

George Wald, American scientist and Nobel laureate (1906-1997)

The Better Man

  

Queueing up at the store

the old man shuffled behind

in torn, ragged clothes

his hair unkempt,

smelling of wet dog –

the other customers stepped back

he was counting his change

a handful of battered coins

his wrinkles sagged like his shoulders

he had stared at sun and rain

with an unflinching face

his hands had seen winters

many winters

he was buying those soggy baguettes

the kind of which gotten

at the bargain section

a can of the cheapest tuna,

two cans of a good brand

of dog food

a tomato, two bananas,

and a couple apples

his hair showed signs of combing

those from a hand once firm

those which lack a mirror

then he muttered to himself

clenched his fistful of cents

left the queue in a hurry –

the people moved like an ebbing wave

the picture of him feeding his dog

better than he fed himself

of him trying to keep himself

and his clothes

neat

oblivious of his dog's smell

I moved the checkout divider

told the cashier I'd pay for his items

when he came back he didn't notice

he had picked a third can

when the cashier didn't stop

he extended his hand

she told him – she repeated

he didn't seem to understand

he looked at me

he opened his mouth

twice

he had no words

I nodded

he nodded

his food in his crumpled bag

he moved to go out

twice he turned back

I didn't look

too busy daring glares

at the judging crowd behind

when I got outside

I saw him near the door

his dog was happy to see him

nuzzling in his armpit

whimpering

patches of skin showing

through the shaggy fur

something broke inside

perhaps his dog thought

he'd been abandoned again

perhaps the man had forgotten

the impulse of charity

he held his dog's head

for the longest time

maybe that was their happiness

showing through the rents

their way of greeting

an unexpected stroke of luck

come dinner they would eat

out of their tin cans

smile, nod at one another

pick their teeth clean

he would tell his dogs

stories of the old days

and they would fall asleep

content, reassured

him patting his dog

happy he could get

the food he likes

come morning he would

try his best again

to look as decent as he could

comb his hair,

fasten his belt,

get enough food

to bring them both

safe and fed

till the next morning

he was

without a doubt

the better man

 

Etched in crumbling stone

  

"'Writing' is the Latin of our times. The modern language of the people is video and sound."

Lawrence Lessing, attorney and political activist (Wikimania conference, August 2006)

Fields of knowledge

“There is a beauty in discovery. There is mathematics in music, a kinship of science and poetry in the description of nature, and exquisite form in a molecule. Attempts to place different disciplines in different camps are revealed as artificial in the face of the unity of knowledge. All literate men are sustained by the philosopher, the historian, the political analyst, the economist, the scientist, the poet, the artisan and the musician.”

Glenn T. Seaborg, chemist, Nobel laureate (1912-1999)

All the wrong places

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
down in the soggy dregs of coffee in my cup
I would try to tilt and turn the little bits
until they might shape into your face
but they dried so I had to give up

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
up in the stars, connecting the dots to each
unsure if Vega was a good start or end
until I ran out of breath and space
as none were within reach

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
into the bubbles of the foam in my bath
I would watch and listen to them pop
until I unsaw the mirrored gaze
and became Sylvia Plath

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
through long nights of browsing Tinder
each ghost had something of you
until you would be effaced
drowned in cinders

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
in between written words and musical notes
through hundreds of songs and poems
until I could no longer retrace
what I'm sure was a quote

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
for you might have passed by in old Polaroids
I even checked VHS tapes and jigsaws
until no left-over puzzle piece
could surely fit the void

I've been looking for you in all the wrong places
in footsteps I never heard, in scented eaux
I never smelt, deaf and blind to signs
that you might not ever surface
until I have to let you flow

1+1

I'd love to thrash the idiot who told you
that happiness is a beautiful feeling
that it is as easy as 1+1

I'd love to catch the simpleton who said
that life is simple, just follow the signs
leaving me wondering where I screwed up

how many times have you genuinely said,
stopped mid-breath, I am happy right now
looked around you in awe and contentment

how many times have you actually said
I was happy back then because this instant
I am fucking miserable, and lonely

how many times have you added up
1+1 and thought you had the answer
why unhappy people thought they were happy

what if happiness was a trap laid down
by the most careful of hunters
catching only the unaware ones

what if unhappiness was a trap set
by the most careless of hunters
always catching the questioners

you see, happiness is like being well
you realise only after you get sick
that things weren't so bad after all

unhappiness is like being in a well
you feel the rising water and you stare up
burning your lungs screaming for help

then you finally grasp that 1+1
cannot be as simple as adding them up
that 1+1 is a fucking black hole

in my mind

whoever I have known might have died somehow
whatever I have touched could have withered
whilst I was only trying to feel alive

half my existence has been dreamt
painful day-to-day wish to belong
and to be someone else, and with

somewhere and somewhen else
because I have always been sad
without genuinely seeing why

even though I do understand how
as dusk brings hordes of breathtakes
and dawn its defibrillating gasp

the desire to persist even though
it means anguish, hurt and longing
the imaginedeath of others

living a mess of shifting somethings
ungrasped only in the twilights
images conjured perhaps
real, perhaps,
but all there
all there
in my mind

Afterwards

We thought he’d stick it out a little longer

It was a small favour, considering.

He would have all the time he desired

Afterwards.

We had all felt lonely and despondent

At one point or another, for sure.

But we all thought we’d have enough time

Afterwards.

We did everything we could to help out

Even the most absurd of favours.

We thought these would count

Afterwards.

We’d never have agreed to any of this

Down to the simplest request

Had we not believed he’d stick it out

Afterwards.

We were mortified and disappointed

When he decided to leave.

He had played us now and

Afterwards.

Through the wood and up the hole

We knew he was laughing

He alone knew what was coming

Afterwards.

Today I had weird thoughts about death

 
Today I had weird thoughts about death.

Perhaps it was the bleeding.
Perhaps it was the heaving.
Or maybe it was the visceral fear.

The stain on the couch points to this,
like the birth of a red black hole.

I couldn't but swear though out of breath

as I saw my funeral rolling,
as I saw my friends in tears,
as I saw the blood dripping.

The pain in the guts attests to this,
like a gash made by a sinkhole.

I didn't have the heart to tell my friends
that there wouldn't be any ceremony.
This is not how I want my life to end:
the plan is to bury myself at sea.

They sure know this isn't the first time
I've had weird thoughts about death.

Yet they may not understand as they
haven't have to bleed
for four days straight.
The twang of whiskey
a testimony to this
the old, familiar smell.

The thoughts never totally go dumb
though the clots are now down the drain
the flesh grows pale,
the mind goes numb

at the end of each day, only the pain

I shall wait for the right tide
eyeing life and sea
from their respective shore

bracing away for the last ride

trying not to bleed too much
this is not the way the world ends

it ends when I say it ends
the pain today can go fuck itself

 

As long as there are rivers, there will be libraries

 

For as long as there are rivers, there will be bridges across them.

For as long as there are bridges, there will be neon lights illuminating them.
For as long as there are neon lights, there will be moths orbiting them.
For as long as there are moths, there will be walnut orb-weaver spiders catching them in their orb-webs.
For as long as there are nuctenea umbratica, there will be entomologists fascinated by them.
For as long as there are entomologists, there will be Latin names to denote them.
For as long as there are Latin names, there will be encyclopedias to gather them.
For as long as there are encyclopedias, there will be books to explain them.
For as long as there are books, there will be libraries.

No rivers, no libraries.

And rivers are running dry.