October 12, 2006
Words lost on journeys we walked on
Fallen leaves tainted a faint gold by the glow of the lone street-lamp, scattered in the shadows of the sidewalk, piled up against a random wall — perhaps by the wind, perhaps by a neighbour's rake — seem to whisper the passing of yet another year.
Autumn awakens unspoken words. A familiar song winding its way through copper wires that attached a modern piece of electronic marvel to my much-human ears dug up a distant, disjointed memory. That of standing on an unfamiliar curve, on an unfamiliar road, in an unfamiliar neighbourhood in the north of Boston, waiting for a bus that never seemed to arrive.
It was oppressively sunny and I'd left my sunglasses behind at my temporary home of a few days. Earphones firmly lodged in their proper place, my body swaying slightly but involuntarily to the gentle riff of the guitar, I seem to recall having walked a distance to a couple of bus stops down the street, thinking perhaps the time I spent standing could, instead, be spent walking. The bus must have finally arrived, but I have no recollection of where I was taking it to ...
It was the tail-end of winter, in a city loaded with memories, soul laden with shards leftover from too many broken things, I made friends with a writer-to-be who said to me that "a novel is just a long short story", and was puzzled when I burst out laughing. We traded books, and I came back to my temporary home one night to find him watching a French movie I'd already seen. That night I was surprised to discover that I could understand the language rather well, after what seemed like a long struggle to tuck it under my linguistic belt. Certainly well enough that I found pleasure in pointing out inaccuracies in the translated subtitles — as one would, in such an opportune circumstance.
Then I went from winter to winter, kissed a true love, back to a true home, to a city of squalling winds from the Antarctic and searing winds from the desert. Or was it still autumn? The comfort of old friends like the comfort of an old coat. Favourite places that I can name and give precise directions to.
Perhaps it was because that this was the album I'd always crave for the moment I stepped out of my front door every morning, that by the time I'd walked to the train station, the music had run its course and this very same song always found me standing on the open platform. The darkened asphalt, the bleak little beige station building that was too small to provide shelter on rainy days, the old waiting benches heavily ornamented with graffiti and scarred with overlapping messages of love and insults. People gradually gathering in the unspoken ritual of a collective act — that of the wait.
I marvelled at the dress sense of Melbournians — all dark grey and black — our notion of winter elegance simplified to the point of monochrome. I marvelled at those who seem to be purposeful even in the early hour of the morning, armed with a newspaper, an umbrella, or a briefcase for the day of work ahead, and the evening beyond that to look forward to. But first, we had to wait for the next train — the one that never seemed to arrive.
Yet these trains must have come. My memories of waiting persist beyond those of moments when the doors of the carriage slid open, or when the door of the bus folded to one side, welcoming one into a mobile cocoon. These trains must have arrived at some point. Finally, eventually. They must have arrived in order for me to have left, and left all that behind.
Posted by sniffles at 11:08 PM | Comments (0)August 20, 2006
Postcard perfect day
August 05, 2006
Summer of loss
I can't quite explain what has possessed me this summer. The days seem to melt under the heat of the sun, and I no longer remember them one by one, singularly — or maybe that's just a sign that I've been keeping much too busy.
A quick spell of research — though it would have been faster if I'd read an old entry on my own blog — saw me out of the apartment within the hour, and I was out on the streets hunting for a place I thought I'd not find again.
It is strange, what one's mind chooses to remember and what it chooses to forget. I'd forgotten so many things, including the name of this place. I'd forgotten that I'd written it down so I should be able to find it once more — especially when I knew they were going to be moving when I was to be on the other side of the world ...
And perhaps that's what has possessed me this summer. The flashes of memories, isolated events that have continually come back to haunt me over the course of the last months have made me brave the heat, slather on the sunscreen and go for long, seemingly aimless meanders.
Some weeks ago I'd found an old building I must have photographed three summers ago, a place that stirred of possibilities precisely because it'd been left to die — dreams of converting unused spaces into bookstores, complete with a cafe. It turned out that someone still lives at the back of this place, even if the very old shop-front was terribly dilapidated and looked untouched for decades. Last Saturday, I systematically combed a quartier searching for a back street that had existed simply as a still photograph in my memory — disconnected from any true sense of location or time — with only the vague recollection that I had accidentally stumbled upon it once or twice, along the way to somewhere.
And today, I found myself in a completely foreign cafe, with nothing of what I remembered. But I was handed a menu, gifted a warm smile, and I took myself through the back door onto the very pleasant terrace, right next to the tall plants of flowering basil, mint, and herbs I couldn't identify or didn't know the names for. On the other side of the fence seemed a regular backyard, with very regular grass, very regular laundry on a very regular washing line. The girl forgot my order for a fruit smoothie, but it didn't truly matter. The sun was a little difficult to read or write by, but that didn't matter either. The gorgeous dish of food that finally arrived affirmed that some things may change, for better or for worse, but the creative mix of flavours that found its way to my mouth told me that they still have the same chef.
So perhaps, that's what has possessed me this summer: the need to hang on to things that so very nearly faded away. Frightened as I am of the fragility of this existence, the guilty knowledge that halfway across the world, there lies no peace under senseless explosions. How tenderly delicate all this is, when today I gaze at your eyes through a millennia of flying electricity, because tomorrow still waits for the sun to rise.
Posted by sniffles at 11:04 PM | Comments (0)July 04, 2006
Unenlightened
May 03, 2006
A promise
I took the taxi only halfway, because it seemed suddenly ridiculous. Thanking the driver apologetically, I got out and began to walk the rest of the way to the hotel, taking the same route that I'd done the night before, only this time I was alone, with a backpackful of poetry and promises and art lost to the streets of a city I have only just begun to know. The night was quietening down, the final dribble of men-in-suits floated forlornly out of their offices with dejected-looking briefcases. Taxis dutifully queued up at designated street corners, their drivers arguing passionately in languages I don't understand.
How strange it is that the word "promise" has a secondary meaning that we don't often use. It seems to me that we tend to remember it more as a word to mean something that has been committed or a declaration of a commitment — and once we have been made a promise, we have a right to expect that this promise be honoured. Yet, almost in direct contradiction, if there is promise, it also means there exists a cause for hope, and there is nothing in the meaning of "hope" that contains an expectation for something to be fulfilled. Rather, it implies a mere possibility, anything from mildly probable to quite likely.
In the walkway that is formed by the upheld bulk of the Gardiner Expressway, the billboards on one side had changed from yesterday. Swallowing the discomfort I always have when walking under a bridge, I braved the hum and the noise and bee-lined for the other side, craving for the relief of open space. Looking up, I understood how easily one could lose sight of the world beyond, that we think ourselves invincible and in control, that promises have to be made and met. The skies were full of sodium-lit bubbles, inviting uncertain shadows against towering heights of fluorescent rectangles. And under these constellations, we would only know how to dream electric dreams.
Posted by sniffles at 11:43 PM | Comments (8)April 25, 2006
A ray of sunshine
A smile exchanged on the street must be worth a million. What are the chances of a stranger catching your gaze and you theirs, and in that instant, the urge to mutually salute to this chance passing is so strong that it tugs at the edges of both your lips?
She too, smiled at me, behind her cash register in the supermarket. Beyond the typical "bonjour" and formal exchange that one is required to undertake at such occasions — "Avez-vous la carte d'Air Miles?" To which I responded with a quiet "no" accompanied by the slight shake of my head. But behind all these words that made not so much of a ripple in the air — she smiled, as if she knew my secret, and I smiled, as if I knew hers.
Getting on the train, I struggled with a large shopping bag towards an empty seat so as to free up standing space for others. It wasn't until I'd sat down that I noticed that every person I had said "excuse me" to was wearing earphones, and it was entirely possible that none of them had heard me at all.
Posted by sniffles at 12:41 AM | Comments (3)April 20, 2006
The unseen
Posted by sniffles at 10:33 PM | Comments (1)What I want, when I write a poem, is no more than this: that it be preserved in some published form so that, in principle, someone somewhere will be able to find it and read it. That is all I need, as a poet, and that is the beauty, the luxury of my position. My lyric is mine and remains mine. Nobody can ruin it.
— "An Introduction to English Poetry", James Fenton