He sits among them, he smiles at their jokes and nods in cordial response to their kindness. Some are enjoying exotic cocktails; others are dancing to the music; a pleasant atmosphere.
He gets the usual urge to be alone; he gets up and walks past them to an overlooking place behind a corner on the right-hand side of the terrace where the party was held. He leans his back against the wall. The sky is ready for the sun to set. He lets his back slide down along the wall until his buttocks touch the ground, his back straight against the wall.
He spreads out his arms and rests them by the elbows on his knees in front of him, his hands one holding the other. His jaw is shut and his teeth bite tightly against each other. All air is sucked out of his mouth, and all the sweetness of the drink replaced by that awful flavor of his own tongue mixed with saliva and traces of food. His eyes squint to protect against the horizontal sunlight, but also to contribute, with the bite, to absorbing some of the tension inside.
Hills, trees and houses slowly change color and shade as the sky plays its virtuoso masterpieces, and the melancholy of their melodies molds his emotions into a lump that sits in his throat. He remains in his stance for a while.
Footsteps slowly emerge in a steady sound that contrasts with the chaos of the dancers; over the music they gradually grow louder seeking him out until they make their halt just at the corner where he is sitting. He slowly turns his head from the marvels of the sky to the mysterious feet beside him, then gradually upwards and squints his eyes again, this time to protect against a deeply penetrating gaze.
Her face is serious, but with a gentleness and a faint compassionate smile that makes the lump in his throat throb once or twice. She walks around the corner and across to his other side, and crouches beside him imitating his position, all the while continuing to gaze into his vulnerable but defensive eyes. He can no longer bear her gaze and returns to observe the sky. She does also.
A few minutes pass as they, isolated from the crowd, sit and watch the sunset. In a quiet voice, choking on the lump in his throat and unable to fight against the tears in his eyes, two of which roll from the outer side of each eye and along his cheeks making lines that shine in the dimming light, he finally says “you know…if you come with me…I will go with you” He turns his head, and with a novel intensity, his gaze into her now tearful eyes. She takes a deep audible breath as she runs her right hand along his arm and into his right hand. Tightening his grip on hers, he helps her to her feet, not breaking the gaze.
Silhouetted against the sunless sky they return hand in hand from around the corner and back into the dancing…and dance the night away.
Jun 27, 2009
Jun 21, 2009
Excessively Idealistic
Suppose someone asked you to take a stroll all the way to the sun.
The sun is excessively far away, you'll probably never get there. But there's no way you could miss it. The sun is excessively hot, it'll burn your face and blind your eyes, and if you ever got there you would vaporize before you could touch it. But there's no way you could miss it.
The journey is excessively long, will cost you your entire life, and will end before you even travel 1% of the way. But at least you'll always know you're on the right track. The sun is the sun, and there's no way you could miss it.
The sun is excessively far away, you'll probably never get there. But there's no way you could miss it. The sun is excessively hot, it'll burn your face and blind your eyes, and if you ever got there you would vaporize before you could touch it. But there's no way you could miss it.
The journey is excessively long, will cost you your entire life, and will end before you even travel 1% of the way. But at least you'll always know you're on the right track. The sun is the sun, and there's no way you could miss it.
Jun 14, 2009
Man from the Mountain
His descent was a memorable event in the lives of those who witnessed it. Silhouetted against twilight, a dark figure slowly made its way across the meadow below the mountain. Every head turned, every bent back straightened, all was halted, to gaze at the newcomer.
As distance diminished, the fading light revealed a man so shabby and uncouth it seemed no human eye had ever been laid on him. His hair a tree, complete with twigs and leaves that birds could nest there. His beard a bush of curly black, thick and coarse enough to scrub the deck of a ship. His clothes but filthy rags that belonged to none of the current fashion. And he stank! He reeked like an animal to whom soap is synonymous with semiotics. Yet despite the initial shock of his appearance, there appeared to be something in his deep dark eyes that held the gaze of on-lookers an extra second or two. A noble severity, mixed with a crude tenderness and a timid fear.
It had been 10 or 11 years since he wandered away; a child of merely 4 years of age, playing in the meadow in the shadow of the mountain. Unattended by those who should have attended, he curiously lifted every rock and looked behind every tree. Flowers and bugs, leaves and rocks all amazed him. He was irretrievably drawn into the pleasures of discovery, of exploration. and hopelessly lost. He discovered and discovered until the sun had made its way across the sky only to be slowly engulfed by the deep blue ocean. He found himself inside a cave, in the dark, lost on the mountain.
Time passed. He discovered the mountain by day, inhaling the fragrance of every flower, indulging in the juice of every fruit. He climbed every climbable tree and invaded every cleft in the rock. The dazzling colors of flowers and leaves were the pleasure of his eyes. His ears soaked-in the symphonies of the wind in the trees and the trickling of water along crystal streams. He indulged in every sunset and memorized the constellations. And by night he climbed the trees and crept into the clefts of his imagination. He discovered the world of his body, every nook explored and every secret made known. The solitude of his cave revealed deeper, darker pleasures. The mountain was exclusively his, and he the mountain's.
The boy grew into a man. And the mountain grew in him. He climbed its highest peaks and sat and stared at the horizon, with an absent look on his face. The sky became his mother and the ground he trod his father. And the distant sun his only lover. Deeper and deeper he went into the mountain, and the mountain into him. He was alone, with his thoughts, and the pleasures of the mountain.
They took him in, they shaved him up and bathed him. They groomed his hair and gave him a fashionable wardrobe. And as the commotion quieted down, the first to call out his long lost name was a woman. So breathtaking was she, surpassing all the pleasures of the mountain. He could see in her eyes what he later named fascination. He felt it too when he looked into hers. She was taken by his eyes and the absent look on his face that bid her join his mysterious journey to an unknown but exciting place. But when she tried, she found that there was no journey, and that she was the unknown and exciting place. To him, she was like the mountain. A tree to climb, a rock to look under. When he spoke, the crudeness and severity in his tone gradually shed all wonder away. He was no more than a boy, with a timid fear in his eyes that made her insecure. He was the mountain’s.
Time passed. And as he had once found himself in a cave on a mountain, he now somehow found himself on a chair in an office. He shaves, he bathes and furnishes his own wardrobe. He talks and writes and works and eats. He even owns a cell phone! But the absent look has never left his face. His 10 lone years on the mountain have made human contact difficult. He now realizes that with a force that shakes the depths of his being. The mere sight of human contact draws tears from the bottom of his soul like water from a well; slowly and gradually with a rope until finally, with enough strength it reaches the surface. And flows. But his water never flows, at least not in public. Instead, he wanders to the mountain and climbs its highest peak and sits there and stares at the horizon, and those around him can only see that absent look on his face.
He still finds it strange that men his age seek a car or a career and want to own a house and a home-theater. He is still convinced that all you need is a knife to carve stuff out of wood and a cave to sleep in. He still finds it strange that women his age spend so much time in front of reflective glass when in their eyes there is beauty that surpasses all the pleasures of the mountain. When they talk to him of what they had for dinner or what happened when someone did something, he honestly tries to conveniently respond but finds little, if anything, to say. For to him these things are alien, and the depths of his soul are all he has to talk about. It is all he had on the mountain. But he realizes that things are done differently in the meadow.
He loves to sit high on roof tops, and on benches overlooking places. He loves the sting of cold wind in his eyes. He loves, still, to inhale the fragrance of flowers and to marvel at tree leaves silhouetted against the sky. He even finds a cave to spend the night in sometimes. He likes to put his face into the air beating through a rolled down window of a speeding car. He could spend a day on his own lifting rocks and climbing trees talking to no one.
But this new discovery of human contact invades his every move and its exploration seems a foreign task. He occasionally finds himself fascinated by her or her. He can only smile when he sees her. And the other fills his thoughts when he waits for sleep to overtake. He has a special liking to those who are full of life and joy. What draws him more is that hidden darkness that resembles his. A timid fear that resonates with his. But he keeps his distance, he tries, without success, to keep away. Because he knows that all he can do is try to explore, and perhaps discover. As if it were another mountain. But they draw out his yearnings for what the mountain failed to provide, and with this drawing, parts of him he never knew are laid bare before his unguarded eyes. Like he was to the dwellers of the meadow at his descent.
He now wanders, between the meadow and the mountain. As his feet tread the meadow and try to find a place to stand, the mountain draws his mind and captivates his thoughts. He no longer knows whether he wants to belong to the mountain, or whether there will ever be a home for him in the meadow.
As distance diminished, the fading light revealed a man so shabby and uncouth it seemed no human eye had ever been laid on him. His hair a tree, complete with twigs and leaves that birds could nest there. His beard a bush of curly black, thick and coarse enough to scrub the deck of a ship. His clothes but filthy rags that belonged to none of the current fashion. And he stank! He reeked like an animal to whom soap is synonymous with semiotics. Yet despite the initial shock of his appearance, there appeared to be something in his deep dark eyes that held the gaze of on-lookers an extra second or two. A noble severity, mixed with a crude tenderness and a timid fear.
It had been 10 or 11 years since he wandered away; a child of merely 4 years of age, playing in the meadow in the shadow of the mountain. Unattended by those who should have attended, he curiously lifted every rock and looked behind every tree. Flowers and bugs, leaves and rocks all amazed him. He was irretrievably drawn into the pleasures of discovery, of exploration. and hopelessly lost. He discovered and discovered until the sun had made its way across the sky only to be slowly engulfed by the deep blue ocean. He found himself inside a cave, in the dark, lost on the mountain.
Time passed. He discovered the mountain by day, inhaling the fragrance of every flower, indulging in the juice of every fruit. He climbed every climbable tree and invaded every cleft in the rock. The dazzling colors of flowers and leaves were the pleasure of his eyes. His ears soaked-in the symphonies of the wind in the trees and the trickling of water along crystal streams. He indulged in every sunset and memorized the constellations. And by night he climbed the trees and crept into the clefts of his imagination. He discovered the world of his body, every nook explored and every secret made known. The solitude of his cave revealed deeper, darker pleasures. The mountain was exclusively his, and he the mountain's.
The boy grew into a man. And the mountain grew in him. He climbed its highest peaks and sat and stared at the horizon, with an absent look on his face. The sky became his mother and the ground he trod his father. And the distant sun his only lover. Deeper and deeper he went into the mountain, and the mountain into him. He was alone, with his thoughts, and the pleasures of the mountain.
They took him in, they shaved him up and bathed him. They groomed his hair and gave him a fashionable wardrobe. And as the commotion quieted down, the first to call out his long lost name was a woman. So breathtaking was she, surpassing all the pleasures of the mountain. He could see in her eyes what he later named fascination. He felt it too when he looked into hers. She was taken by his eyes and the absent look on his face that bid her join his mysterious journey to an unknown but exciting place. But when she tried, she found that there was no journey, and that she was the unknown and exciting place. To him, she was like the mountain. A tree to climb, a rock to look under. When he spoke, the crudeness and severity in his tone gradually shed all wonder away. He was no more than a boy, with a timid fear in his eyes that made her insecure. He was the mountain’s.
Time passed. And as he had once found himself in a cave on a mountain, he now somehow found himself on a chair in an office. He shaves, he bathes and furnishes his own wardrobe. He talks and writes and works and eats. He even owns a cell phone! But the absent look has never left his face. His 10 lone years on the mountain have made human contact difficult. He now realizes that with a force that shakes the depths of his being. The mere sight of human contact draws tears from the bottom of his soul like water from a well; slowly and gradually with a rope until finally, with enough strength it reaches the surface. And flows. But his water never flows, at least not in public. Instead, he wanders to the mountain and climbs its highest peak and sits there and stares at the horizon, and those around him can only see that absent look on his face.
He still finds it strange that men his age seek a car or a career and want to own a house and a home-theater. He is still convinced that all you need is a knife to carve stuff out of wood and a cave to sleep in. He still finds it strange that women his age spend so much time in front of reflective glass when in their eyes there is beauty that surpasses all the pleasures of the mountain. When they talk to him of what they had for dinner or what happened when someone did something, he honestly tries to conveniently respond but finds little, if anything, to say. For to him these things are alien, and the depths of his soul are all he has to talk about. It is all he had on the mountain. But he realizes that things are done differently in the meadow.
He loves to sit high on roof tops, and on benches overlooking places. He loves the sting of cold wind in his eyes. He loves, still, to inhale the fragrance of flowers and to marvel at tree leaves silhouetted against the sky. He even finds a cave to spend the night in sometimes. He likes to put his face into the air beating through a rolled down window of a speeding car. He could spend a day on his own lifting rocks and climbing trees talking to no one.
But this new discovery of human contact invades his every move and its exploration seems a foreign task. He occasionally finds himself fascinated by her or her. He can only smile when he sees her. And the other fills his thoughts when he waits for sleep to overtake. He has a special liking to those who are full of life and joy. What draws him more is that hidden darkness that resembles his. A timid fear that resonates with his. But he keeps his distance, he tries, without success, to keep away. Because he knows that all he can do is try to explore, and perhaps discover. As if it were another mountain. But they draw out his yearnings for what the mountain failed to provide, and with this drawing, parts of him he never knew are laid bare before his unguarded eyes. Like he was to the dwellers of the meadow at his descent.
He now wanders, between the meadow and the mountain. As his feet tread the meadow and try to find a place to stand, the mountain draws his mind and captivates his thoughts. He no longer knows whether he wants to belong to the mountain, or whether there will ever be a home for him in the meadow.
Jun 7, 2009
Apologies/Confessions
Forgive me dear friend for looking down on you…forgive me for putting you in a nice little packet, and branding you my own. Forgive that I see you merely as boxable..shelfable..discardable..a source of power or pleasure. Forgive that I give you only to take from you; forgive that I keep record. Forgive that I expect you to give back, and that I am angry when you don’t; as if it were my right. Forgive that when I do, I feel superior to you; condescending to men of lower state with my benevolence.
Forgive the words of wisdom that fill my mouth, and my ears when you speak, forgive that I do not hear. Forgive that I am convinced that I can help you, and save you from your misery, forgive that I pity you and call it sympathy.
Forgive my prying, my banging on your windows, as if you were mine, as if your life were mine to know and control, forgive the interest in my eyes that only wants to stamp a brand on a box, with you inside. And call it mine.
Forgive me dear friend for looking up to you…forgive me for putting you on a pedestal and bowing to my knees to worship you. Forgive my carving of your name in marble. As if you were some god. Forgive that I see you as better than me, when you are just like me. Forgive that I see every thing you do as an act of divine wisdom. Forgive that I don’t allow for your humanity; that I expect your perfect acceptance, and when all I get is human, I become angry.
Forgive that I hate your very essence although I adore you. Forgive the urge I get to ram you to the floor and spit on you, because you are better, higher, wiser, brighter. Forgive that i never treated you like you were you; not the idol that I made of you. I carved out your name in marble, so you’d be mine.
Forgive me dear friend for looking right through you…Forgive that you did not pass my test. Forgive that my eyes look right through your face, to idols or boxables. Forgive that my ears can’t hear your cries for help, the screams in your night.
Forgive that I choose to ignore whatever we have in common, even our mere humanity. Forgive me for being too busy carving and packaging that I didn’t catch that yearning glance in your eyes. And please forgive that I do not find you interesting enough to talk to you or make a little effort to know one more thing about you, you know why? Because it seems to me, unfortunately, that your test scores were too low, and I only accept A-students in my world.
It is you, dear friend, that I owe the biggest appolgy. And you and me, my friend, are one. A-students need neither idols nor packages to call their own, they own themselves.
And please forgive, all of you, that I write about how sorry I am, only to make you know that I really am better than you. Forgive that I know that tomorrow I will just be doing just the same.
Forgive the words of wisdom that fill my mouth, and my ears when you speak, forgive that I do not hear. Forgive that I am convinced that I can help you, and save you from your misery, forgive that I pity you and call it sympathy.
Forgive my prying, my banging on your windows, as if you were mine, as if your life were mine to know and control, forgive the interest in my eyes that only wants to stamp a brand on a box, with you inside. And call it mine.
Forgive me dear friend for looking up to you…forgive me for putting you on a pedestal and bowing to my knees to worship you. Forgive my carving of your name in marble. As if you were some god. Forgive that I see you as better than me, when you are just like me. Forgive that I see every thing you do as an act of divine wisdom. Forgive that I don’t allow for your humanity; that I expect your perfect acceptance, and when all I get is human, I become angry.
Forgive that I hate your very essence although I adore you. Forgive the urge I get to ram you to the floor and spit on you, because you are better, higher, wiser, brighter. Forgive that i never treated you like you were you; not the idol that I made of you. I carved out your name in marble, so you’d be mine.
Forgive me dear friend for looking right through you…Forgive that you did not pass my test. Forgive that my eyes look right through your face, to idols or boxables. Forgive that my ears can’t hear your cries for help, the screams in your night.
Forgive that I choose to ignore whatever we have in common, even our mere humanity. Forgive me for being too busy carving and packaging that I didn’t catch that yearning glance in your eyes. And please forgive that I do not find you interesting enough to talk to you or make a little effort to know one more thing about you, you know why? Because it seems to me, unfortunately, that your test scores were too low, and I only accept A-students in my world.
It is you, dear friend, that I owe the biggest appolgy. And you and me, my friend, are one. A-students need neither idols nor packages to call their own, they own themselves.
And please forgive, all of you, that I write about how sorry I am, only to make you know that I really am better than you. Forgive that I know that tomorrow I will just be doing just the same.
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