11.28.08

Perfection proves to be elusive

and so we succumb to you,

oh, happy flaw of humanity

rest in the hands of the Divine.

Pure Wordplay

Hapless lovers breaststroke down life river,

sunlight shivering on our sleeves.

The rediscovered laugh triumphantly,

and eternity begs to begin again.

Dream (March 17)

Please bear with me as I try to describe the music in my dreams with the limited musical vocabulary that I have. :)

I stood in the midst of yellowing, old buildings.  The sky, the trees, everything, gently curled into the horizon, as if everything was set before me through  a fish-eye lens.  I could hear someone playing a cello from inside the third building from me.  The melody rolled out like gentle waves, with a slight staccato every now and then.  It had the faintest hint of playfulness.  But the cello's voice pulled this close to its chest, to hush it into a sweet dissonance.

As I listened to the sound of the cello, I realized that someone in the building near me was playing the violin.  Its music swooped in and out of the cello's embrace, first harmonizing, and then pulling away into its own world again, only to return for a measure or two, before pulling away once more into a separate composition.  But in time, the violin and the cello fell into complete harmony. Each melody, each voice, was distinct.  Neither became the other.  But their every note, and rest, and swell, and breath, fell into place, perfectly.  I couldn't help but wonder how two different instruments, being played by two different people, from within two separate buildings could blend into one beautiful piece.

I became so lost in the music that now I'm not sure when or how, but eventually, the sound of the violin and the cello both came from within one building.  And they were soon joined by more instruments, more voices, more melodies.  Suddenly, I had a saxophone in my hands, and I knew that I was to be a part of it.

Love was her favorite word.

Love was her favorite word, though she wished that it wasn’t. She fancied that it would’ve been much more interesting if she could say that her favorite word was flamboyance, or Reubanesque, or, delicacy. They rolled out so nicely through her teeth and lips. But then, she thought, why not make shabrack her favorite word? It had such a fascinating sound to it! Or how about tripanosome? Or metasequoia? Or, she thought, how impressive she would sound if she could say that she was absolutely in love with the word aschelminth! But, there it was again. That word. Love. That insufferable cliché of a word! A word that she would hear on everyone’s lips, see on almost every book and blog and journal, flashed on every T.V. show, plastered on billboards, etched on study desks and bathroom stalls, preached on the pulpit, and whispered in gossip. LOVE. The word had become commonplace. What was it that drew her to it? A mere syllable comprised of four letters. Love. She said it over and over again, softly, slowly, in an attempt to understand it. Love, love, love… Her mind raced to find an answer. But whenever it felt like an epiphany was nearing, she suddenly found herself back where she began, back to the whispering of the word, in wonder, in utter stillness. Then she realized that perhaps that was where she would like to remain. Still, in waiting, in the anticipation of the revelation of love.

Painting

The paint feels different today.  Gritty, and tired, the smooth blue worn down to pools of resistance.  It is unsettling.  The paintbrush once drank its fill of pthalo blue with ease.  Now it laps it up desperately like an old mop.  And, still, with the grittiness at every stroke.  I wonder if it's my skin that's different?  Am I the one who's been worn down?  No, of course not.  Never.  It is the paint, it is the paintbrush, it is the water, it is the day, it is many things.  I cope with it, I continue to paint, and I relish the taste of exotic chocolate in my breath.