)
‘Uh-oh… here she comes again…’
)
One day, his mouth dissolved from a rigid line, a stiff lipless line into a blur, a blotted out line behind which words might’ve been shaped and plans traced. But those particular words had made their way to paper instead. Invisibly, soundlessly, mercurially attracted to ruled white sheets.
And from that paper everything emerged and unraveled - the whole gamut of a compressed story, from A to Z and the couple of letters there were in between - the convex/concave form of a smile easily bending to that of a capsized one. Capsized like a boat that was going nowhere. A paper boat like the ones you learn to make as a child by folding paper repeatedly in such a way. Paper boats are part of our collective legacy, I guess. Paper boats and paper hats. Like lullabies and later proverbs. Things we borrow and adopt but never really own.
She’d ask herself in the middle of the most mindless of chores, feeling ambushed by these unannounced thoughts: ‘What does it mean to have someone’s pictures in your possession?’ Pictures sent, not taken. Pictures you’re not in. Pictures of places in the world that are not yours to see. Pictures that don’t belong to you in any sense of the word. Mementos of someone’s youth. Precious… or so they should be. Misplaced and not looked for. Not missed. Glossy rectangles you should feel the impetus to run to during a fire. ‘What does that mean? Does it mean anything at all if they’re misplaced and forgotten? Or is it just paper?’ Tearable… terrible thought…
The most satisfying conclusion she ever managed to reach was: meaning is as relative and personal as a choice of profession, as taste… in clothes, food, color… Not meant to be shared. Merely shown. ‘Here. This is me. Does it ring a bell? Do I?’ And when bells ring… that’s when you know you’ve got something. That’s when you feel hands are meant to be held.
‘Words are not always there to be believed,’ it occurs to her. Not in the context of candid exchanges and not in the context of deception, either. Somewhere in between, somewhere in the realm of grey - which may turn out to be nothing more than decoration. Enhancement of a particular atmosphere, of something promising. A little well-intentioned push towards what you’d like a moment to become. Words don’t always spring from a truthful source. Words sometimes spring from an overly optimistic, naive place.
The blurriness that one day sets in serves a purpose. A parental sort of purpose. It tucks a chapter in. A chapter and the nomadic ever changing characters at the center of it. It half covers an episode. It half hides it, prepares it for nightfall - for the darkness of night to come in and do what it does best. Gently. For time is gentle. The longer the stretch of it you manage to walk along (patiently and acquiescently), the gentler it proves to be.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
)
My first and humble foray into the heretofore uncharted waters of Gimp brushes.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
)
On my way from point A to point B, I got stuck here. In a pool of question marks, like the ball pools I loved to dive in as a child.
Question marks don’t have the same effect, though.
Balls are made to roll. Whatever comes in contact with them tends to roll right along. Roll and slide. Roll or slide. Both of those types of motion, of course, hinting at acceptance… carefreeness…
Question marks are of an entirely different nature. They elicit an entirely different set of consequences. Their hook shape either slides itself snake-like around you, seductively, like an arm around a waist pulling you close, or hangs you impersonally by your clothes on a wall where you remain suspended indefinitely… ridiculously…
Both of those promoting stillness… preventing movement…
One way or the other, question marks take the lead and subject your behavior to the whim of hands on a steering wheel. They quite simply conduct you.
What’s worse: question marks are by nature self-renewing.
Man… probably the most mysterious species on our planet. A mystery of unanswered questions. Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going? How do we know what we think we know? Why do we believe anything at all? Countless questions in search of an answer… an answer that will give rise to a new question… and the next answer will give rise to the next question and so on. But, in the end, isn’t it always fhe same question? And always the same answer?
- The ball is round. The game lasts 90 minutes. That’s a fact. Everything else is pure theory.
(Run Lola Run)
Question marks spring from the ground up like a geyser on slow motion and then, once in the air, become one by one subject to zero gravity - giving you enough time to scrutinize every miniscule drop-like aspect, each zoomed in misty spray of doubt.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
)
Actively searching for a second dose of serendipity a week later.
)
Awwwww…
)
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
)
“What does saudade mean to you?”
She didn’t understand what he was driving at. Couldn’t quite isolate his tone (which had come out uncharacteristically flat this time) much less put a convenient label on it. Maybe just ‘thoughtful’, it occurred to her for a fraction of a second. But conjectures were to be neglected today. Not worth her time. The prospect of certainty… that yes, was attractive. Concrete poured into a fist-shaped mold. The image of holding on fast. The image of solidity.
Still, it was an unfamiliar sound he was leaning on for expression. Yielding uncertainty. So she left the tone of her own reply as open to interpretation as possible. Returning an unexpected serve to the best of her ability and waiting - waiting out those long short seconds. She gave him an ‘I don’t know’ that could have led to three or four different returns. She gave him a choice of tennis court surfaces from which any given ball would bounce at differing angles. His pick would determine everything.
It could’ve led to a joke - the likeliest of possibilities, the kind that raises its hand faster than the rest - had that been his inclination. It could’ve led to his teaching her something as he was so fond of doing, being the bridge that linked her to knowledge. But neither of those was the case here. There was a wall of gravitas behind the question and a veil of it in front. She felt as though she were receiving a suprise visit from a distant relative she didn’t know existed. She experienced a subdued version of the reaction such an encounter would elicit.
A long pause followed her ‘I don’t know.’ A universe of possibilities behind it. Tropical forests with all their exotic fauna, rivers, earthquakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, wind gusts… all devoid of sound. A lifetime of natural phenomena behind those weary blue eyes.
Then, like a wave that arrives at the shore diminished but even and far-reaching…
‘To me, it means separation.’
Saudade (singular) or Saudades (plural) (pronounced [sawˈdade] in Galician, pronounced [sawˈdadɨ] in European Portuguese and [sawˈdadʒi] or [sawˈdadi] in Brazilian Portuguese) is a Galician and Portuguese word for a feeling of nostalgic longing for something or someone that one was fond of and which is lost. It often carries a fatalist tone and a repressed knowledge that the object of longing might really never return.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
)
Illustrations of personal velocity
Pigeons on a lamp post & moving car #1
Pigeons on a lamp post & moving car #2
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
)
Pink & Blue beach sunset.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
Contact the admin
Engine: b2evolution
Hosting: Hostgator.com
Content Copyright ©2007-2008 Iris Watts Hirideyo. All Rights Reserved.
Permanent Link
