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Knock, knock. Who’s there? Are you there? Are you there for me? Yes. But only so long and only so far. This far. From this far. This far from me. You wake up to a pillow with a fake ID. And that’s good enough. Plenty of things are good enough. More than plenty and more than enough but not more than good. And that’s how we know the whole can only be less than good. I feel a very elegant breakdown coming on. Discreet enough that you might miss it. I’m full of words. And questions. And doubts. And song lyrics. I’m full of waiting. On bad terms with time. In dire need of a cat named Hope or a dog named Faith. In need of a life, of directions, of a direction, of decisions. I’m suddenly and uncharacteristically practical, sitting in front of a chess board I don’t understand wishing I could mount a horse and ride into the sunset.
Photos courtesy of FLICKR:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/1328/2293514361/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bjarkih/3013284985/
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.
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There’s Everest to climb if you sit still and allow enough days to pile up. Everest or something along those lines. Something that may be closer to a hill but assumes the shape and size of Everest before it reaches your eyes. Or something that by virtue of being Everest cuts you down to size, triggers your pessimism, your sense of helplessness and shuts down the machinery in the factory of you. The unannounced quiet that comes to pervade this factory of you, that pushes you against a wall, its massive hand on your throat, keeping you motionless and helpless (but with an inexplicable, loving twist) - that quiet is there to lead you on a voyage first to the center and then the bottom line of you, down to the tiniest bolts that hold the machinery together. ‘There is purpose to this place,’ everything seems to tell you, even your eyes. But there’s also Everest to climb. There are wrong turns, there is getting lost, there is finding hope, false and true. There’s second guessing. There’s sorrow and pride. There’s going back to a place of origin called Scratch. There are bags full of things destined for a dumpster or the air off a coast somewhere or that wind gust that promises to leave no stone unturned. There are things meant to be gone and others meant to replace them. Days come and go like waves washing up the shore, bringing and taking, messing up and cleaning in turns and shifts. And I keep looking for the inexistent certainty that what is unfolding… rolling out before me is that blessed, also inexistent arrow-shaped rug pointing to the right path.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/bossbob50/2070257018/
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.
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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.
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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.
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The Writing Fairy… the one that comes out of nowhere and brings you ease of writing on a tray like a servant and takes it away like God.
It seems to have a list of favorite spots to grace with its presence. Or are those my favorite spots? Picture me using my right index finger to push down (in that order) left pinkie, ring and middle as far as they’ll let me, as I list the following: E.U. … subway platforms… my own desk - very late at night when all means of communication have been turned down and turned down. When firm nos and enoughs to the restlessness of city life have been splurgily distributed. And the collective desertion of the streets is viewed as welcome solitude and invited in even if only through the window - which might be less dignified than coming in through the front door or even a back door, but still.
The Writing Fairy will always get its way. It’ll make its grand entrance… well, not really grand… subtle yet noticeable, and then take its leave collecting everything it brought with it. Everything, that is, but the words you manage to put down.
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.
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I read or heard somewhere recently that it’s easier to make someone cry than it is to make someone laugh. To that I would add, it’s harder still (and profoundly captivating) to make someone laugh past the point of sound, deep into the realm of tears, and leave them smack in the middle of a state of complete, agonizing, doubled-over redness, with no trail of breadcrumbs to show the light at the end of the tunnel to their convulsive body. It’s liberating and cleansing and best of all, laughable. Lovely how laughter begets laughter…
People who can make you laugh till you cry are angels in my book. People who can go from the subject of Click (yes, the Adam Sandler movie - one of the many I haven’t seen, save the couple of un-Sandler ones) and in ten minutes’ time take you through Run Lola Run, Saramago, hepatitis, the unwiseness of lending (despite its occasional ‘medical’ benefit) and India, only to end up recounting the painfully funny episode of tangled up Indians in a subway car at 6pm on a Friday… have got to be human treasures.
Thanks for the Saramago recommendation, CD-Rom! (It’s on my reading list) and THANKS for the agonizing, doubled-over, tearful redness (You’ll never know how much I needed it) :D
Click here to read the ‘Indians-tangled-up-in-a-subway-car’ story in its original Portuguese.
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.
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…that sounds like good advice but that I could never follow…
Note to self:
Hold your horses.
There’s so much to be savored in the slowness of discovery. There are so many promising moments in store – moments you will into existence and others… even better ones that take you completely by surprise. There may be a feast at the end of drawing something out.
Hold your water.
Stick with the present. The present is supposed to be your gravity. It’s supposed to give your legs purpose. Remember the present requires complete devotion. Complete devotion requires fidelity. Fidelity requires turning down the advances of past and future.
Hold your breath.
Go under water. Open your eyes. Look around. Enjoy that watered down view. Wait. Relish waiting. Be patient. Trust that everything that is meant to happen will happen. You will breathe again - as soon as you decide it’s time. Surfacing is easy enough.
And remember:
- The Past can dishearten you. It can fill you with pessimism and overt caution.
- The Future can make you giddy and hyper – it can make you want to jump ahead of yourself.
(They both have it in them to flatten you.)
- And the Present… well, the present is your gravity.
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.
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