The seasons are changing. I keep repeating that to everyone, but foremost myself. It's clear; the air nips at my chin if I don't keep it tucked into my scarf, and full days of rain remind me that my outerwear is not water proof. Clear skies shift and are replaced with a lucid cover of greys. Soft and mellow anticipation of blustering winds comes and goes with the arrival of gust lifting surprisingly long strands of hair into the air, like antennae.
Shifting into a space that is open and inviting, however challenging, maybe inviting because it is challenging, challenging because it is open. Engaging seems just ahead.
___
Sometimes you meet people and they make an impression. Sometimes you meet people and they hardly register as a blip on your radar. Sometimes the briefest of encounters stay with you forever, and occasionally a seemingly meaningless meeting turns into something of longevity.
Out of two potential relations, what then makes one relationship last, and another falter? How can maintaining a relationship with someone on the other side of the world come so much more naturally than staying in touch with someone just up the street?
___
It's all about movement, now. And daring. Moving, and daring.
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stories. Show all posts
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Musings
When things start coming together and it seems the clouds are parting
Why do I fear that the breeze that carries me along gently now
Will turn into a storm, weighing me down, again, so heavily?
___
A drink on a hilltop, and everything's changed in an afternoon. We laughed for hours, before turning serious. Slightly intoxicated by the wine, and even more so by a tickling sensation of someone who understands. Open minds are allowed, and seem to feed on the skyline on the horizon, and a girl on a tightrope laughs as she aims for the tree at the end of the line.
Why do I fear that the breeze that carries me along gently now
Will turn into a storm, weighing me down, again, so heavily?
___
A drink on a hilltop, and everything's changed in an afternoon. We laughed for hours, before turning serious. Slightly intoxicated by the wine, and even more so by a tickling sensation of someone who understands. Open minds are allowed, and seem to feed on the skyline on the horizon, and a girl on a tightrope laughs as she aims for the tree at the end of the line.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Link - family stories
An amusing link that somehow reminds me of when my mom with a laugh says 'let's hav sum kwa-fee!' in a thick new-yorkan accent, reminiscing the time she lived there with her parents. In a modest light blue house, in West Islip on Long Island, with apple and plum trees in the well-kept garden laden with heavy vegetables resulting from the labour of my grandfather, and thick beige carpets and dark wood furniture, lace curtains and a little collection of jewellery and other trinkets my grandmother had found on the way to work in the cafeteria at a local school.
The stairs led up and doubled back on themselves, turning the corner to the children's section; two smallish rooms filled with the wonder of memories of my mother and her sisters' lives as children, in a dusty, heavy air somehow permeating the house even though my grandmother went to great extents to keep the house airy and clean. That was before she fell ill, of course, before her diabetes and other ailings made her bed-ridden, before they sold the house and moved away from her beloved ocean. Before she passed away.
In her childhood space, the story of how my mother as a child collected baseball cards with gold markings emblazoning Joe DiMaggio and all the other heroes of that time spilled from her lips in an impassioned whisper, the story of a treasure collected and expanded over years and years and stored in a shoe box in the depth of her room. Once, when my mother returned as a grown woman, the shoe box was no longer there and it had been given to the son of family friend.
My grandfather would take me shopping, we got into the car and turned down the quiet suburban street and the local mall of shops would appear, one-storey buildings along a way too wide road. Or we would go to the large supermarkets to buy dinner, to buy the few things that my grandmother would eat, after her operation. No cheese, not even on a pizza. And still, she'd pick at what was on her plate, seemingly not interested but knowing that she should, she really should.
White and blacks and primary colours were restricted in the paintings my grandfather produced, an extreme geometric tightness of circles and squares in harmonious compositions. Grandma painted in naturalistic style, soft, warm, intense colours, and often with the seagulls that for her personified freedom and liberty. She painted my mother on several occasions, and on one occasion she let me bring home with me a painting of a woman in a green dress, seated in a warm orange and red tableau with a cup on a table. My mom wasn't sure, but it is a picture of her. Grandma has included some of my mom's facial features, and to me there can be no doubt. Grandpa wrapped it in bubble foam, one, two, three layers, wrapped it in brown paper card and secured it with a coarse string, holding the painting in its wrapping and providing a well-thought handle for the long transportation across the ocean to its new home.
They would sometimes go to the sea promenade, with grandma painting and both selling their paintings, or so my mom has told me. I can just imagine them in the crisp sunshine, carefully crafted paintings in hand, near the sea, seagulls soaring over their heads as they gently speak to people browsing their paintings. Grandpa does the negotiating while grandma, perhaps, simply continues painting.
The stairs led up and doubled back on themselves, turning the corner to the children's section; two smallish rooms filled with the wonder of memories of my mother and her sisters' lives as children, in a dusty, heavy air somehow permeating the house even though my grandmother went to great extents to keep the house airy and clean. That was before she fell ill, of course, before her diabetes and other ailings made her bed-ridden, before they sold the house and moved away from her beloved ocean. Before she passed away.
In her childhood space, the story of how my mother as a child collected baseball cards with gold markings emblazoning Joe DiMaggio and all the other heroes of that time spilled from her lips in an impassioned whisper, the story of a treasure collected and expanded over years and years and stored in a shoe box in the depth of her room. Once, when my mother returned as a grown woman, the shoe box was no longer there and it had been given to the son of family friend.
My grandfather would take me shopping, we got into the car and turned down the quiet suburban street and the local mall of shops would appear, one-storey buildings along a way too wide road. Or we would go to the large supermarkets to buy dinner, to buy the few things that my grandmother would eat, after her operation. No cheese, not even on a pizza. And still, she'd pick at what was on her plate, seemingly not interested but knowing that she should, she really should.
White and blacks and primary colours were restricted in the paintings my grandfather produced, an extreme geometric tightness of circles and squares in harmonious compositions. Grandma painted in naturalistic style, soft, warm, intense colours, and often with the seagulls that for her personified freedom and liberty. She painted my mother on several occasions, and on one occasion she let me bring home with me a painting of a woman in a green dress, seated in a warm orange and red tableau with a cup on a table. My mom wasn't sure, but it is a picture of her. Grandma has included some of my mom's facial features, and to me there can be no doubt. Grandpa wrapped it in bubble foam, one, two, three layers, wrapped it in brown paper card and secured it with a coarse string, holding the painting in its wrapping and providing a well-thought handle for the long transportation across the ocean to its new home.
They would sometimes go to the sea promenade, with grandma painting and both selling their paintings, or so my mom has told me. I can just imagine them in the crisp sunshine, carefully crafted paintings in hand, near the sea, seagulls soaring over their heads as they gently speak to people browsing their paintings. Grandpa does the negotiating while grandma, perhaps, simply continues painting.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Story time
**
A couple of years ago I went to an eerie ghost town, somewhere in the winterland of Death Valley in California. It was incredibly foggy when I was there, and the thick, gray fog obscured visibility more than a couple of meters ahead. Crunchy gravel beneath my feet, ramshackle buildings with deteriorating weatherboard cladding, and a few subtle but distinct indications that people had actually lived there set the mood to pensive, heavy, loaded. The sensation of lingering remnants of activity stopped short was multiplied by the way sound failed to travel through the fog, almost as though water in the air hampered the sounds we made, and rendered us alone, singular individuals, in an eerie space of memories, abandon and erronious directions. There was once life in this place - intense, hard, gritty life - and an awareness of yesteryear hung in the damp air. As I intruded this space of the past, tiny pieces of broken glass were pushed deeper into the ground under my feet. Alone in a solitary space, I heard muffled sounds from others, here too to seek the thrill of long past desertion and deterioration. Now and again the muffled cones of headlights appeared as phantasms, just beyond my capacity to see.
**
She walked down the street, wrapped in a haze of thoughts obscuring her to the surroundings. Or at least so she hoped. In fact her eyes, downcast and fleetingly seeking a way, attracted attention. They had a deep expression, intense, begging for acknowledgment, convoluted in a dark openness that hurt her as much as the next. The pale skin of her face accommodated this sharpness. She pulled the brim of her hat down to provide as much cover as possible to her face and breathed in the cold air piercing her lungs. Her presence was at once a meek shadow seeking to repel glances to achieve anonymity, and a strong expression of hope, challenging with dignity and perhaps even self-importance others on her way.
What had happened to the hopes she held? All her dreams? Around her people hurried from one place to the next, in a never ending series of places to go and things to do, whilst she seemed to have stopped in her tracks.
She felt the movement of all around her and floated in nothingness.
**
A couple of years ago I went to an eerie ghost town, somewhere in the winterland of Death Valley in California. It was incredibly foggy when I was there, and the thick, gray fog obscured visibility more than a couple of meters ahead. Crunchy gravel beneath my feet, ramshackle buildings with deteriorating weatherboard cladding, and a few subtle but distinct indications that people had actually lived there set the mood to pensive, heavy, loaded. The sensation of lingering remnants of activity stopped short was multiplied by the way sound failed to travel through the fog, almost as though water in the air hampered the sounds we made, and rendered us alone, singular individuals, in an eerie space of memories, abandon and erronious directions. There was once life in this place - intense, hard, gritty life - and an awareness of yesteryear hung in the damp air. As I intruded this space of the past, tiny pieces of broken glass were pushed deeper into the ground under my feet. Alone in a solitary space, I heard muffled sounds from others, here too to seek the thrill of long past desertion and deterioration. Now and again the muffled cones of headlights appeared as phantasms, just beyond my capacity to see.
**
She walked down the street, wrapped in a haze of thoughts obscuring her to the surroundings. Or at least so she hoped. In fact her eyes, downcast and fleetingly seeking a way, attracted attention. They had a deep expression, intense, begging for acknowledgment, convoluted in a dark openness that hurt her as much as the next. The pale skin of her face accommodated this sharpness. She pulled the brim of her hat down to provide as much cover as possible to her face and breathed in the cold air piercing her lungs. Her presence was at once a meek shadow seeking to repel glances to achieve anonymity, and a strong expression of hope, challenging with dignity and perhaps even self-importance others on her way.
What had happened to the hopes she held? All her dreams? Around her people hurried from one place to the next, in a never ending series of places to go and things to do, whilst she seemed to have stopped in her tracks.
She felt the movement of all around her and floated in nothingness.
**
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
I ♥ the internet
..where else could I find an amazingly interesting article on the creation of a mega-church, linked to a background story of the exurbs developing around major American cities?
..or the stories of 24 widely different urban areas abandoned for equally varied reasons (including flooding, an eternal subterranean fire, desertion?).
..or pictures that jog my memory?
**
"Monday, Monday, Tuesday, Tuesday, three more days till Friday... that's the way I waste my time, waiting for some time that's mine.."
Imagine if all time could be yours!
Maybe if you could enjoy all your time, you perhaps wouldn't need it to 'be yours'.
..or the stories of 24 widely different urban areas abandoned for equally varied reasons (including flooding, an eternal subterranean fire, desertion?).
..or pictures that jog my memory?
**
"Monday, Monday, Tuesday, Tuesday, three more days till Friday... that's the way I waste my time, waiting for some time that's mine.."
Imagine if all time could be yours!
Maybe if you could enjoy all your time, you perhaps wouldn't need it to 'be yours'.
Friday, December 12, 2008
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