REFLECTIONS

BREEZE

A gentle breeze just fluttered by.
I sat and watched as others cry.
They cry to morn a loss so deep.
A love one lies in eternal sleep.
But I could not seem to shed a tear,
No sorrows felt,
No thoughts so dear.
For you see my time is due,
The breeze is me as I pass through you.
So if times feel hard,
Or when the toll man spies,
Just think of me and I’ll be by.
As the stars that etch the sky,
I am always near,
No need to cry.

Deep Thoughts

I once contemplated the beauty of silence by allowing my mind to drift in and out of consciousness on the winds of thought: embracing the wonders of rarified inward luxuries, exploring the poignance of a single rain drop, reflecting upon past success and failures. I felt that I was on the preface of some grand catharsis, as though some ultimate meaning just trembled beyond my grasp. Yet all the while, as I stood in a line up at a bank, a image kept appearing from the depths of my psyche, beaconing me to forgo my reverie and take heed of its glorious presence. "God that bank teller has nice breast!"

AFTER THE RAIN

Strange how a simple shift of the wind, as
it stirs the branches of a nearby tree, could bring to mind something which
occurred to me years before. It was after the rain. The path I walked upon felt
slick beneath my shoes. There was a clean, crisp feel to the air. It was early
morning. The birds were singing, and I for some reason decided to walk down my
backyard and sit on a make-shift wooden bench. My mind was occupied by
something which kept me from sleeping, when this memory came to me of another
summer, another place.
It
was during my last semester at university. Often, I found myself going to a
spot I came upon by accident one day. There is an enclosure in the middle of a
square of buildings, surrounded by trees and bushes completely isolated from
the rest of the university. In the clearing of the enclosure stands a weathered
wooden bench. I spent my lunch hours and study periods there, to escape the
noise and distractions of the world I found myself in. It became my secret
place.
Until
one day, I happened upon someone sitting on the wooden bench. Her face was
smiling while her feet swung playfully beneath her. I recognized her. We took a
class together. She always sat at the back of the lecture hall away from
everyone. I found it strange that she sat alone; she was quite attractive. I
heard her once as she spoke to someone in passing. Her accent was thick and
exotic, like women in those James Bond films. My presence woke her from her
reverie. We looked at each other in dumb silence.
I
remember her methodically picking up her belongings, disappointment written on
her face. I felt ashamed, for I knew that I had disturbed her. Like me, she
found comfort in this place. On impulse, I awkwardly offered her half a
sandwich I had. She looked at me intently and smiled (in a crooked, thoughtful
kinda way). It was a look I would later learn was her way of considering an
unusual or awkward situation without seeming disrespectful. To my surprise, she
accepted.
We sat and
talked, formally at first about school. I could tell she was self-conscious
about her accent. Little did she know, her accent and shyness made her that
much more attractive to me. The conversation soon gave way to more casual
subjects as we began to share parts of our lives. In on time at all, I could
not understand how either of us could ever have felt uncomfortable or uncertain
around each other. The place soon became our place. We often found ourselves
there, even when it was raining. We would huddle up underneath an umbrella
finding warmth and comfort within each other’s arms, as the world past by
around us.
The summer all
too soon came to an end. I had no further reason to go to university. We saw
each other when we could. Then we spoke on the phone. Then we wrote. Until we
lost contact with each other all together, as the days faded into years. I
wonder where she is today. Back home no doubt with a husband and children. The
romantic in me began to speculate whether or not she ever thought of me, as I
was thinking of her now, and if she still smiled that certain way whenever she
considered something off-hand.
The wind stirred
once more. I found myself sitting on a damp wooden bench in my backyard. How
rude reality seems when compared to such a vivid memory. But I know that I will
always be able to look back and relive that moment. It is the gift she gave me,
an escape locked deep within my imaginings. I thank her for that and the summer
we spent together years before. If life is nothing more than a string of
experiences bound tightly together by memorable moments, then I know that in
her small way she has forever enriched my existence, by provided me with an
experience to cherish and treasure all the days of my life…

REFLECTIONS

Pitter-Patter

Pampered steps go pitter-patter.
On-wards in groves
Climbing-falling
Faster, slower
Higher, lower.
The Beginning is its end;
The End its own beginning.
The in-betweeners found wanting-longing.

Malaised by this haze,
The cruel dichotomy of all meaning,
I stand:
A body of indecision.
Yet on and on it goes,
My sultry ways,
My escapades,
My riffs,
Unconsciously skips
To pitter-patter.

REFLECTIONS

ONCE

I held your hand once, “Do you remember?”
Once long ago we touched.
The smoothness of your skin,
The warmth of your being.
An embrace of timeless unity, Could I ever forget?”
But then your grip let loose,
And the space between us became clear.
As if it never happened.

Like a stone I picked up upon a sea.
So smooth it felt of glass.
Time formed this stone with such decision.
So beautiful it felt out of place within my hand.
I dropped the stone into the sea,
Without a splash it disappeared.
As if it never existed.

But the memory of the stone remained as evidence.
Its essence still felt upon my finger tips.
That nothing can take away,
Not time,
Not space,
Not God.

I remember once long ago we touched…

Truth and Dare

You are no doubt wondering why I chose such a tragic and dark-laden title, such as it is, “Within the Hour of the Wolf.” Am I some crazed lunatic who runs rampant into the night howling at the moon, in symphony, nay, in oneness, with the nocturnal beasts? “Well…no.” And at the same time, a resounding, “Yes!” Yes, in that I have…in the past…been observed running, or at least stumbling, in the dark (beer in hand) howling, as it were, at the moon—whether or not there was actually a moon at the time. As they say, “boys will be boys.” Needless to say, that is far removed from my current situation. I mean, really. It has been months, or at the very least weeks, since I have done anything as indecorous as that.

            No more to the point. I am, of course, referring to the myth of the Hour of the Wolf, a time between 2:30 and 3:30 am. They say that within this time frame people are at their most vulnerable. It is the witching hour: A moment when you begin to dwell upon past failures, heart-aches, and indiscretions. This condition inevitably leads you to a state of isolation and loneliness. Hence, you have the whole doleful wolf howling into the empty wildness analogy. Perhaps, this is why thoughts of suicide are at their strongest. This is where the Father character in SCTV ( a Canadian sitcom) would be looking strangely into the camera and utter in a creepy, foreboding voice, “Woo, are you scared, Billy?

            For me, however, the Hour of the Wolf is when I am most alive. I work the night shift, so I usually have just gotten home from work. Unable to sleep right away because I am still wound-up from the day’s labor, I would often read, study, draw, or just day-dream, err, night-waking-dream. In any event, my mind is free to wander and imagine, undisturbed. It is a pursuit I have little chance to do during the grinding rigors of the day. And all at once, I find myself hinged on a delicate balance between creativity and consciousness, something John Keats, a Romantics writer, referred to as “Negative Capability.” What Keats was referring to is a sense of imagination that borders between thought and sensation, which he felt was a way of allowing people to give themselves completely over to the Moment, whatever that moment may be. But that is another story. Essentially, with no worries or responsibilities to anchor me down, my mind is set free, to reflect upon the past, to dream about the future, to ponder the intricacies of the heart (both good and bad), or to just wander aimlessly. It is precisely in this dream-like-wakefulness that I am able to explore the dark corridors of my mind, and rattle the sleeping Beast that lies therein.

So it is that I am writing this blog, of all things. It is the vehicle through which the repressed images of my imaginings—the dormant part of my psyche--can find expressive freedom during the daunting silence of the night. It seems the distant howling Wolf metaphor works well with my sudden out burst of inspiration, for it is during the silence and solitude of the night that I find a well-spring of artist expression. Perhaps, it is the lack of judgment, and subsequent fear of reprisal, that I am able to strip away my many social personas, and reveal who I truly am through my words, my stories, my inward reflections. I liken it to Cyrano de Bergerac’s sudden freedom to express his true feelings to Roxanne (A woman he has known and loved from afar his whole life) while he was hidden by the cover of night. Of course, Edmond Rostand’s 1897 story of Cyrano de Bergerac is a cautionary tale, for Cyrano discovers, in the final moments of his life, that it was his beautiful words that Roxanne fell in love with that night, and not the handsome face of the person he pretended to be. If only he told her how he felt all those years. If only he hadn’t hidden himself from the possibility of her love. “If only” the loneliest words in the English language so befitting the Hour of the Wolf. I, like so many others, have found far too many occasions to experience and survive these dreadful words. But that is not what this is all about, or at least not only what this is all about. It is about the experience, and the foresight to give yourself completely over to the moment, wherever it may lead you, unfettered. Cyrano, though a fictional character, could be seen as a representation of that very real need to be liberated of all restrictions, social, inter-personal, or otherwise. I envy Cyrano for having that moment of utter freedom. It is an experience few have known in this taboo filled world of ours.

The question remains, what good may come from this sense of inward reflection? “Hell if I know. Maybe nothing, maybe everything, maybe something in between, who knows?” What I do know is, like most life-pursuits, it is not the end result that we find meaning, but the journey, the trials and tribulations, the internal struggles we face that show us who we truly are, what we are made of. As for me, my journey begins here, with you (the reader) as my Roxanne, I boldly go where I have only thought of going before, figuratively speaking, of course. I feel that we should look for occasions to write in this manner, for our imagination is what keeps all our hopes and dreams alive. To deny that part of ourselves would be to deny the very fabric that makes us who we are. So why not take an hour out of the night to howl into the wilderness? Explore our creative side, our dark side of the moon. The world with all its heart-aches and responsibilities will still be there in the end. For now, lose yourself in the moment with me. See where it takes us, if you dare…