I'm getting older. But still, many firsts in my life yet to go. Bring it on, fear is only exciting.
Monday, September 26, 2016
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
wrote this on the last flight back home
We are each a lil speck. Sometimes down below, when seen from a skyscraper window, or from a new York city fire-escape. but not just then; even in a window seat looking down on the world. A lil thinking speck, looking down on the seemingly unthinking expanse of curves, scratches, abrasions, in an ocean of blue-green-ness that we know better as earth when we are down there ourselves.
We become a body when in close proximity with others like us. When we are hugging, when our hand brushes onto our lover’s, when our lips touch, when we meet, and say goodbyes – and walk on, to become specks again. Or all that in between, when we ‘socialize’ consciously and unconsciously, living our daily lives, when we are in the same room, at the same crossing on the street waiting for that white man to appear, in the same line, across a table, each of us with our own thoughts – private, yet affected, with lil screens and filters, with sieves and walls – both transparent and opaque.
Who are we? Who am I? where do I end and you begin? In our conversations, on our shared bed. In our arguments. Tomorrow I’ll repeat with conviction, what today I’m vehemently disagreeing hearing from you. We merge, we separate; we are gas, in liquid containers.
Like that blue water below, mirroring the sky, appearing isolated from the green pock-marked grey-blue-ness around it, but secretly seeping into its boundaries for god knows how far, and sheltering it in turn, under itself, owning it up as its bedrock. Threatening haughtiness at the same time as a sense of rooted humility.
It’s all inter-personal angst, once the stomach is fed and there’s no perception of immediate danger or threat.
But till then, fear and bad luck lead to mistrust and violence. And yes of course, history, the center where everything leads to and returns from. The stories of scores of specks. Fighting for and with and against each other. Loves and wars; of bodies and specks. Points and lines, and circles, and undecipherable shapes. Bloodied and saved. Pictures and cries and songs.
We become a body when in close proximity with others like us. When we are hugging, when our hand brushes onto our lover’s, when our lips touch, when we meet, and say goodbyes – and walk on, to become specks again. Or all that in between, when we ‘socialize’ consciously and unconsciously, living our daily lives, when we are in the same room, at the same crossing on the street waiting for that white man to appear, in the same line, across a table, each of us with our own thoughts – private, yet affected, with lil screens and filters, with sieves and walls – both transparent and opaque.
Who are we? Who am I? where do I end and you begin? In our conversations, on our shared bed. In our arguments. Tomorrow I’ll repeat with conviction, what today I’m vehemently disagreeing hearing from you. We merge, we separate; we are gas, in liquid containers.
Like that blue water below, mirroring the sky, appearing isolated from the green pock-marked grey-blue-ness around it, but secretly seeping into its boundaries for god knows how far, and sheltering it in turn, under itself, owning it up as its bedrock. Threatening haughtiness at the same time as a sense of rooted humility.
It’s all inter-personal angst, once the stomach is fed and there’s no perception of immediate danger or threat.
But till then, fear and bad luck lead to mistrust and violence. And yes of course, history, the center where everything leads to and returns from. The stories of scores of specks. Fighting for and with and against each other. Loves and wars; of bodies and specks. Points and lines, and circles, and undecipherable shapes. Bloodied and saved. Pictures and cries and songs.
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