clearcandy daily

some pages from the book of Brussels

2011-05-04T17:28:00.000+02:00

some pages from the book of Brussels
by CECILIA BORROMEO-AUSTIN

p. 13

Suppose the night tasted like sugar and the streetlamps chimed the hour, would Flemish and French slang still matter? I was a little in love with you. The man scouring the Sunday market for vintage postcards. The child wailing after a drifting balloon. You made me forget how to count. But we danced flawlessly, our shadows spreading on the Belgian cobbles where tiny grasses grow in between.

p. 85

Do I mention the countless cheap umbrellas I'd lost? You'll find them as collapsed skeletons on various café grounds. Never mind the pouring rain: they only caused ideas to shift askew, redirected towards the billowing smoke from a lady's Gauloises Blue.

p. 92

How lovely, my darling, that you had marveled at my turned cheek. Crimson roses bloomed like bruises beneath my skin. Seven years ago I was simply too young. Moments were held in white lab coats, holiday breaks, crêperies and friteries. Someday, perhaps today, all of this will stretch into a life to converse with you.

p. 101

Yesterday, the sound of my name made you sad. Did it evoke an image of a girl looking out of an airplane window? More likely, you will find me back in morning motions parading through the Parc Royale. Or you can try to make connections. You and I were together. You and your surreal architectures. Bonne Maman and I were together. My mice followed their biorhythms.

p. 102

There is a tendency to identify and to identify with. For seven years I've put my roots into your molds until slabs of my name stood erect across your land. My presence in a place where I no longer exist. We'll dance again underneath the countless stars, in the hours between dusk and dawn. And yes, I'll tell you that they still write poetry in San Francisco.

published at 42opus, 13 June 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 2

2008-09-28T08:12:00.000+02:00

2008-09-18T07:24:00.002+02:00

When September light touches the sky, it also warms her heart to a tranquil gratitude. Here in the hands that hold her heart, she has found her semblance of heaven.

2008-05-11T23:55:00.003+02:00

all those times of sitting still, they were not for nothing. roots have started to grow even in gaping spaces that needed to be filled. and, as suspected, the world truly has more to offer. more than those rainclouds that follow some of you around, i would say. i am about to huddle in one corner to start reading research papers. but I think of cozying up to something else beyond figures and texts like maybe slinking away into the black and white box of jules et jim.

i love you.

hello, 2008.

2008-02-16T02:08:00.002+01:00

This long silence, I assure you dear reader, is not the offspring of banality. There are many stories to share, ones with plots like “a cat trampling over piles of soiled shirts and keeping guard as I clean toilet bowls” or “obnoxious street rockers yodeling or something to that effect in alleyways along my daily walking path” or "the sound of a page turning in interview rooms decorated with banana-shaped lamps and San Francisco's skyline" or “customers who get fidgety over skincare and makeup screening questions, and then ask about Kimora Lee's new perfume”. How odd.

I have been collecting experiences. Someday, I hope they will be beautiful things on our walls.

her ailment

2007-12-02T20:23:00.000+01:00

published at Literary Tonic

days apologize for asphyxiating silences
borne from pain, bore data
plots like constellations
or vultures circling above, waiting
for those roots to grow
into that fine network of fibers and vessels
as intricate as bodies of research one reads
for love of the other, skimmed
if not.

and evenings fold her lungs
revealing seams of a quiet ache
like loneliness
no one understands, no one wants

to understand.

2007-11-30T22:24:00.000+01:00

I have been asking myself lately what might be the best career for a woman like me. Apart from having a way with pigeons, I do have a talent for sitting still.

I turn thirtyone in one day.

Felix

2007-11-14T06:15:00.000+01:00

always, there is something to see
and someone to stare back at my glare
what now is what she says
and if I can learn her tongue
I would manage a bad joke
somewhere between the spilled milk
and bowl of tuna fish to make her guffaw
with her sides jiggling as though she was watching
one of her favorite films

always, there is something to remember
her lard-filled refrigerator and lines upon lines
of medication that crowd her kitchen counter
or how the milkman rings thrice every week
and maybe once or twice when her brother visits
and she cries on her thighs, but this is not something
I want to remember

always, there is something to hear
when she reads to me from across the room
and her words bounce through the windows
where her neighbors hear from the other side
all these intimate details known to one and the other
but never their names

always, there is something to smell
spool of yarn unrolling, burning
wood in her father’s house by the sea
filled with coffeepots and tin cans
like her knick knacks that echo out
to subtly guide me of this
this smell all too human

the house

2007-10-08T22:57:00.001+02:00

published at BluePrintReview

six p.m. and the light snakes its way to open spaces. rust. sediment in grasses that do not grow. moths humming on loose window panes where the night creeps in. in here, they say, in here. darkness is chewed beneath the hardwood floors, splinters. like the a e i o u are slightly off on furniture marks. discontent is worn like pendants by porcelain dolls with black holes for eyes. six and i am counting three cracked plates in the pantry and three syllables unfurling from my mouth. all the commotion gathered along the bones of bruised bedspreads. it is there. every sink is rinsed clean with immaculate black oil.

outside, the streetlamps are flickering. silence among the soundless petrified blooms.

2007-10-08T06:57:00.000+02:00

Black Angel, Iowa City

happy october!

Audium

2007-07-15T05:36:00.000+02:00

for Stan Shaff, Composer (thank you)
www.audium.org

from here, patterned movement rushes forward towards
the end of a wire,
mutilate itself before the cymbals of a passing parade.

holding a breath gives in to night’s collapse, stars emptied of murmurs distant and static, deeper than any fall so we might know how the heart contracts. and soon, a blazing red hot odor that amplifies with time watched on resonating grandfather clocks.

beside myself is my childhood’s land, roads bent by fingers
sticky with honeylemon drops.

old bones, exposed,
allow deep bruises to color and aches to take true form.

the moment is a staccato of train engines forcing tall grasses
to bend and sway, a time-lapse video of a blooming rose, uttered words dissipating
in the sphere of the unknown to the hollowness of the earth’s quietest parts.

214

2007-02-14T21:12:00.000+01:00

maybe it starts with a miniscule memory
collectively, in your blood, rushing along your bones.
when the body remembers the taste of vermillion, untamed
wildly beating inside like drums.
to recall clots of bruises, the tumble and fall;
scrapes carefully rinsed, bandaged
in the dark;
and how it can forget
how others were kind, apparently, in their own ways
or the number of times you knocked
and were turned away.
after all, what woman’s body
doesn’t mingle with the moon’s hymns
soon after the night has leaned closer
to whisper your name.

The Embrace

2007-01-27T10:23:00.001+01:00

with my 8 yr. old nephew, diagnosed with autism at age 2; Leica DLux 2

giggling
we looked at kissy lips
as soon as our eyes touched;
you tilted your head towards these arms
sinking into this life
cluttered and vibrant
whispering your question marks
and I sighed my exclamation points.

and He said, "Everything is Love."

2006-12-13T06:52:00.000+01:00

*for Jortje
San Francisco home; Leica DLux 2
This year, Christmas is coming towards me with the gentleness of a halo.
It's good to be Home.
*Thanking the heavens for friends and family who bring you that much closertothesky.

The Big 3-0

2006-12-06T06:34:00.000+01:00

Bring.It.On.

Fever

2006-09-12T00:12:00.000+02:00

There was a demon in the body
Burning up
The throat, to be exact.
This wish to spread flames,
A penchant for jabbing the flesh
With a smoldering pitchfork.

I heard red. I remembered how
Your voice
rattled my body,
Even in dreams
when I walked barefoot
on thorny grounds.

You rage-throated man, anger
Crumpled into my damp sheets
All night, my spirit shivered
In my body; a blood-stained soul.
What drove you to
Keep singing your spells?

coming to terms

2006-08-28T10:40:00.000+02:00

slumped on my table,
i pressed the palms of my hands
firmly against my eyes;
too tired to read our dog-eared book,
languidly pared down
only
to listen to you speak
silently
in dialects of stillness.

what really matters

2006-08-16T11:38:00.000+02:00

under the summer rain
i stood transfixed,
gazing at the sky falling
into my cup
and everywhere around me,
aware of all the spaces
that continuously frayed
like the hem of my jeans
lined with dreams.
i sense the collision of verb tenses
in the dampness of the ground,
sense a pregnant universe
in the buoyancy of the grass.
and then i wonder
if my coffee tastes like rain.

our chimes

2006-08-04T17:37:00.000+02:00

i.
in the deep dark cool green
      of the forest
where the trees played woodwinds
        i, in search of my giraffe man
        you, in search of your mouse lady
                                                  ~peekaboo~
        we, frozen as a myth
in sepia.

ii.
saints sang their righteous tunes
as we knelt, side by side,
                  on the pew
          reciting the lyrics of our encounters
from unfolded papers bound
            for a book we have yet to write.

iii.
on my ~straat~ and on your ~rue~
we tiptoe, ~unmasked~,
      with coins and chestnuts in our pockets,
to the rhythm of rain puddles
as we reach out to the unknown,
            (shaky hands with prickly pins)
                trusting our lips
        curling against the gravity towards
the soft maracas beats in the air.
                                (kiss me quick)

try me

2006-07-28T16:19:00.000+02:00

on some nights,
your gargoyled chants emerge from the grounds,
riding the breeze that enters my room
        where horned fairies hover over my sleeping body;
little mouths inhaling this loaded air
          to hurl your buried stale wishes
              against the manifesting rise
        and the miraculous fall of my chest --
        -- where my resting hands are
                                  clasped.

our clandestine meeting

2006-07-26T10:24:00.000+02:00

it wasn’t enough to wrap our eyes
around these potent words,

sculpted around milky desire to
penetrate through yielding pores

of an accepting audience and
to remain only as that;

we let inked pages lead us
towards the backs of our minds,

to watch the conversation
of singular skin

pioneer unknown passages
through surrendered slots,

waiting in silence
for the piercing cries

of strangers unfurling
into us.

Ringing of the Bards V

2006-07-22T22:54:00.000+02:00

Welcome to this week’s Ringing with a stage play theme. Each “act” is a collection of “scenes” where parts of our featured poets’ poems are highlighted (italicized), and incorporated into a poem relevant to the stage play.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a gust of silence swept the room
as the curtains were drawn
in a theatrical flourish.

introduction:
I, your host, welcome you to
The Ringing of the Bards part 5;
Join the featured poets as
they whisper
loud declarations
of the human spirit, the universe
to each other, together
in the dark, with you….

act 1 – Manifestos

scene 1: Part I

Ashraf, swimming in potent residues
Oh! Lebanon
falling deeper into awakeness
sounds of cries ripple
into every corner
etching into Bloodstones
when Mother says
“I don't have another war in me;
I didn't think I needed one."

scene 2: Anfal

Scheherazade yearned to protect
the girl’s innocence,
her encounters to remain
non-fiction;
but her tomorrows
reduced to
“…drop white leaves covering your light foot prints.”

scene 3: The man who wasn’t there

Glenn wanted to name the man
he thought he’d seen;
he wanted to name the sudden chill
he thought he’d felt;
in the end,
currents of peculiarity found
what was there before:
“What can be named that doesn't exist?”

scene 4: To the World Leaders

Erin cries out
to those who hide out
in the safety of their lamps,
in the comfort of their own skin;
when souls disappear like mist on a window:
“It was easier then to look away from featureless faces
    to pretend that God is Love
        but how, now, do you not recognize the faceless skulls
            that are the face of self-righteous hatred?”

act 2 – Filling in the Blanks

scene 1: Cezanne’s blankspots

Russell glides in
silently like an origami paper
unfolding itself,
pressing in
with hopeful patches of colors
awash in his puzzled eyes
“what is the substance
in between things?”

scene 2: Blink

Rohn makes a full
circle with the circuits,
departing from another life
“the game i play is called dying
and i pretend i'm dying it's my
last moment on earth and the process
i'm going thru is the same process my
computer is going thru…”
arriving in a snap,
in a blink.

scene 3: Hey, um, thanks

Yvaine wonders if
drifters cover their distances
to see if
they can draw
contours that
can be measured =
“…There was talk (it came in extra-small),
There were awkward silences (fill it up quickly).
There was hanging out (but not for too long).”

act 3 – Nevertheless

scene 1: An Hour in the Garden

Scott nestled somewhere
away from the crowded city
populated by highflyers
whose views stop from the top;
he is not a stranger
barefeet in the wet grass;
he reminds me of him
(un-glueing his wings)
“I flicker into focus
and this is how I live
outside of here,
pardoned from the state
it finds me in.”

scene 2: Toxicum

Marco brews
a potent concoction
of reality ~~
“My beautiful poison
Has made your eyes green
Your torso is desperate
For decadent means.”
~~ on his fingertips
are strings that move
her delirious, willing body.

act 4 – Coloring Book

scene 1: Memoir of Mosquito Net

Danny shares a simple
growing complexity
of co-existing lives
“Within the space of white rectangular threads,
we sleep and weave our dreams together
lying our backs on buli mat outspread on bamboo floor.”
every entrance, every exit
a pattern of adventure on its own
every time, on its side
well-worn slippers.

scene 2: The Blues

Hardyf pays tribute
to senses regulator;
does it get any better than this?
“…face alone in a blues bar drinking a rusty nail
is th blues.
a red shoe dancing in the east upon returning home
is th blues...”
Everyday the sun’s rays
carefully crawl in
to disperse your shadows.

act 5 – Ingrained

scene 1: Desire

Steven charges us
with a mysterious
“…all but a third of the surface
of sound is an ocean of silence…”
all of nature’s grip that
does not seize
any possibility of
life and love
up
on anyone’s sleeve.

scene 2: Another spin

Bob steps up
with eyes closed like mouths
“Ten twirls around the crowded floor
and still the tune inspires”
freedom to speak
of nothing that fades
around the edges;
looking back, looking up
even the stars give a nod.

act 6 – The Blindfold

scene 1: The fold

Katy’s nostalgia
expands slowly
into a dream
“…your kindergarten sweetheart
in a daisy-white dress…”
rolling into the deep
drawers of memory
stashed with all the rest
of what still might be.

scene 2: Starlit Ardor

Ozymandiaz sweeps us
through arched doorways,
the possibilities of elsewhere:
“…Hands and hearts have other ideas
Redressing and undressing the day…”
fingertips on brailles
encoding:::\::|::
need more than love.

scene 3: Shadow Dancing

Shirley merges with the silhouettes
moving across the wall
“As dancers, led by light and circumstance
To unknown destinations we have pranced.”
steady beams brightened by
silvered knives;
toasting to the moment
not with crystal glass
but with enduring faith.

act 7 – Songs of Midnight

scene 1: Consummation

Feminine Expressions sought
for the different meanings beneath
changing manners of
breathing underwater and
“i discovered sustenance
in artesian wells deep within”
seeping
spilling over
the edges.

scene 2: Early Morning

Mike plots with
the moon
“Silvered lake
At windless twilight
Reflects the Goddess
Waxing gibbous.”
concentric milky
clouds twirling around trees
bent over
in mid-bow.

scene 3: A Casserole of Dreams

Blueorchid points to
the sky as it yawned
“Sinking into a soft sea of sleep”
and the stars spoke
of what the moon reflected.

act 8 – Pearl Earring

scene 1: A woman’s shine

Travis shifted,
sweat ran down his spine
“I watched her move,
and how her feminine features conversed with the lights
and shadows dancing through the etchings in the windows.”
his body wailed for heat relief,
his heart cried out for her
                                              amplified face.

scene 2: Homecoming

.:A:.’s anticipation
unfurled fragrant powders
into the air
“…The black was darker and more inviting.
The white was brighter and more calming….”
Arms outstretched
to read her maps
outlined with memories,
embellished with time.

The end

Credits I heartfully thank all the featured poets for submitting their glorious poems. As Russell said: “We all must take care of each other as poetry is a lonely discipline as you know so well”, and in this spirit of unity let us all keep this Poetry Carnival going. Next week’s Ringing will be hosted by Bob of AveragePoet so please direct your next submissions to him.

This Ringing is dedicated to our dear friend Ashraf and to all those affected by the current events.
Please help!

Ringing of the Bards V: Submissions

2006-07-17T08:57:00.000+02:00

Hi everyone! As you all know, the Ringing is currently hosted by Glenn who has done a wonderful job in laying out the featured poet's feasts for this week's Ringing celebration.
Next week I will have the honor of hosting the party. Therefore, I invite all of you to submit a link of your latest poem (not older than the past couple of weeks) by Friday evening, July 21st, to cmborromeo AT yahoo DOT com.
Let the finest voices on the web be heard!
Please refer to the Ringing website for further details. The FAQ portion will answer some of your burning questions.
***July 29th slot for hosting is still wide open!

2006-07-15T13:25:00.000+02:00

Ringing of the Bards

2006-07-04T18:09:00.000+02:00

Delight yourselves and join the weavers of words in the Carnival that is ~~~

Brought to you by hosts:
Billy The Blogging Poet
Katy Acheson of Something Katy
Ashraf of Archmemory
Glenn of Crunchy Weta
yours truly of Clearcandy Daily
Bob of Average Poet
Coming soon:
Erin Monahan of Poetic Acceptance

See you all there!

Joys

2006-06-28T10:03:00.000+02:00

for Scott Glassman

Thrilled with travelling the distance,
they rode the summer arrowhead
that left strips from the New Jersey sky
and cloudward to the landscape of Brussels.
A heartfelt thanks to you
for these alphabetic supernovas.

something that you should know

2006-06-26T18:49:00.000+02:00

my secrets
appear on your window
when you fog the division
with your own warm breath;
            you lost yourself in their presence,
in your search for
cheekbones on sunflowers
and night blades
by the moon's chin.
impatience hummed your fears,
            and the absence you cherished
quickly dissolved.
the only way to know is
      to
          ask
                nothing.

7:00 a.m.

2006-06-12T19:57:00.000+02:00

sprawled arms across
dreams and confusion
      crumpled within my sheets,
eager ears tuning in
to the steady hum
      of the waiting world.
for a few hushed seconds
        my foggy eyes
reach out for my puppy’s leash
but it was wedged in
this image-laden thin air ~
           where it dissolved liquid with
        bouquets of roses marching down
            the streets ~
        dissipating
to this bedroom space
where mornings speak of new songs
their melodies folded in this
weathered heart of twenty nine years
electric, flames charging to these hands
with rhythm, remembering
          pawing at the front door
with the nth movement
    yawning and rising to
straighten sheets with hope and faith;
                      a stride towards the door.

On how it is to be bored

2006-06-09T15:56:00.000+02:00

I used to carry myself in
a plastic bag
      unaware of my youthful errors,
        or the way my corners tucked in~
  braced from the emptying heavens.
Longing
to be gathered in your colossal arms
    so you can smooth out the
  wrinkles of my skin,
    and pull echoes from my hair.
I remember the stillness,
    I was blank~
      with a dull-eyed gaze.
At least
      days marvelled
when jolly carrots
soared in me.

Wet With Words

2006-06-07T15:02:00.000+02:00

      Three restless, electric la~di~es
setting off fireworks at the otherworldly.......

                    Are you ready
                         to get
                            drenched ?

In Frames

2006-05-30T10:47:00.000+02:00

Some things spoken – like the curl of their upper lips
Some things hidden – wary eyes, pleas stilled by a click
                  An internal dialogue between
                  2 figures mounted on a wall

Darling, I want to be lost to you. Only you.
Go on, my sweet.

More rivers and oceans were added to our collection
            Fragments
                      of
                life
We laughingly called those waters Trouble,
  and we named the swimming fish Love.

         This was our story
Once, my heart tumbled
  and rolled down the ground;
You picked it up and ate it.
You sponged up my blood
  and poured it gently into the sea.

You smiled your teeth white, a tooth glimmered with a !ping!

Some things you cannot grasp at all,
                             You can only stand there
                      with that 1 spotlight
                that illuminates
          an illusion
  of understanding.

and what of now?

2006-05-28T13:53:00.000+02:00

I remember when I played teacher
to an audience of dolls
and how chalk would cling lovingly to my fingers;
Or that time when I thought
I saw an angel crying at the foot of my bed
enveloped by the smooth sides of
                                                            moonlight;

But rain always comes and melts
what letters and symbols lie chalked
                                                        onto those walls,
and muffles what the night air would sink into my skin.

I remember things I said,
and the display case that held
neatly lined-up achievements that
                    slowly
        leaked
                  of

          things I didn’t say.

Today my mind is soft
            and sky blue --
Even the clouds
                                stopped still.

between what we do

2006-05-16T11:30:00.000+02:00

In the nook behind the elbow, where a touch is prehistoric sign
                                                            as any inaudible murmur,
            is the analysis of skin our forefathers directed
                  their passionate research on nature’s call,
hovered over by sparkly tinkerbell fairies.

                  Close to it are the lightest, softest hairs piqued
upon a kiss, is dampened by tangled words
   spoken through a look, marrying desire in a white dress
      with strands touching your body’s lines
spreading, never hesitating, never knowing
         ~~when, where, why or how,~~
like threads of love.

unheard conversation

2006-05-15T17:22:00.000+02:00

Towards the dark,
the back of my mind,
      is where I digest
your loose words that fumble with mine.
            freedom intertwining with need
                                weaving with love
                                                 attaching with greed
strands of this and that forming ribbons
streaming out of my head;
my hands tuck them neatly
one behind my ear
        another beneath my tongue.

why, I’d be happier eating canned dandelions
they are known to disperse exponentially,
        and grow they shall underneath my ribcage
forming ribbons
that will shoot out of my head
contentedly,
happily
          untucked.

dance with me

2006-05-09T10:26:00.000+02:00

this is how it feels
     to be
  in a lonely white circular dance~~
                                                arms stretched out
                  fingers tracing
               unknown outlines
       of motions in empty fields.

i become a blur of vibrations
             filling air with voices
         of incomprehensible hope;
                                         tales of Herodotus,
         backlogged whispers of past notions
        when miracles are made of
                       a e i o u
                                compositions;
                 tongues rolling over, clicking on syllables
        to the extraordinary beats
                    tap
                          tap
                                  tap
                                                          like rain.

i give the soft sounds
                                 my feet follow
     the hesitant phrasing
                                                   of swaying consonants
          shifting with the
                      a e i o u
                                      the union
         of the flesh and of the unknown,
         and all that labored breathing
       to the exceptional rhythm
                  clap
                         clap
                                  clap
                                                        from hands
          that move over the length
                                of your creations.

base

2006-05-08T18:29:00.000+02:00

When the sun is hot and the air is full of idleness, people in the village retreat into their shady corners. There are men reading, women sorting grains of rice, an old man smoking a tobacco. The children’s noises are absorbed by the trees they climb. Dissipating, quiet murmurs of raw conversations. We talk about our ambitions and things we want for ourselves.

"I want to have my own farm one day, get married and have children who will enjoy the fruits of my labor."

"That sounds so simple."

"Simplicity hums quietly in the heart of all possibilities."

The faint aroma of coconut oil weaves a spiral of cloud as light as a thought.

passage

2006-04-28T10:39:00.000+02:00

as the curtains are drawn
        with a cinematic flourish
I present to you my stage, my
        Life

A backwards glance

I am thrown into a
       swirling miasma of recollections
where bridges and doorways
       keep me
running and bumping into
       my self

Bridges that lead me to my self
       ropes I impatiently tied with words
         of hopes, of dreams, of apologies
I flung across to my self

There, too, were

Doorways I clawed a gazillion times at
         so my self could hear
  this stranger, a wannabe
        guest to this house that is this stage

And then, I realized

Bridges equate to distance
         and I wonder if I should
    have weaved the rope in another way
         interlaced it with other words
    or tried a material of a different color

And that

Doorways are dots
        and I am the line
    my self drawn in a marker
    to connect, to make sense
     of a lost time

Now

I discover this one portal
of neverending bridges and doors wide open
I wail in pain, in tiredness
As I mouth my wordless thoughts

I bow my head and lay to sleep
beneath a white blanket
             with cow shit crowning my head
      and riots of flowers around my feet

The One who's not

2006-04-21T23:41:00.000+02:00

How is it that
I am in your hands
close enough to feel your pulse,
And how is that
I am in your grasp
close enough to smell your breath
pregnant with unknown intentions...
How is it that
I am in your embrace, in your presence,
but never in your smiles?

Believe

2006-04-14T09:21:00.000+02:00

It seems to me that
life can be so deliberate;
My violin without strings
               hanging on a wall.
My mice that yawned to sleep.
My papers that read of illnesses.
And I
Am tucked into
the birthing place of words

       Agony~~ desire~~ paradise

Beyond reach
from all possibilities of anything
             And elsewhere.
I smiled
At this Hand
               that Touched:
this Hand
that conducts the moon to sing,
that shatters the sun
             into a kaleidoscope of colors
                        purer than light.

chase

2006-04-05T16:27:00.000+02:00

No sooner than change heaves its sigh
that new never remains.
     I sat in a moving car and stared outside,
       watched the lights pulse and fade away.

Let me clasp your hand with my quiet fingers
nerves in you that they touch;
tingling in your presence:

like a hunger for food, for my childhood Sundays
with my Mother’s pancakes, my headless Barbie
and my sister’s silly toilet paper stunts;

      Take me someplace else, please,
     far from these that surround me
  of heartbeats from those I do not know.

like a thirst for water, for the distant river
with its golden-glowed fish we will catch, and
with its infant trickle into the promised land.

      Sometimes I feel lost, I panic,
           If only I can pause
   the rush of water into this room.

   I sat in a moving car, my face
    a thumbnail snapshot in your staring eyes;
     so I looked out and
        watched the lights pulse and fade away.

As you do

2006-03-27T13:47:00.001+02:00

How do you
look at time
when
it has no face,
or let it lead you
when
it has no free hands?

Who’s to say
that light and day,
that dark and night
are synchronized?

What is a dial
but an eternity
of notches
that programmed hands
continuously touch upon?

Why must you insist
and hold on to
the cold to munch on your bones, or
the heat to wreak havoc on your skin, or
to love only in summer flames, or
to live only in spring flings?

When will you learn
that only change
will understand the language
that time speaks?

Hanifa

2006-03-22T22:06:00.000+01:00

he is the cloaked stranger, he walks around
with a Big Gulp cup full of souls.
wind picks up, and is chilly.

a long time ago, we toasted
clear glasses of stained words. my Love,
Belief curled
a sprawled banana peel
on the ground.

it was not until I
took a bite out of the bread
it crumbled, cleaned the earth,
exhaled dust from
ribs wide as a cathedral.

light through mosaic windows,
crayon lines drawn
by a child. then why couldn’t I see
wasn’t I Mary Magdalene?
but when I saw, it was
I looked
through foggy eyes.

take and receive, purgatory groans
hungry for your body.
what is that blood?
it really is vintage, quenching thirst.
raise your chalice!
offer silent sips…
gargoyles and jackals,
she refused to believe.

that Faith, it bent into shape
skinned to the flesh by someone’s hands;
Faith curled
a sprawled banana peel
on the ground.
but i knelt and picked up
what i found.

Silent Mark

2006-03-15T12:02:00.000+01:00

another day is here and my hands are still covered
with a mantle of stoic ink
words scribbled on a hesitant paper
wishing to be read now not later.

i want you to see this point-like light from an abyss
growing tongues tasting the wind
feel like the knife scraping soft butter
and see that small things matter.

but i still have no sense of complete abandon
to let the ink burn, to let it leak
until it forms a crystallized dew
becoming, at last, your scar tissue.

Remote control for March

2006-02-24T11:01:00.000+01:00

February is that little giant of a month that is supposed to be short yet feels incredibly long. Drab, overcast, biting cold days that test human permeability. But today, 4 days before the little giant’s big leap into March, it presented an aesthetic promise.

Arriving at work, I parked my car near the forest. I took a moment to stand there, my itchy throat wrapped in a red scarf, my winter fat hidden in layers of shirts. The air hummed with golden colors of sunshine soaking the greens, forcing my eyes into squints as I looked skyward.

And there was a feeling of acceleration. This skin of quiet desperation and exhaustion will peel away into strips; residues of the person that once was. And to smile more in a purely reflexive manner, to see skin whiter than clouds toasting on fields, to stain my teeth with cherry juice, and to sit on park benches challenging rocks to staring contests.

Fast forward to March, please.

More than a Dichotomy

2006-02-08T14:16:00.000+01:00

Events organization,
reporting, meetings, notes, minutes,
protocols, schedules, computations, mice, pancreas,
EU papers, thymus, scientific papers,
parties, friends, dinner
and a language course soon,

and I feel like I am a light bulb about to burn out. Life has been reduced to a space more cramped than a WC-cum-storage area. I grapple to find back the light switch wedged in a corner somewhere.

Restless

2006-02-02T11:42:00.000+01:00

It is that perennial immateriality dwelling between living and dying
crouched in the corners and grappling by the hinges
only to remain unseen;
We weave our web of what we believe we understand
of the relationship of our acts and events
only to remain misunderstood;
From that odd wisp of steam of heated discussions
to the urgent hiss of a new page calling;
I teeter on that thin ice --
That single space of uncertainty --
And I ask
“What am I doing here?”.

His quiet visit

2006-01-17T18:14:00.000+01:00

The past couple of nights seemed to have wrapped themselves around a speeding bullet, shooting through that hole where hours, minutes and seconds collapse into. And I think about those past two years that dragged on, leaving skid marks of impatience and a dusty trail of anticipation. We had the Grand Place, warm waffles, the Fish market, “fortuitous” meeting, dame blanche, Neuhaus chocolates, Galerie de la Reine and delightful conversations.

There was a bear hug and his familiar scent twirled to well up an absolute sense of serenity. Suddenly, I was 7 years old again.

Piggybanks of calm and serenity

2006-01-13T12:17:00.000+01:00

On some days I like keeping coins and, sometimes, a matchbox in my jacket or trousers pocket so that when I walk I am followed by soft clinks that make me feel like a creator of maracas music in the air.

I like feeling the contents in my pockets much as I love to reach out for a random little item in my bag: bookshop receipts, movie tickets, mealcards, lip gloss, and hairclips used in the gym. I can almost hear contented sighs as soon as I hold them in the palm of my hand.

Contentment always lies within one’s reach.

Mona Lisa Smile

2006-01-09T00:46:00.000+01:00

World-crawling chatter curled excitedly around her. It bored her but kept her strangely amused. Conversations and debates so fluid she wished the world could drink it, this transparent flow that may just turn into something more…dimensional.

She was too shy to ask: “do these really matter?”, “are these elemental noises created to quieten the stern silence of our selves?”.

What she really wanted to know was whether they have ever explored another world through the unconditional beats of their hearts, forgetting the grounds on which they stood on.

New Midnight

2006-01-01T19:42:00.000+01:00

Collective breaths were drawn in anticipation
as the second hand of the clock moved to level with the other.
And then
above, the sky blazed
with a kaleidoscope of colors.
Fireworks mingled with fog
waving in the New Year.
Faceless cheerers; the air roared
celestially garbed with excuses to greet strangers.

Pure intoxication;
Expecting the periphery to congeal with the center -
War into peace -
Hate into love.

And as the second hand passed that momentous tick,
it was as though
the sun set and the world curled up with a blanket
and rolled over to sleep.

Manila

2005-12-29T21:15:00.000+01:00

This is my sixth year living in a foreign land I have been calling home after the second year. Mid-way, I was able to travel back once to my native country. In those six short and hurried days, I documented Manila in snatched blinks that turned into memories --> lodged somewhere in the brains glued together by some kind of misguided sense of continuation.

And in watching an Asian film, reminding me of the Philippines, did I get pockets of reaffirmation: yes --> life is crammed to the hilt in every street with cars, buses, jeepneys, and tricycles fighting off pedestrians, vendors and peddlers for road space; shiny skyscrapers towering over dingy make-shift houses; the sweet smell of power emanating from x-starred hotels, and the stench of polluted rivers and some garbage-strewn sidewalks; the tight mass of dark heads bobbing up and down the streets soldiering though the day; and the noise from a full orchestration of motor vehicles and of people’s raised voices.

Everywhere in the metropolis, clusters of shanties house less fortunate families. Areas where small crowds gather around a small television set for an afternoon variety show, or around their neighbors hunched over a game of “dama” (aka checkers). Laughter comes easily despite the harshness of their realities. On rainy days, children delight on the water-filled gutters floating away their paper boats. Most times, without even a paper they find joys in stretching out their arms, twirling around, thrusting their faces skywards, and making a simple wish that they can actually act their own age.

I miss you, Manila. I hope that, by being out here, I am helping you.

55 words

2005-12-21T12:23:00.000+01:00

Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she struggled to hang the last heavy cloth to dry. The sun’s heat scorched down her blistered back; she closed her eyes to keep steady. In the shade, a slight breeze passed soothing her bruised body. And she reflected, “I just need to learn to say ‘stop’”.

The thing about reflections

2005-12-18T23:00:00.000+01:00

Water drops onto water;
dissolving,
blurring that glinting reflection
into the blackened stillness.

On to madness

2005-12-10T10:27:00.000+01:00

Project Manager + PhD work = madness

If papers were raindrops, my desk would have been soaked by now. There is not enough space to hold them so they get stacked up in a semi-neat pile. I have become the Statue of Liberty surrounded by the sea and tall towers (of papers). Only she stands high and mighty, and I sit still cowering before their weighty pressures.

A few days ago I have had the chance to join “colleagues” from all over Europe for a project manager training course. As soon as I entered the room, I felt like I was a too small sweater for a chubby kid.

...I felt like
I was
a too small sweaterfor a chubby kid...

I was a newbie, naïve, young girl dressed in jeans against mature, experienced and smartly dressed ladies and gents. Nevertheless, they were friendly and I dare say I had fun learning and getting some answers to my “burning” questions. I now have more of a direction and purpose in what I am supposed to do. To start with, I really need to get the right size for that sweater.

Combining PhD work means having to squeeze in time to perform experiments. Thank goodness for helpful colleagues. Especially the one who doesn’t mind getting picked up (by yours truly) from his home at 7:30 on a Saturday morning. There is nothing like inhaling crisp, clean air to rev you up for working on that ungodly hour. Fresh smelling air like clothes out of the laundry.

I wonder if having more hands would mean I would get better at juggling. The juggling balls I once bought to learn its art would have the time of the day. Imagine 2 hands would do the ball play, another set of hands for the managing job, another set for the lab experiments, and another set to do the whatnot and so forth.

Wouldn’t that be lovely? Then, I can probably run off with Cirque du Soleil.

Why I feel guilty - all the time.

2005-12-10T09:29:00.000+01:00

On my Day - the 1st of December

2005-12-07T23:29:00.000+01:00

My hands flew to my lips to stifle a gasp of surprise upon seeing my car on that morning.

“Which idiots did this to my car?!” I thought. And before I could go on with my ranting, a bright light flashed before my eyes. Aha! He jumped out of his hiding spot to catch my bewildered look with his hi-tech gadget of a camera. I had to hand it to them: the decorated car was a work of art. They were the masters of toilet-paper-wrapping, of making excuses, and of being all-around sneaky especially the night before (sudden craving for wine and chips that took half an hour to get….from the nightshop downstairs!

Peeking in, I saw they filled a basket with breakfast goodies: clementines, pain au chocolat, orange juice, apples, banana, ham (!), and a box of Cote d’Or chocolates. It also held a pot of plant with flowers, and a stress-reliever squeezie (heee!). Should I also mention the “balloons” floating around (and what they actually are)? And the signboards they made were just plain creative.

You guys are the best in the world! Ate Malou, the master planner; Marcky, the creative director; Mimoy, the giggly girlie; You, the drama King. Thank you for that (sugar) high day!
more photos courtesy of my Marc….

The Swing of Life

2005-11-30T11:43:00.000+01:00

My mother used to tell me that if I swallowed guava seeds, I would grow a guava tree in my stomach. If I had one, I thought I would be a unique among the 123456x to the billionth stars in the galaxy. Maybe not. Perhaps they carried the same burden as I do. Some have comfort food. I have comfort thought: we are all where we need to be. I love swings. You can go high up, back down in one swift steady move. The world flashes by. The others become a blur. Still, you find yourself there firmly placed in your seat.

...we are where we need to be…

A Mother's Lullaby

2005-11-25T15:46:00.000+01:00

Floorboards creak –
Arms cradling life’s innocence,
on that rocking chair.

* dedicated to my good friend, a Mom-to-be, my girl from florida.

On to nothingness

2005-11-23T14:01:00.000+01:00

I took this umbrella with me today for fear of clouds sighing their waters.
But when I stepped out, it was only the moaning cold wind that greeted me.
It carelessly whispered its sorrows, filling every crevice of my coat, my sweater.
There is no use for the umbrella. But I carried it anyway.

Nowadays, when I get off from work, the world is darker and colder.
A city-sized hush = empty parking lots; spacious, light-reflecting black-surfaced streets.
A loud lullaby = bundled up, frantic shoppers going home.
And me and my umbrella, standing under the dark skies that speak volumes of grieving cold.

Michael Bublé in Brussels!

2005-11-22T09:53:00.000+01:00

Suave: He is Mr. Suave. Smooth movements, charming presence, overwhelming performance, and well-rounded voice. He was the light of the room that bounced off from all four corners. Literally. The audience interaction was like no other.

Lost: So when I could have stopped him for a hello and for a photo, my knees weakened. I was reduced to a timid girl who could barely whisper his name. But when it came down to “it’s now or never” I got to shake his hand.

Transcience: That is what happens in live concerts. Moments flood in, drift off, evaporate. Frenzied hands grapple with cameras to capture these memories. Illusions abound in minds, orchestrating CD’s of scores and DVD’s of the show. Anything to recover a fraction of that time’s perfection.

Me: In other words, I was there to celebrate my birthday in advance with great friends: Lea and Marcky, screaming like a pre-teenager. Thank you for being there. Hope the eardrums are still intact.

A favored jacket

2005-11-14T21:53:00.000+01:00

it is not so much as walking on shards of glasses,
nor moving carefully around like an old housecat.

my feet are not made of steel,
nor can i call myself feline.

i like it best when i can waddle,
like a helpless sealion.

winter is here.

Sunday: Brussels style

2005-11-13T15:01:00.000+01:00

On my way to a patisserie earlier today, I was stopped by an Italian tourist asking me to take his photo. As soon as the shutter clicked and froze a momentary cheeky smile pasted in front of Brussels’ stock market, he asked "Why the city so dead? No shops open? Is possible?" in his lilting Italian accent, wildly gesticulating with his hands, showing frustration over this Belgian Sunday culture.

"Because it is a Sunday. It just is," I calmly answered. It was this reaction that surprised me. Over the years I had come to accept and to appreciate the Sunday so-called "death" of this city/country. Apart from the fact the there is no mall culture here, the major shops are closed on this day. And from someone who is so used to "malling" (ie, [window]-shopping) during the weekends back in her home country, this is a horrifying situation to be in.

Then again, it could just be that over the years with the countless Sundays experienced out here, I have learned to appreciate "open markets" or other "places" to discover. Apart from venturing into the closed compartments of the cinema, I discovered museums, cultural concerts, forests, parks, and other neighboring cities…

…and holy baluga, the joys of staying home!

Appreciation

2005-11-08T10:55:00.000+01:00

Regularizing one’s stay in Belgium requires tons of paperwork and communication. In a different language.

I have been here for the past 6 years. Shamefully, I have not mastered even one of their languages yet. My stay kept being prolonged: Masters, PhD studies, and now combining it with a proper job. This time, I know I should be more motivated to learn the languages. Even if I have been doing my work in English!

To survive, one needs to be armed with the correct papers. But more than that an active interpreter is key. How else can you know if the papers you have are utterly correct? Or to know where to go for corrections? Or to be informed of the days and times of garbage collection to ensure you don’t get fined for an honest mistake?

And so my heartfelt THANKS go to you, E. Thank you for making sure that the police will not be after my back for anything. At least, for this year.

Thump Thump

2005-11-08T10:54:00.000+01:00

I have been feeling a bit empty lately. This, of course, highly contradicts the past few zen-ish posts. I thought they would be cheerleader-like creatures. Words that wave their arms in the air, doing it like they just don’t care. And I say “Wey-ho”.

Precisely my point. I cannot seem to communicate. I used to love and breathe in words. The pressure to use them correctly is beginning to run me dry. Do they become swords, as I wrote previously, when used unintentionally incorrect? Or do they become deadly when they are interpreted differently?

In this way, it frustrates my creativity. It makes me crave to do other artsy things again: draw, photograph, design, and to play my violin. Colors, textures, music. No words = comfort.

I feel like pulling my hair, strand by strand. But, you know, that will hurt. Even more.

Idyl

2005-11-02T16:47:00.000+01:00

I liked it best when the twigs cracked and the leaves crunched under my weight. They echoed my weary bones, pounded on this 44 km walk around the Ardennes that stretched over the last 2 days.

There was a lone bench. I could have sat down but the grounds were bedecked in reds and golds, and they held my eyes. I could have watched the sky move but my head was still, thinking of that river weeping in the background.

Reflection

2005-10-25T11:21:00.000+02:00

-It only spills when it is full.-

Repeat after me:

You can only give to others what you have yourself.

Relax. Smile. Grow.

Repeat after me: "I am enough"

2005-10-24T11:45:00.000+02:00

"Listen for your song, and join in the dance. Live in the center of your truth and find the bliss of always being enough."
-- Leigh Sanders--

This morning I woke up and met someone for the first time: myself.

She reached out and shook my hand, "Nice to meet you," she said. And then she leaned back with a happy grunt, "Finally, a decent haircut that goes with your smile!".

She is funny and I am beautiful.

More than enough.

Deception

2005-10-17T17:36:00.000+02:00

Succulent secrets abound, fresh from photographs, of memories, of lost love, of love refusing to let go.

This love, of new love, craves its space. Here, in the now. Is there room for it to grow? Or shall it stay and form a forced solidarity? Or cry with a catholic sorrow as it rots together with the stale fruit borne out of a past love that is not let go.

A Question For You

2005-09-29T13:28:00.002+02:00

This is the mystery to watch with wonder:

It fills an empty canvas as it reflexively reflects back what is appearing. A movement. A faint and tingling vibration. It trawls for identification. Somewhere distant, the sound of a static radio.

Sometimes it is familiar. A little like stumbling across a favorite toy that reminds you of what you had always known. Flash in a time-lapse video of a blooming rose. Then, what you once had always known and seen remains in childhood.

No longer serene. These walls around. Shifting. A strange feeling as though waking up before the alarm. A bittersweet concoction of lingering murmurs travelling between dreams and reality.

And I remain puzzled.

This is the question to ask with wonder:

What does "I love you" mean to you?

A Hollow Thud

2005-09-27T16:04:00.000+02:00

If you would rap on her heart right now, it would echo.

Reality knocks. Acceptance pounds.

Hear - Unconditional love.

Whisper

2005-09-08T07:24:00.000+02:00

A sheet of paper
fluttering
softly to the ground.

Vulnerability

2005-09-01T19:37:00.000+02:00

If I were made of things like windows and glasses, I could be so transparent.
And if I were made of sturdier materials, I wouldn't have crumbled.
I am laughable.

On a Sunday

2005-08-10T15:32:00.001+02:00

Footsteps that echoed mine. A crack in the cross section of the city of Brussels loosened the inner child tucked away. Snapshots of absolute serenity. Innocence and quiet bliss. Intricate mural details streaming in wavelike ribbons on Art Nouveau houses.

It’s a little like sliding down a slanted moon. A tranquil glow at the end of a free-fall. To be rendered silent by Maison Autrique turning back the time. And to revel in the serene magnificence of the present.

On Days Like This

2005-08-04T17:31:00.000+02:00

Tree Hanging Ornament wannabes. ~ Advanced Christmas deco ideas ~ any takers for Candy/Marcky trimmings?

Lea does the Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon move.

Shine, Candy, Shine!

I am the Bowling Queen…

…or not! Screamin’ 63!!!

haha.

Comic Relief :-)

2005-07-19T00:20:00.000+02:00

This is me. A serious Candy.
A catty Marc...meow...
Roaring Candy scares Marc and weirds out Al.
Seriously!
Spoofs of Lea, Marc and Candy.

Indefinite Silence

2005-07-05T12:42:00.000+02:00

Summer beckons in so many directions as though you were tagged as the IT looking for thrilled, giggly children on a Sunday afternoon of a hide and seek game.

Sunlight follows and plays with you everywhere, spilling over earthy grounds, slitting through leaves overhead, and creeping over the frothy waters of the lakes, rivers and the seas. Every dive holds a promise of unseen dimensional contours of silence beneath, and every break of the surface is your smiling wet face plunging into the skies.

Stretching out into the silhouette of stillness, and I shall leave you this: my last post. One day I will be back because each of one of you has given me a reason to break the surface. This time I need myself for that.

Thank you all for being wonderful. Please feel free to mail when you can. To those who have emailed, replies are on your way.

Much Love.

Until I find my way back.

Linear reading

2005-07-03T10:34:00.000+02:00

When I try to read and all I can read is in linear A, B and C, I stop and freeze that certain moment in my memory: dust taking leftover spaces in my flat, sun spilling in through slanted windows, and the glare of objects from the television. I feel a gigantic displacement take place in my cavernous rib cage. But I look around and see reflections of distant names and, in the palm of my hand, I see faces of those I hold dear. Suddenly, the world makes sense again.

Thanks to the kind hearts of people like Bubba's and Melinda's!

All I Really Need To Know....

2005-07-01T16:15:00.000+02:00

….I learned from a Belgian driving manual ---

“When thinking crossroads, think priority: you either give way or have priority.”

Manuals are like the new fortune cookies. Which reminds me, I am hungry.

Happy weekend!

Drooling embarrassment

2005-06-29T15:04:00.000+02:00

Dear me. What does one do when a chewed gum rolls down one’s shirt during a roundtable group discussion?

Chronic lack of sleep affects proper motor skills, apparently.

Guilt

2005-06-23T08:56:00.000+02:00

There are days when I pretend to believe in the afterlife and fear that the path towards being admitted into Heaven will be ruled by Mice and Rats. When my mind begins to whir with all possible scenarios I can then imagine how I might receive the preach of The Golden Rule. One strain of mouse might tamper with my genetic program which in turn will lead me into a constant paranoia that I am being chased by men in white coats. Another bunch of them with stunted tails may endow me with such a phenotypic trait to know that nerves do actually extend out there (be mentally prepared for some samples to be taken). Of course there are those who have been operated on and went through injections that I imagine may want to repeatedly test my ventral capacities. Ultimately, I imagine being sent off to the land of toasty nowhere, a.k.a. Hell.

If only the Court of Mice and Rats will see through our eyes, they will view their lives to have another meaning. Perhaps to some people they are mighty pests whose tails and squeaky noises are abhorred, but to most of us they are cute creatures who can be pets and most importantly, they do serve a purpose to mankind (scientifically speaking). And maybe this is enough of a justification when the day of the big Confrontation arrives. Or so as I pretend to believe in the afterlife.

Inner Demons

2005-06-19T22:52:00.000+02:00

The horned-creatures roam around and bleed up the darker corners of the brain: mine and yours. Inside the skull, they are arched over and whisper ludicrous thoughts weaving networks of doubts that hide behind a motor mouth full of chatter, curled lips and crinkled eyes.

I want to throw something and maybe they will go away.

I dance. Apparently.

2005-06-10T12:55:00.000+02:00

Being the laughingstock of a bowling game played in a slightly inebriated form, with half of the lab department, is not embarrassing. What is embarrassing is the aftershock of the next day being reminded of a Roger-Rabittesque-dance-move joyously demonstrated over a spare win. Dear god.

Nightingale's Song

2005-06-09T17:07:00.000+02:00

midnight stroll -
land mingles with evening sky,
crickets' whir.

Tranquility

2005-06-08T12:13:00.000+02:00

Puff, puff, puff it goes.
Breath through the prairies’ flowers ---
snowflakes of summer.

Crystal Clear

2005-06-07T11:51:00.001+02:00

A rainbow's sigh
over the curvature
of a bubble.

Hello, World!

2005-06-01T20:15:00.000+02:00

Photo by Jim Van Meter.

A new life ---
Cracks lining the fragile wall,
beak pushed through.

Silence

2005-05-31T15:58:00.001+02:00

Summer breeze ---
A leaf’s swaying dip
to the ground.

Music

2005-05-30T17:06:00.000+02:00

It was the first time I ever saw a violin held and played almost perpendicular to the ground. It was also the first time I ever heard Indian music played with a violin that eerily sounded like a sitar.

The hypnotic sound of a continuous drone was rhythmically romanced by the harmonious string reverberations of the violin, and of the rich-raw poundings of the bongo drums. There was something distinctively euphoric about the relentless chase of the violin and drums, as if pulling me into another dimension where thin air held images and sounds of dreams and reality: her long jet-black hair wrapping itself around her violin; her red dress rising to life writhing boisterously to the occasion; and the appearance of exotic animals made of chaos and shards of glasses.

I love how music makes me feel.

Words

2005-05-26T15:56:00.000+02:00

We talk as if to exhaust language to the bones; conversations so fluid and dimensional, wordswordswords to replace an elemental existence, wordswordswords that do not lose their grip, pressing, like a blanket exhaling on your skin.

Flame

2005-05-17T13:20:00.000+02:00

A mere blink and it yawns into existence forming a tight fist of yellow-orange bloom.
An ephemeral moment of flicker-dance with the wind, and then it ceases to exist,
Nothing but a fine mist seeping into thin air.
Fragile as the almost burnt-curious finger.

Calm surrender

2005-04-30T13:48:00.000+02:00

The wires made hisses of snappy, electrical sounds from the train that carried me back to Brussels as it slowed down to a halt. As I sat and watched from my window, a connection of carriages slowly sailed past against the black of the dark tunnel like images from a roll of film presenting themselves in motion as in a silent movie. It was a mosaic of human forms that tell their story: an agitated baby being pacified by her mother; a young lady gesturing passionately with her hands as she spoke to her companion; an old man engrossed in his book, a finger slipped beneath a dog-eared page; a businessman staring into his laptop, the only object within the borders of his consciousness. They are the quiet calm of a moving state.

Back in my own breath-filled space, I search myself for identity. I take a deep breath and search my palms for his scent that seems to have dissolved, unseen. Every evening I light up my incense and it provides a graceful disturbance. Being lonely is a matter of adjustment like adapting to a little less of sun, or adjusting to the change of seasons. When did it become spring? The flower buds have unfolded into crumples of bright colors prodded by the quiet fingers of sunlight. We are the serene, moving figures of a calm surrender.

Shades of Winter

2005-03-10T16:16:00.001+01:00

green blue red
brown

That is to say, one gets desperate for colors and tends to forget about them in the dull and gray shades of winter.

I wish to go to a circus where everything is lively and colorful.

I am a creature of red in blood, hearts, and love.

I desperately miss my family.

Road to Recovery

2005-03-08T16:59:00.000+01:00

My stomach seems to have developed some motor skills. It is currently cruising along the highway to wellness. Also, it seems to think it has got eyes or at least the brains to think it has got eyes. The sight of yet again another soup or another clementine made it shudder. Five days is a long time and it is time for a change, it said. Oh yes, it speaks. It can even hear. From where I am sitting in the office, it can already hear the chocolate food groups from the grocery scream for attention.

Walls

2005-02-25T16:07:00.000+01:00

If walls had ears, I would run over and pierce them so I could hang some nice dangling earrings.

Aloha

2005-02-24T14:51:00.000+01:00

Strangely enough, my fig apricot-scented Fresh perfume smells of coconuts on me. The other day, my colleague entered our office and asked "who smells of coconuts in here"? I raised my hand and then explained that it was supposed to smell of fig apricots. "How odd", she replied.

It occurs to me that I may just be a Pacific Islander wannabe.

A Loud Hush

2005-02-23T10:42:00.000+01:00

Hush, hush. When flurries of crystallized ice gracefully descend from the ashen-tinged sky, it is because Mother Nature has given her tight perfunctory smile and nodded an austere expression. Be on your best conduct, she says.

A city-sized hush.

Under the stern demands of parenthood, I reach for a compromise for my relentless behavior. I step out and wrap around my neck a scarf screaming with loud colors.

Light in an ordinary you

2005-02-22T11:31:00.000+01:00

Sometimes late at night I put my television on mute and I lie down on my sofa so that I am facing a framed black and white photograph of a 1950’s San Francisco street hanging on a white wall. I like watching the flicker-dance of the images from the television reflected on the glass of the frame, its shadows moving across the white wall.

I lie there and I see the light on the frame and on the wall until I don’t see the frame and the wall, and I only see the light.

This is why, sometimes, I wish to look at you like how a stranger sees and observes someone for the first time. Then, perhaps, I will see you right there sitting next to me, watch the way you smile in the same way you did when you were a child in those homemade videos, and follow your gesticulations with the same hands that held your sail up years ago on a sailing trip with your father as captured in a picture.

I will watch you there, notice your smile, admire your hands and all that is familiar until I will finally see you. Just you, an ordinary you.

For the First Time

2005-02-17T15:23:00.000+01:00

The arrival of a whole set of Childcraft books sparked one of the most memorable excitements I have ever had as a young child of 8 or 9 years old. One colorful page after the other set my mind into an exploratory overload introducing me to the basics of science, the wonders of nature, far-reaching places of the world, imaginative short stories, voices of poetry, and original do-it-yourself arts and crafts at home.

Until now, my line of work allows me to discover something new everyday. If it is not from my own work, then it is something from countless colleagues (here and around the world) who toil through laborious tasks to unearth an answer for every given hypothesis.

Tracy the scientist, whose blog provides an example of feeding my naturally curious mind with information it so often seeks, captures the images of the most interesting creatures on a miniscule level. His fascination for microscopes and the like will pull you in a mesmerizing journey beyond what your eyes can see.

It would not hurt that we live our lives with childlike wonder. On this note, have you ever asked yourself lately: “When was the last time I saw something for the first time?”.

What is contagious?

2005-02-15T18:46:00.000+01:00

Yawning is. There, you're already yawning, aren't you?

On being a Coward

2005-02-09T13:34:00.000+01:00

I have a simple yet elegant small silver frame that sits on top of my living room table. It was once given to me as a heart’s day gift. When the spotlight hits this part of the room, I always look for the light-catching glint it casts off. I can describe to you how it appears in the foreground, background and let you know the distance it goes sideways. You will never know that, looking at this piece of silver, I am really looking at a child learning to write and is struggling to know whether he is left- or right-handed.