Public declaration of of new year wishes! Thought I revive our poor cat here. Have a great year and stay in touch (hugs). What’s your thought for the year?
So, <a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?43mcnc6oho77pi7“>here’s my little appreciation video for your moleskin. Will take snap shots of my responses later. Enjoy dear!
she stares, blinking. urgh, she sighs, ducking into a nearby café. it is almost ten at night, a good-enough time for them to be closing soon. she approaches the counter, a grateful smile. a latte, please. sure, mademoiselle. the man chuckles as he maneuvers to the coffee machine, deftly pouring milk into a jug. a little too late for caffeine isn’t it, mademoiselle? she laughs apologetically. a little too late to come in here to hide from the rain too, i guess. oh no, any time is perfect in maurice’s, he winks. i own the place, so i can close it anytime i want, and – oh, ho! look what we have here, another person. yes, monsieur, what can i – luigi! it is you! the usual, yes?
yes please. she turns around to look. he – luigi – smiles at her, his arms awkwardly clutching his leather-bound book, his hair damp from the drizzle. from the corner, a painting peeks out, a bright shade of sky blue, its paint running over his skin. oh, your painting, it is wet. she gasps, then blushes. sorry, sorry, i mean – oh don’t apologise, mademoiselle. when the rainy sky runs its due course, it’ll turn blue again.
was he in love when he wrote his seventh? perhaps he was. perhaps he found his reason of being in the theme that carries ever so gently on the flute, as the softness of the strings cocoons the fragile formation, allowing it to feed, grow, in kindness, in serenity. aha! such is the mellifluous nature of what that is truthfully joyous – carefree, leaping, skipping, gentle hand in gentle hand, skin against skin, laughter in the embrace of sprightly winds as they carry this tune and echo it across the vast universe, stardusts rejoicing in its warmth. aha! such is spring, such is adventure! such is the seventh, of which he was, indeed, in love when he wrote it, in a celebration of rightfully being, in place, in mind, in soul, in sound, in silence, falling like inked notes on the sheets of his music, dancing, soaring, in love with all that life has to offer, in love with the brilliance of permutations and combinations of every possibility of every occurrence in this universe, in love with the simple fact that he is and he can be if he chooses to be because he is and he can be, in love.
fearing for his life, he writes worshipful symphonies, setting trumpets to joyous fanfare celebrating the great and amazing things that this government has done for its people. his wife sits by his side, playing out the melodic line mournfully on the piano, shifting major to minor, and now the tunes weep, trembling. he closes his eyes, shaking his head, and continues writing.
a hundred years on, his lies are in the open, in the living room, with his grandchildren all sitting around the coffee table, manuscript papers strewn over. no, i am sure he is lying. the youngest one declares authoritatively as he picks up a page, and points to a fragment. that, albeit the triumphant march of the brass, lies a mocking tune harrumphed by the horn. do you think he is mocking the government? asks the gentlest. the eldest shakes her head. i do not think so. i think he is genuine. he fears for his life, he writes music as dictated, but he tells us that those were not easy times.
let it be, says the smallest. his lies save him, even if he cannot be truthful, he lets the public hear what they want to hear.
Dust, by Ujin Lee and Tom Edwards.
Maybe it is safe to say that sometimes it takes a little time for things to gather; after all, we originate from the dusts of this universe, and therefore, all our creations too will come from the same nebulaic womb, slowly, slowly, slowly it comes together, linking hands.
In other words, the silence here is not intentional. The hubris of our thoughts are in the process of being collected.
she stands before it, transfixed. slowly the man removes the case, the latches unbuckling unceremoniously as if they no longer care for this ceremony. but to her, it is her first, hence, it marks the start of a ritual to be learned for a lifetime. she watches his fingers pry the case open, and there it sits, enfolded, hands tucked, eyes closed, lips curved up in a smile. he gently coaxes it out. here, he says. here, meet your new guardian angel. it lifts an eye open, curious, and she stares back, biting her lower lip. the man laughs at this encounter. here, he says, handing her the bow. she picks it up, still as hesitant as ever, but obediently climbs onto the chair. she places her fingers on its neck, detecting a faint hint of pulse as it arches back at the touch. she exhales. he smiles encouragingly. go on, give it a try. it leans back expectantly, waiting for her cue.
slowly, she makes it sing, sing of a gift to be simple, a gift to be free, a gift to come ‘round where one ought to be. it basks in the warmth of her presence, feeling found.