tree/cloud - conversations

since words fail me, I'll let sounds and images relate.

let's begin with a note on ascendency -
they don't stay up there for long.

let's try the forest ground. some solid base to return to.
Yotsuba&!'s fans will get this!
don't be fooled. Behind every robotic disguise is a human remote control.


who controls who? who brings the good news? or tidings of misfortune?
nevertheless, it is an image of peace, hope and mandalas. safe, in the knowledge that the message will arrive. will it?
speaking of mandalas, wouldn't it be cool to ask mr Moon to come down and laze with me? back to the ground again. The moon is not really round you know. Pimples scars everywhere. Just like my face. craters everywhere. ignore that. This moment is about a change of visual perspective. I'm looking up, from below.

let's go back up to the skies.
I'm looking down, from above.
Wouldn't it be nice to stay up there? even if it's only for a brief moment?
it's as brief as a picture of "Boom!"
as long as you stare hard at it, it never escapes you.
but let us be a little more optimistic.

back on Earth,
I'm waiting for the fireworks. I promise it will be spectacular!


then again, I have this love/hate relationship with fireworks. Memories are sweet. But in between sweet memories, are these circular capsules that I find hard to forget.
As soon as they light up, as soon as they explode! Spectacle never lasts.
traces remain. Don't stand too close, they burn. wait for them to cool down.


are you coming my way? the fireworks festival has already ended.
but I'm still waiting. The circles keep moving.

I thought I saw your shadow.
sorry, I left when the postman came. He didn't see my letters. They're still in the drawer. I don't dare to write them. I don't dare to send them.
Are you waiting?
I was waiting, but my birthday wish was never fulfilled. Sorry we disappoint.

I can now understand why people like to ask their families and friends to scatter their ashes.
It's not always because micro-parts of them can reside in flowers and return to this world as particles, scattered to places faraway, never to gather again. It is also for them to participate in this ritual of remembering, to forget that they were once whole, but are now reconstituted into a larger collective. Somewhere, they can become flowers. They can become clouds. They can become blue, white, green...
I would like to be green too.
but sometimes, we don't always get what we want. No matter. Nothing is as powerful as being a trace. Always different. Always unexpected.
I become a pre-fix of a new trace. This collective doesn't bother to trace the trace. It cannot. Traces always escape - like ashes.



if you have a choice, would you like to be the clouds or the flower? The sky or earth?
I would like to be the line that seperates them.


the horizon is where I hope to be found. An intermediary that is in between presence and absence. I am an imaginary line. But you cannot deny my existence. I am there. In front of you.
Watching evaporation; condensation. (is it my obsession to trap, bind, hold traces in lines, boundaries and barriers?)

let's just say, I'm actually just a glass bottle. Keep me gently. But place me where the sun will shine. Where the rain will pour. Where there will be a gentle wind in the afternoon. But keep me indoors when it is night and the storm is coming. Boundaries can be fragile.

I'll repay you with a nice green rain.

thank you.

as I sleep. as the colours fade. don't forget your umbrella. don't forget your boots. I will come back some day. as rain, a drizzle, just a gentle drizzle, and a wet breeze. refreshing but nostalgic.

it's getting darker. But there's always tomorrow. The birds are flying home. The birds are leaving home.



this is how tomorrow will look like. You should look from the bottom. Maybe. you should have your own lines. Maybe. and I call them the imaginary rainbow. (I shouldn't attach a picture of a rainbow.)
Instead.
somehow, the images will eventually turn into a picture perfect image called memory. Pictures perfect. Just isolations of an explosion. A frozen frame?

it doesn't matter which falls first. They all fall. Perhaps. Not always at the same time, un-Galileo like. but doesn't matter. We all take our own sweet time. That's the word. Sweet. sweetness is the aftertaste most desired. That is what makes memories so precious.
But really. Forget horizons; forget lines. Forget trees or clouds. Forget the sky or the ground.
Remember to forget, repeatedly
it is beautiful. The lights. or the lack of. or the spectrum. all that elusive shades that I have no proper names for. Hence, at some point, I close my eyes. Obliterate the images.

And we are safe.

Kami-sama will forgive God will forgive Yahweh will forgive me;
there is a graciousness when it comes to entrances and exits
there is a faith that waiting will be worthwhile.
despite the tremors and failings of the plant
(I can't help it when the tremors and failings occur)
perhaps,
you'll catch my smile as I disappear backstage
through the sky where light barely illuminates
even Waiting for Godot has an end.
the wait happens when you have been told beforehand to wait - faith is memory.
this performance ends.
*cue to clap and smile*

no music is playing tonight except Shugo's album - Exit; Parachute. and one last image. =)

to be continued...