February 5th, 2009
The dozen twinkling slivers,
That sliced through the open sky—
But retreated far too soon.
So that when, at last, I blinked against,
the weight of heavy-lidded eyes,
All that was left to wish on,
was the shadow of the moon.
February 18th, 2008
Something of the night wind's whistle
made me remember what he once said--
a stranger's pain in grave admission
of his love wishing he were dead
and in my head the words, they flitted
colours like the sounds they made
where red meant stop not love or passion
but green meant growth not go ahead
August 12th, 2007
I love late-night trips to fetch small items whose luxury is often mistaken as necessity. In particular, the procurement of milk evokes strong nostalgia. I am reminded of childhood sleepovers and carefree summers, where the urge to bake at 2am would overcome us and the trips became as much a tool to strengthen friendships as a symbol of ever-growing freedom. We'd talk all night as earthy scents from the open window mingled with the scent of rising muffins and jolted our displaced memories into immediate thought.
I love when the rain falls so heavily that the windows are slick with water and the trees and flowers become abstract distortions. I love leaning into the window and feeling the aura of moisture and coldness on my skin without actually touching the glass. I feel like I'm in a watercolour painting, where an untaught and heavy hand has driven the colours to viciously attack each other and bleed deeply on the canvas battlefied. I feel the draw of romanticized passion and violence without ever having to suffer true bruises.
I love objects with deep histories; that belonged to someone else before they fell to me. When I run my hand over woodgrain, or polished stone, or cool steel, or velvety plush, I love to feel not only the differential sensation along my fingertips but also the ghostly touches that preceded mine. When the surface of the material reflects what past eyes have stored in their keeping, my heart feels lighter for learning another's story without polluting the silence.
I connect with objects because of their unbiased ability to capture emotion. With paper, I remember the secrets I've shared; with glass, the sadness I've experienced; with wire, my frustrations; with beads and thread, my restlessness; with photographs, my inspiration. In the same way that I love translating thought to poetry--so that others can feel what I am feeling without ever knowing my mind--I also love reading old words. It comforts me to know that there exists a vessel where humans can be both exposed and hidden; where we can record images of our pasts, without having to taint the actual scenes with the inaccuracy of biography.
Nostalgia is sweet and heavy like cheesecake and irish coffee. I have been nibbling and sipping for months now and the nausea is finally setting in.
April 2nd, 2007
I am awake in the middle of the night, shedding tears in the dark. If someone were to walk into the room to see me slumped in my bed, covers curled around my waist, tissue-box at my side, with only the soft light from the monitor to highlight my furrowed brow and reddened nose, he or she might conclude that I am grieving. A photograph of this scene may compel sympathy, evoke concern, rouse compassion. But as photographer Diane Arbus once said, “A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you the less you know.”
The first secret: the only thing keeping me up is a cold.
The second: while there are reasons for me to be weeping and clutching a broken heart through the wall of my chest, these tears are merely a symptom.
December 28th, 2006
Illness may be a Consequence of Labelling Alone
We often speak of our desires in layperson's terms; expressing our unusual activities and sentiments in the language of the normal and socially-accepted. However, the affixation of certain words to ordinary behavior can suddenly categorize it as taboo, irregular, dangerous. We can be both normal and deviant depending upon our choice of words.
Heterogeneity Precludes the Discovery of Truth
From the study of epidemiology, I have learned that truth is based on our perception of reality and dependant on our sample population, our methodology and our interpretations. I have learned that the truth is esentially unknown and our experimentation will drive us closer to it if we are systematic, unbiased, consistent and thorough. However, all scientific studies have flaws, no matter how stringent the methods are or how meticulous the scientists are. Yet, if truth is not possible in this realm of anal-retention, how can truth be possible under any normal circumstance? Most humans live their lives without systematic guidelines. We act and react inconsistently, we record our memories haphazardly, we let biases and paranoia affect our inferences. For this reason, the truth is far more scattered in reality than it is in a controlled lab or clinical environment. Everyday, I hear more versions of the truth. At least in science, I can choose to believe the faction with the greatest body of evidence. Here, I cannot choose. There are no liars because despite the differences in the story, everyone is telling the truth.
Behaviour is Dependant on the Environmental Stimuli
To state the obvious: different people react differently to different stimulus. Sometimes our choice of a confidante is not based on trust of the individual but rather on the reaction we are hoping to avoid or acquire. Because unexpected actions lead to differential interpretations of our personality, it is often best to be suffer our secrets silently in order to maintain our relationships.
October 22nd, 2006
a stranger spoke a secret,
and i knew not what to do,
i said 'i can only listen--
but the choice is up to you'
October 9th, 2006
"We forget our guilt when we have confessed it to another, but the other does not usually forget it"
August 28th, 2006
the joy is captured
not by the manufactured image
but by the muddy rainbows
underneath my fingernails
August 12th, 2006
an image of you
obscured by interfering waves.
your depth so distorted
i cannot grasp your hand--
even at the calculated angle.
August 7th, 2006
Under the lens the glaze is only eggwhite,
the marble is mere shale,
the potions you've been brewing, base—
the only gold, locked in my eyes.
But even without forgery's aid
I cannot deny or match,
your sweet, unyielding beauty;
though imperfect under glass.