Sailing Away

“Saturday I’m running wild… and all the lights are changing red to green…”

I distinctly remember his warm voice in my head… I remember clear crystal, my Aussie friend, Megan, whom I was daydreaming with about David Gray and about one wild night when we would finally see him in person on the big stage, singing the songs which were once the soundtrack of our London-time memories… the constant dreams, which were often distracted by not-so-friendly customers asking for a million size requests or were wondering if we had the red sequined skirt in stock.

Oh, how I miss those afternoons… how I miss my chilled friend, Meg, whom regrettably I lost touch with… I left the country with David Gray’s CD in my handbag, in case my luggage got lost or stolen… I immigrated to the land of nature with small desires but big hopes… Meg left to continue the rest of her life in her homeland, at least for a while… contrary to our wishes, we never met Mr. Gray.

On Saturday night, after almost twelve years since my love affair with the guy, whose voice still make me feel nostalgic, I drove to Hamilton with someone who appreciates his music as much as myself, to see him live on stage… and let me tell you this much: he was no different than years ago, but this time he was no longer a dream alone, but one which came true.

I sang, screamed, and stared at him, refreshing the memories in my heart and remembering the good old times… and suddenly I felt strange and started to miss those days, Megan and all the silly talks, when we were sailing away and were running wild on Saturday nights.

S

Paralleled

Here is sunny Toronto (pronounced /təˈrɒntoʊ/)…

I’m clicking on these little white keys and fancying the sound they are making… while the other half of my brain is on strike and struggles hard to get away from the virtual world and take a journey to… hmmm…

I am lying down, yawning non-stop, and craving a quick blissful nap on the wet but fresh grass, which was just trimmed less than an hour ago… hypnotized by the iron lattice tower, with a bottle of Vin de Bordeaux on the other side of my body… and the poor girl is all puzzled and tries desperately to find me among hundreds of napping souls.

In the parallel world, I am sitting with my usual venti cup in a corner park, full of wobbling creatures, and where I’ve never been to but will discover soon… sitting on the other side is a fully pregnant lady in orange stripes, who’s deciding whether to name her newborn Sophie… or just Sun.

… and I’d like to know how to return back to my own box.

S

The Crying Wolves

It’s almost dawn;
I hear the howling of
the tearful wolves
and all those enraged
souls.

How can we bear the pain
and the hatred
floating out of the
bodies of many
around us?

How can we
mourn the mother,
who will mourn all her life
and melts as the
candles on the birth cake
of her own son,
who won’t see the
Autumn of
thirteen eighty nine.

The moon is crying,
and the countless stars.
The voiceless birds still weep
for their loss all long night.

The classroom full of innocent eyes
staring at the emptiness of the board
on the black wall;
waiting for his body to shine
so they can all salute him
and rise up.

What to confess when
they are murdering his
tortured thoughts?
Where to flee when
the war is about to start?
The same bloody war
that goes on for
oh so long.

I heard his last breaths
with the noose
around his neck, with all his glory
resting on the prison soil.
I feel the tears of
all the crying wolves.

I wait and crave
the day
of upheaval;
the day of the monsters
prosecuted
in front of
the mourning moms
and us all.

S

Gâteau d’Anniversaire

The month of May with all its natural beauty… the month of birthdays of loved ones close and far… the last few days were spent around many cakes in different shapes… or over the phone to wish them all that they wish for.

The lady, who’s beyond love and has been my idol for all my life… the one who, beside the genes, made me who I am today… a great friend, who defines coolness and whose blue *Lego* cake made us all nostalgic in the tapas bar… another lovely friend, whom I met a few years back at another birthday bash of hers, when she blew a candle on a half-watermelon cake and made me admire her uniqueness… and the little birthday boy for whom I was present when he opened his pure eyes to this not-so-pure world in room number seven.

They might come with many insights, but they are all Taurus with a sensible outlook on life… they might come from different times, but they all closed their eyes, made a wish, and blew a candle for many more happy returns!

S

Sylvia

My twenties…

The years of adventures, immigrations, and corruptions;
The years of falling in and out of love;
The years of insomnia and of the crying nights;
The years of heartbreaks and of boiling inside;

The years of reading Sylvia – the greatest – Plath;
and constantly relating
to her magnificent poems
and despaired life.

To her “Mirror”, where she is silver and exact;
Her “Candles”, “how shall I tell anything at all”;
The “Morning Song” in which “our voices echo, magnifying your arrival”;
And last but not least, her Bell Jar,
where she talks of Esther
and her life.

On June twenty third of the year two thousand and ten, I am going to present my favorite author and poet, the one and only Sylvia Plath, to the lady who helps me immensely in putting down my thoughts and to those, who are in the same boat as mine.

S

Clueless

This is one of those days when I can totally relate to the world of the writer’s block… I want to write not for the sake of practicing, but mainly for distraction… I need a major distraction to rescue me from all the judgmental and the lying eyes… Those staring eyes that make my heart beat faster and feel sick inside…

What should I write about? This is perhaps the most misleading question one should ask before the first attempt of writing… My mind is dictating me to write on my arduous plans and self ambitions… on certain things that are floating out of my life… on the wrong decisions I sometimes make, which remind me that life is not a contest but a learning journey… on faraway places and the other side of the horizon… on his big lies and all the favours he gets in return… on being desirably or undesirably selfish… on negative outlooks or on Sylvia’s* Bell Jar…

This is when my heart shuts up my knackered mind… This is when I can sense the block is gone and I’m almost done…

This is the end of the blue era…

S

* Sylvia here refers to “Sylvia Palth“