The inspiring cage

Isn’t joy the shadow of sorrow? Isn’t sorrow the shadow of joy? In an experiment conducted in a zoo sometime in the late fifties an ape was taught how to draw and was given some markers to do so, the first thing he drew were the bars of his cage. 

We primates are obsessed with our cages, although the bars which confine us may vary; for some the cage may be money, for others success, love, hate, sex, illness, religion, values and believes, depression, racism or sexism, war, politics, even the pursuit of freedom can become a cage. Despite their origin, despite what shape or size our cages take they inspire us to create; the very stifling limit of our existence is what truly makes us sing, paint, write eternal stories and compose unforgettable music.

Beauty and pity

In a recorded lecture I found on Youtube given by the genius writer Vladimir Nabokov I heard him say:

“Where there is beauty, there is pity, because beauty must die, beauty always dies. The manner dies with the matter and the world dies with the individual”

I was struck by this profound statement, our world seizes to exists when we seize to exist, this has made all the difference for me, and yet it felt so obvious, so basic that we humans create our own universe and out own fate and yet so few of us see this.

When Nabokov said that beauty entails pity, I'm not sure why I thought of the spilled bottle of milk I see soiling my neighbor’s front door step every morning, I thought of the blind baby robin I found on the ground, swollen blue eyes bulging, featherless pink, its gaping yellow beak screaming, the tragedy of the long fall and the desperate fragility that required no more than a swift clumsy footstep. I thought of the white swan’s superior grace, gliding dreamlike in endless rippled lakes and her majestic long neck always a question mark.   

Death too

Young tulip stems shoot shyly yet firmly from the cold stubborn earth, little innocent pink flowers plant themselves audaciously on dry bare twigs; life, no matter how delicate or fragile cannot be denied. One crucial moment, we were not paying attention, the seagulls abandoned their seashores and came to tell us something, and all the while something was receding like an ocean wave, like a carpet gently pulled from under our feet. Death too will not be denied.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow there will be hours to fill, errands to run, faces to see, conversations to have and queries to answer. I will need to go to several different places, meet with several different people and the numerous anonymous strangers I will pass in between my destinations. In this spinning top of a life, I am always running towards something, always wanting, always trying and most exhausting of all; always waiting. Waiting for some nameless thing to happen or change and hope and pray. But I always knew - even when no one had ever taught me - in my heart of hearts I always somehow knew, that it took a hand, a decided powerful hand to keep the world spinning, for all the colours to muddle and merge and that on the inside, in the very core of everything there is nothing.

The night

Distant police sirens shrieking and wailing. The haunting howling of a fierce angry wind. Discarded empty cans cartwheeled and scurried and made their pathetic tin clamor on the street. The night is a deep well, the night is the time for shadows to rise, for walls to hear. Every soul a vessel that spills its brimming tip in the dark, night is when aching hearts entangle. I can feel your far away thoughts in my head, my lips part and I almost utter a word that is more yours than mine.

My someone

Two years ago you came to see me very late in the evening, you were tired and distraught, your grandfather had past and you took care of all the arrangements because your father depended on you more than your two older brothers. You hadn’t slept, your hair was disheveled and you were gorgeous. I don’t remember seeing you more beautiful than I had that night, you threw yourself on my sofa in exhaustion and I stretched my body on top of yours my head on your chest listening to your heartbeat, my hair cascading down your arm as you held me tight, I wore a sheer summer dress with a deep neck line, I knew it wasn’t right to make love when you had just buried your grandfather, so we just lay there, holding each other against everything, life, death, fait and consequence, breathing in unison and I remember I was happy, simply happy. I asked you if you were hungry and you said yes,  I got up and went to the kitchen, I broke four eggs into a bowl peppered and salted them and began to whisk while the frying pan heated on the stove, you came up behind me wrapped your strong masculine arms around my waist making me feel small and feminine and buried your face in the nape of my neck, kissing me and mumbling something that sounded like I love you, making me weak, losing control of everything, trying but failing to pour the eggs into the pan, when you let go of me I almost lost balance and fell, still weak in the knees. You helped with the drinks and the plates and we sat and ate together, while we were clearing up I turned around and found you had your back to me, turned on by your perfect gorgeous ass, I quickly let go of the dish I was washing, tiptoed behind you, bent down and bit it hard, you winced and shrieked in pain and shock, then we laughed and laughed, mischievous, careless and enjoying the immense freedom our love offered. I didn’t know it then, but you were my someone. I was lucky, not for long, but I was lucky when I found you.

On her 10th birthday

I thought I had willed her into being, I foolishly and arrogantly imagine I had created her from myself, from my dreams, my thoughts, my aspirations, I imagined I can see myself again, only better, myself with more; more opportunities, more space to feel, more room to grow, but most importantly myself loved. I believe I had a glimpse of that, but as she celebrated her tenth birthday with her friends yesterday I saw that I was naive, she wasn’t me, she wasn’t myself living a much better life than I had, she was separate from me, a full, complete and intact person, with her own ideas, with her own intentions and desires. The bond I imagined unbreakable never really existed except in my mind and I felt almost selfish for only seeing her through my own eyes, never seeing her through hers. The baby that came to me wide eyed and adoring “mummy, can I have this?”, “mummy, can I do that?” was now loud, vulgar and almost unkind “No Mom! we don’t need anything, we’re fine” I almost heard “just leave us alone” implied but  not quite said out loud. I saw her exaggerating her excitement, her laughter at every nonsense she and her friends said or did, her carelessness and indifference towards me, the garish music they played and how they closed the door when they danced not wanting me to watch. Even her body language seemed to initiate a distance and a foreignness I could not bridge. This was her world, her private self, the stranger she managed to create far from my imposing and heavy motherly attention and I couldn’t be a part of it, in that world I did not exist, as if no space was capable of holding both me and that cool independent pre-teen version of her at the same time. I retreated to my room and read a book only checking every once in while to see if they needed anything. Once her friends were gone and I managed to clean up some of the mess they made she came to me again, small, timid and loving “thank you mummy, today was great” my eyes teary, understanding now how hard it was for both of us, playing these roles, needing each other to understand without words, how multicoloured love can be, how many endless hues it had warm and cold, how much it can hurt, how much it can take.