Mirror, mirror on the wall.

Distance is an unknown variable.
There are many unknown variables but distance is certainly one of the most uncertain.

If I were to be a cynic tonight… what would I see? What would I choose?

There are vignettes of feeling, of sensation… like memories from a previous life.

flaming flowers that brightly blaze
swirling clouds in violet haze


I love that line by Salman Rushdie: “The past is like a foreign country; they do things differently there.”

How do they do things? How does one locate, retrieve, and archive the old ways?

I look.
I delve into the depths of the sea and grasp blindly at something hidden between seaweeds and fragments of shells.
What have I brought to the surface? What have I retrieved?

I remember K. and R.
Vivacious, steady, bright-eyed K.
Who went away to a faraway land and refused to stay the same person. She grew and changed and she became an older, different K. It would be silly to say “better” or “worse” than before. She was just different…
And tenacious, steady R. became the past- he became part of the foreign country and she no longer knew him, or loved him with an everlasting passion like they had promised one another.
Is such a promise viable? Realistic?
People change after all- how can we blame someone for evolving?

You said you were going to conquer new frontiers


Then there are D. and B.
She went. He stayed.
She tried. He tried.
They both tried- really really hard.
But they fell apart anyway, and she smiled her way into the glimmering life of money, and he stayed back and began to look for love again.

We promised the world we'd tame it, what were we hoping for?


W. and P. would have tamed the world.
They would have fulfilled the fairytale fantasy of love-across-the-seven-seas.
Except that W. didn’t make it.
If ever someone has searched in a possessed, frenzied fashion for some sort of saving grace in an unexpected, inexplicable death, it is P.
She’s still trying to find it.
She’s found other things along the way- but there are no more castles in the air.
Perhaps it’s easier to think of them making it because circumstances allow for that romantic possibility..?
But no… I think not.
I really think they would have managed…

We laid her next to him beneath the willow
While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby


But while distance is an unknown variable… and the past is painful and incoherent… it seems there may be a mantra of sorts…

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
…
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)


Nothing is known. To attempt certainty is to defy the very laws of life, isn’t it?
Yet we strive and strain and search and seek…
Surely even the most “rational” among us cannot resist the occasional glance at a horoscope prediction..? Surely there is an inevitable thrill of expectation as we crunch open a fortune-cookie after a Cantonese dinner? I know I am susceptible. The temptation to know is ridiculously powerful.

However…it is impossible to really, truly know… So where do I go from here?

It’s easier when you go with the flow, and believe what makes the most sense to your heart.
It’s easier to find a mantra, and let it cartwheel and echo through the void of distance.

So then…that is what I choose, I suppose.
I choose to enjoy the dynamic of love.
I choose to believe in it.
I choose to have faith in the concept of bridging distance, of transforming unknown variables into manageable realities.
I choose to be talk about it, to write about it, to revel in it, to learn not to hold-back-and-keep-some-part-of-yourself-as-insurance-just-in-case…
I choose to believe that I have a choice…surely the greatest illusion of all?

I choose not to be a cynic tonight.

So here we are reinventing the wheel
I'm shaking hands with a hurricane
It's a colour that I can't describe
It's a language I can't understand

Chaos meets sunshine meets destiny.

Serpentine Fiction

And all the lives we ever lived
And all the lives to be
Are full of trees and changing leaves...

Addictions are old friends. And sometimes you just don't want to let go.
Say, one is addicted to being a million different people...

In one day, say the 1st of May 2008, you can...
wander through london in the great frost
fall in love
traipse around on a jamaican beach
lose yourself
eat the best fried chicken in the world
be granted eternal life
commit heinous sins of darkness
go to turkey as an ambassador
find yourself
get jilted
win literary awards
fall in love again (the repetition here is inevitable- people seem to do this a lot)
sail into magical oceans
commit suicide
be resurrected
win a war
lose your mind

Pure.
Phantsmagoria.

And then you can go out and get a drink, and live yet another life.
Icing on cake.
Fantastic.

But (and there is a but).
If you're used to living many lives, you start to explore the possibilities in your own, right till their logical conclusions.

Say there is an ongoing something in your life.
Well. I have already lived this something out to its various possible ends in my mind.

I have seen the worst that may happen
I have said what I might say.
I have foreseen heartbreak.
I have already cried.

This is substantially different from being "prepared for the worst".
It means you have already lived through the worst.

The ideal blissful conclusion is also lived out of course.
This again, is different from "hoping for the best".
It means you have already lived the best that can be.

But the cynic in an addict persists in dwelling on the former... Illusions can only sustain you so far, right?

If you have already walked down the paths that lie before you... do you convert it from the possible to the probable? Even if it is just in your head?
Does thinking about things make them happen?
Can a private performance lead to a real change?

A superstitious cynic...?!!

No wonder the madness of literature beckons.
Some temptations are impossible to resist.

And the addiction spins out of control.
Mortality, time, and space collapse.
Lives must be lived.