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Friday, October 09, 2009
Because Some Things Got A Logic You Just Can't Deny
I fell in love with a windmill the size of the Eiffel tower.
Overlooking a never-ending vista of green and blue, staggering under the weight of its 10th century heritage and hemmed between the cogs of the modern world, the beautiful structure soaring in the Persian sky was the perfect portrait of dignity, modest pride and imposing status.
"I have come to sit with you. I have come to ride your sails.", i told her when i first made her encounter, "I have come to talk."
I fell in love with the epitaph of a dead paroquet.
It was planted in a neglected corner in the east side of a pet cemetery in South Norwalk, Connecticut.
A one piece matt black marble stone of uneven random sides and sharp menacing corners rising up two or three feet high.
Very basic, very simple.
Very very dead.
Mud was hardened in the depth of the folds and creases of its rugged untreated surface.
Shrubs and weeds were bursting in defiance at its base.
"Only in death do we learn how to grow", it read.
I fell in love with a wizard's wand.
It caught my eye on a dusty stand in the Marché aux puces of Saint-Ouen, in the northern suburbs of Paris. It was a twelve inches long hazel branch adorned with beautiful lustrous beads of ivory, quartz and mica. The Latin inscriptions on its base only added to its charm and mystery.
I inquired with the family that owned it but they knew nothing about its history. I paid the twenty they asked for. I had no heart to bargain.
I offered it to my nephew on his birthday.
He examined it carefully and finally instructed me to be "super careful" around it.
He had reasons to believe it might be the rod of Moses.
I fell in love with my Grandma's handmade wooden dollhouse.
Its meticulous craft and mystic beauty had always left me in awe every time i paid it a visit.
It was three stories high of 1:12 scale with a hinged fancy front facade that opens to reveal the rooms.
My niece and nephew were not allowed anywhere near it, not because of safety concerns for them but rather for the dollhouse.
The house had only one inhabitant: La Petite Princesse.
She had been laying in her bed for as long as i can remember.
She seemed so frail and unyielding in her ragged golden dress and her make-belief world, too ripe for her young demeanor.
Her unaging body spoke of an infinite truth, mortals like myself could never fathom.
I found something was quite unsettling about the eerie resemblance between Grandma and La Petite Princesse and the dreadful staleness of both their lives.
I once inquired with Grandma, a lonely widow, about the other residents of the house.
She only replied with a sigh.
I fell in love with the wedding photo of my parents.
It's in sepia tone on once-shiny thick Kodac paper and dates back to 1978.
They smiled big and held hands.
They looked beautiful but they did not look perfect or whole or overly jubilant or merry.
There was something intriguing about their posture, the look in their eyes, the glow on the their faces and even about the air around them.
It was as if each one of them had synchronized his mere being to the other's.
You could easily tell they had developed a mutual affinity to happiness, to love, to life.
They seemed reasonably joyful and content.
Not too much.
Not too little.
A state of affairs they had successfully managed to maintain throughout their 31 years of marriage, with all its tides and ebbs.
..................... to be continued, maybe!
Overlooking a never-ending vista of green and blue, staggering under the weight of its 10th century heritage and hemmed between the cogs of the modern world, the beautiful structure soaring in the Persian sky was the perfect portrait of dignity, modest pride and imposing status.
"I have come to sit with you. I have come to ride your sails.", i told her when i first made her encounter, "I have come to talk."
I fell in love with the epitaph of a dead paroquet.
It was planted in a neglected corner in the east side of a pet cemetery in South Norwalk, Connecticut.
A one piece matt black marble stone of uneven random sides and sharp menacing corners rising up two or three feet high.
Very basic, very simple.
Very very dead.
Mud was hardened in the depth of the folds and creases of its rugged untreated surface.
Shrubs and weeds were bursting in defiance at its base.
"Only in death do we learn how to grow", it read.
I fell in love with a wizard's wand.
It caught my eye on a dusty stand in the Marché aux puces of Saint-Ouen, in the northern suburbs of Paris. It was a twelve inches long hazel branch adorned with beautiful lustrous beads of ivory, quartz and mica. The Latin inscriptions on its base only added to its charm and mystery.
I inquired with the family that owned it but they knew nothing about its history. I paid the twenty they asked for. I had no heart to bargain.
I offered it to my nephew on his birthday.
He examined it carefully and finally instructed me to be "super careful" around it.
He had reasons to believe it might be the rod of Moses.
I fell in love with my Grandma's handmade wooden dollhouse.
Its meticulous craft and mystic beauty had always left me in awe every time i paid it a visit.
It was three stories high of 1:12 scale with a hinged fancy front facade that opens to reveal the rooms.
My niece and nephew were not allowed anywhere near it, not because of safety concerns for them but rather for the dollhouse.
The house had only one inhabitant: La Petite Princesse.
She had been laying in her bed for as long as i can remember.
She seemed so frail and unyielding in her ragged golden dress and her make-belief world, too ripe for her young demeanor.
Her unaging body spoke of an infinite truth, mortals like myself could never fathom.
I found something was quite unsettling about the eerie resemblance between Grandma and La Petite Princesse and the dreadful staleness of both their lives.
I once inquired with Grandma, a lonely widow, about the other residents of the house.
She only replied with a sigh.
I fell in love with the wedding photo of my parents.
It's in sepia tone on once-shiny thick Kodac paper and dates back to 1978.
They smiled big and held hands.
They looked beautiful but they did not look perfect or whole or overly jubilant or merry.
There was something intriguing about their posture, the look in their eyes, the glow on the their faces and even about the air around them.
It was as if each one of them had synchronized his mere being to the other's.
You could easily tell they had developed a mutual affinity to happiness, to love, to life.
They seemed reasonably joyful and content.
Not too much.
Not too little.
A state of affairs they had successfully managed to maintain throughout their 31 years of marriage, with all its tides and ebbs.
..................... to be continued, maybe!
Labels: Tales Of The Butterfly