* Mnemosyne *

I wasn’t trying to tell you that that Saturday afternoon is the best a day could ever be
But I really couldn’t help.
I don’t know how to put it all together,
But can only heave through all the telltales, 
All the sadnesses and fulfills.
But I also know that drizzle;
I collected for you the earthy wetness after a sparkling breeze
And another time captured an early river gauche
Then turned the ordinary morning to a new wave scene.
I keep the empty redden Moscow sky only
For a film you have yet to see.
I let colours die, mourn the pass-by,
But sometimes I just sit quietly watching, 
That timeless smile fixed in the fainted eyes.


Threads of miscellaneous and
Specimen of light,
Those are my favourites,
Apart from the everchanging time.

* A World Alone *

That late afternoon silent moon gently crawled 
Across the vast blueish vault
Without the fainted stars, without smoothing clouds.

You bit my chest; I licked your wound.
We were sleepless, attempting to scoop
A piece of the world, a world full of poison.

Yet we insisted, drunkenly devoured.
Sugar melted caramel burning,
Ginger tea brewing with your nervousness;

We teased and ranted, talked about butter & bread.
Your words tittering, my mind danced. 
Caress as much as it could be.

That late summer night walked
Empty Bernard to the Jewish town
We thought we knew each other

But maybe we were both clueless,
Perhaps I was the unicorn
and you are somehow simply lorn.

Now that it’s all bygone I couldn’t
Burn all down
I keep dancing in this world alone,

Because we were all alone.
All the future and dream
All that delicacy on which we lean,

I am dancing in this world alone,
Because we are all alone.
We are all alone.

It’s not going to be everlasting, maybe,
But I set on to let it happen
Till one day my smile were gone though I still feel it wortheverything.

Get me still,
Get me distilled, millions of seconds passed but
That space time frozen like arctic glass.

I never imagined it getting rough,
We might make love
Which was what you think of

But now it’s all bygone,
I keep dancing in this world alone;
We are all alone. 

* Scar Tissue *

Susanna told me that scar tissue has no character.
They don’t age.
I heard organs don’t feel pain, mostly.
That’s how some people swallow objects;
Blade does not exist if you don’t feel the cut.

Embrace it.

But what about the heartache?
May be a nocebo
That exists only in fMRI scan.
Not paid by the insurance plan.
But stanza after stanza
Engraves the adversity
Onto the monument of our existence,
That is, our body,
As we move on.

Scar tissue has no character,
It made us a character.
And pain does not age.

Micro Fiction #Silvie is famous

Sylvie is famous. The sort of indie-famous, like after performance friends would come to the stage front to greet her while she’s sorting the cables and synthesizer, though the venue is always tiny and only had devoted fans like a secret inner circle. 

The tinniest concert I’ve ever been to has only five people showed up, the keyboard slash vocal from BC sold me a $10 ticket and it had to be split by two bands and supposedly the venue. She’s mildly famous.

Actually, not quite.

Sylvie is famous in a sense that her movements are delicate enough to attract deserved attention. While shifting her body across the studio, the popping sound from the wood floor scattered throughout her path, following the soles swiftly. Mostly her feet move horizontally without lifting very much her ankle, drawing a cursive line so close to the ground. It is light and calm, seemly without even disrupting the air, as if you can hear the stillness surrounding her lower body.

I don’t really know why would that be impressive; I remember seeing Misty Copeland’s legs, with an almost angular calf of which the edge of the muscle beautifully represents the functionality and capability it possesses, supporting her gesture to the precision. A fine machinery I almost want to say, that’s the kind of complement I make to a ballerina.

Sylvie is not Misty Copeland, of course; she barely knows ballet. In fact, we met in an evening contemporary dance class, where dance is rather therapeutic than pedagogic. 

But that’s probably the point, that her naturally cultivated habits and tendencies, rather than technicalities and formations, demonstrate quite genuinely a light-hearted but sophisticated mind, that tiny pieces of information about her leaked spontaneously through gestures despite scores. When she listens a sensible mind chases the rabbit in a fleeting wonderland that we share. But mostly she dances into a mind space that seemly secluded, and stretches back occasionally to the quotidian normality.

I don’t really know her well; I know that she studied theatre but not quite sure why Molière would be taught in French literature instead of department of theatre, or maybe it is. But I do know that when the motion flows though her fingertip it seems to me a performing art, and I would watch the piece regardfully. 

#Practice – Place I Miss

I’m wondering what it would sound like at this moment in Jeanne-Mance Park. Not this moment as 8PM at night but the moment when quietness become so obvious that you don’t need to be quiet to listen to it. But that’s the point, I’ve never heard of a Jeanne-Mance Park without traffic, without crowd, without livelihood, even in an eerie January night. 

I remember the sound of wheels drifting away in that thick winter air, as if the sound waves were liquid bypassing my ear, and the flickering lights of vehicles across my sight. What I also remember is the bilingual gibberish from the mouth of the innocent kids jumping, the sound, sometimes swear, laughter, and the embodiment of the vitality of the city.

I wonder, how it sounds like right now, the Jeanne-Mance Park.

A Dutch town, a mental hospital, two authors, three painters, confinement, and The Triumph of Death.

I was reading an article about a week ago regarding how an art historian settled down an argument over the precise location of a specific scene in a little Dutch town by using tax and residential property records. It was short but an interesting read, as I love art history and am into investigation. At the time I wasn’t paying attention to this painter, however I do like the work very much, a peaceful still scene in a Dutch little town Delft. The painting is called “The Little Street”.

Just a few days later I was reading “Girl, Interrupted” by Susanna Kaysen, in which she mentioned a painting displayed in the Frick Collection by a Dutch Golden Age Painter, Johannes Vermeer, who happens to be the person who painted “The Little Street” (Vermeer is also the painter who created other more famous works such as “Girl with a Pearl Earring” and “The Milkmaid”). The painting, which is titled “Girl Interrupted at Her Music”, is essentially what Susanna’s half-autobiographic work named after; she dedicates the name of the book to that moment (or moments) when she was in Frick Collection looking at that girl, when the girl seemed to talk to her.

And then I saw a friend sharing an amazing painting on Instagram by, again, such a coincident, a Dutch painter, from the same period of time, whose name is Marseus van Schrieck. I mentioned that I just recently discovered Johannes Vermeer (out of surprise) and she then introduced me to a documentary film called “Tim’s Vermeer”, which is the journey of an entrepreneur Tim Jenison trying to recreate the painting device Vermeer used centuries ago (this is based on a theory that Vermeer used Camera Obscura to create his realistic photo-like works).

Finally, yesterday, I picked up my “The Colossus” by Sylvia Plath, a book I bought a while ago but only started reading because of the confinement. In the second poem “Two Views of a Cadaver Room”, Sylvia used Pieter Brueghel’s panorama painting “The Triumph of Death” as a motif (or a scene) to express her complex understanding/feeling of death and love. While the painting is clearly related to the Black Death, I can’t stop to think that both Susanna Kaysen and Sylvia Plath were confined to the same hospital, McLean Hospital, but 15 years apart, and that I, and actually we, are all in confinement in this pandemic that kills thousands and counting, a real Triumph of Death.

* Sheep in Fog *

Whiteness swallows,
Vines, wires, distant hills
Within that stillness.

That sheep regarded me
Composed with shadows
Shuffle through the aisles.

Morning leaves its breath
On the tip of the autumn leaves
Before the brightness became apparent.

My face embraced by
The damp delight
In the break of a May day.

They prune
While the sheep in fog
Brought me to this fairy land.

* Youth *

The empty space you left permeates,
Infectious, hollows mind.
Frontier expanding,
A world vast and warmthless
Merges, 
Future starts.

I’m still breathing with corrupted lungs,
Chocked by the ashes that fall 
As the winter comes.
The lover that went wrong,
My name forgotten, blurry and gone.

I was the reckless, the only youth (between us)
Falling for that youthful dream that drowned in your leaden truth.

I knew you were bleeding (before all this),
But you are the lucky one.
Because the dying is the one that you think went wrong.

I am the one naïve youth that you will soon forget,
Left in the far field
With the blade still deep
Bury under the skin.
Missing the hand that
Once hold the grip.

I’m still missing.

After Daughter, Elena Tonra “Youth”

Read “Red Doc>” by Anne Carson

(This is only a short and incomplete note on my thought on Anne Carson’s work, which should not be taken seriously.)

Review 3/29/2020
It would probably better, to read “Autobiography of red” before reading this. Maybe some extra Greek mythology would help too.
But I enjoy the read, as it is a journey of word play, not just playing with words, but the structure of sentence, paragraph, visual effect, and sound, eventually, this is a prose poem, like the greek saga, should be listened.