serendipity met me today. i sat at the bus stop with a gigantic A1 sized folder (actually it was slightly bigger than A1 because it was for keeping A1 paper, which makes it all the more gigantic and hard to carry around), feeling proud of myself that i had lugged the thing from the art room and out into the bus stop. a minute later an elderly but fit man walks by, stops in front of me and:
man: darlin' i don't think you'd be well waitin' fo' the bus he', they've blocked off the roads from there *points behind him* to up there *points ahead*. even i had to park me car round the corner!
Oh okay that sucks i say, stand up and start to walk. we walk together. You in art school? he asks. Yeah, i say enthusiastically, smiling. A bit of an artist meself, he says, More of a cartoonist really, i really enjoy drawing cartoons. he smiles, seeming reminiscent of drawing. I tried to get me work out once, he says, To a friend. I was just seventeen then! he exclaims, beaming. i can't help but keep smiling at what is happening while i walk and watch this man talk to me about his passion for drawing cartoons. It was well near impossible to get work out then, he says. Not a lot of opportunities. i ask him what he ended up doing and he says he became a draftsman. BORRRRIN', he drones, and laughs, and i laugh with him, and he says, But i'm retired now.
and suddenly he's walking a little further and i realize we're going in different directions. he is turning left while i go straight. Well you take care, dahlin'! he calls, waves, and continues his way down the road. It was really nice talking to you, i call, and i watch him walk away for a while before picking up my pace.
then i walked through a car crash site - the reason why roads were blocked - and went on home.
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last night:
2202. you can't quite nail what makes the tears fall right now.
maybe it's the empty feeling in this house. emptiness caused by laughter you're not a part of. conversations you hear from up in your room. the cold that seeps through concrete walls and glass windows. the collection of unread books on the shelf. the little marks of bronze spraypaint on the desk you use now, the same desk you used for late night artscapades in the corner of your room in manila, reminiscent. the shapeshifting of the inanimate - cupboards doors floors and ceilings windows and blinds three layers of blankets - from familiar to unfamiliar, juxtaposing your mood accordingly. your bed in the top bunk that's almost never made, the bendy lamp that doesn't have a proper mount, the untouched notebooks at the bottom of your wardrobe.
maybe it's eshita telling you about the new boy she likes and how he was seeing someone but made a move on her, and she liked him; and how it reminds you of you. Don't get into the boat, you say, I'm in it and it's no fun at all. the ripples that become huge waves that make you seasick. he knows how to play with words. time is all he'll ever need. it will be better soon, i miss you, i haven't read in the longest time you used to make me read give me a list of some good books? he knows what words do to you. you told him. Forget me, you said, nineteen hours before depature.
maybe it's the battle with anxiety. the thought that your life isn't completely in your hands. the thought that any frustration now is and will ever be fruitless. the feeling of smallness. the little cry, It's all You. in the leaf-less trees and the sunny rain-clouded sky. in the cold wind that kisses my cheek. in the raindrops that find their place on my glasses. in the paint that is stuck in my fingernails, in the photographs i take with freezing but eager hands. in the silence. in the warmth that comes after i've been under the sheets for a while. under the wings of flying birds, in yellow and red leaves that still hang on and dance with the wind, under the wings of flying birds. in the school i will find myself in after two years. in the words i write. in the words love writes across seas and timezones and white screens. in yesterday, today, tomorrow, and the day after and an eternity after that. under the wings of flying birds.
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(integrating the online identity because it's not good for me to keep all these incongruent web pages.)
