The silent interval prolongs till the last order is taken.
– When are you going to propose to me?
– Not yet. We need the right timing.
Another quiet period extends over the last dish. The waiter comes and asks to clear the table.
– Could we have some more minutes?
The waiter says he understands and retreats to the kitchen.
– So it’s time and I…
By the time the school girl in uniform bends down and picks up the trash and puts into the bin; and the fairly-dyed-hair woman nods to (seemingly) the man in a low neck blouse that reveals his bra strings; and the father stops the baby car as his wife murmurs some comments; and the elder women falter at the intersection; and my stomach growls for its destination, a little ordinary peace hatches.
THE DAY YOU CAME
It had been me and the levee, only. I had silently followed its path, completely ignorant of anything else. If I had ever noticed anything, perhaps, it would have been the dark damp dusty substance occupying the space around us – me and the lonely levee. Then you came. I started to recognize the trembling of the grass to the intermittent touching of the wind, the cement-friction dragging sound of joggers’ feet, the clumsy bike headlight making zigzag on the ground to each rotation of its squeaking chain, my embarrassment, excitement and edginess. And your lips. I quickly steered you into a matsuri.
I whistled to the stray cat. It was a white furry one. I coyly walked and stopped and turned around and signaled it to follow my lead. By the threshold of the entrance door to my building, I looked at it for the last time with the most kittenish glance I could garner; then I disappeared. Since then, all my lovers had always led me to their doorsteps before they turned me down. Cats, supposedly, have nine lives and possess magic.
Salmons can swim upstream. So can I walk against the flow of adults. With little bother, I maneuver through the stream of salarymen/officeladies swarming in from all directions. The horde of kids, however, always catches me in an impasse. They stampede in no direction and block all possible courses of walking I can fathom.
AFTER THE ZOO
They were lazily grazing; some liberally dropped some dung. I fancied the carefree way of life the elephants led so much that I wished I would become one. The next morning, I found myself roaming my own bedroom on four legs while swinging my trunk constantly. I fled the house before my mother woke up. “I am sorry, mom“, I groaned to myself, “despite this new body mass, I can no longer take the responsibility for our home“.
Contentment can come in many shapes, one of which is vacuum. A tube is by design hollow, and we need it to be hallow. One day, I woke up to this emptiness and felt no bother. It was as if I had opened the letter box and found nothing – not even the many spams cramming in daily; as if tranquility had sealed the aperture.
– This is the road, go straight
– To where?
– Just go!
– Umm… thanks.
After a few steps on to the road, I already feel exhausted. It is horrendously tediously flat and I have no idea when it is going to end.
– “A funny side up please.”
– “That’s cute”, she chuckled, “So would you like your sunny side up with coffee or tea?”
– “No, a funny side up. As in life.”
– “Oh, here you go”, she handed over a book whose every page had only one line printed ‘This page is intentionally left blank’.
The Philosophy of Bad Decisions
On hearing a particular person exquisitely utter “bad decisions”
A bad decision is a course of action one intends to take, which results in a bad outcome.
The opinion-descriptive attribute of a decision is based on its result. One can only determine whether a decision is bad or not is when one has already made it and experienced the outcome. At that point the decision has already transformed itself into implementation. Therefore, the bad decision only existed in the past, but it only comes into being at present. As soon as any judgment is cast upon it, the decision, good or bad, vanishes from this current tense of speech. In other words, a bad decision exists before it is created.
The quality of a decision is not predictable. When we say “that’s a bad decision because if you do that it will lead to a catastrophe”, we apparently try to foresee the outcome of the action, not the decision itself. We judge the outcome. If the predicted outcome is bad, we theoretically assume the decision is bad. Yet, the decision has not been made and by principle there has been no result to base our judgement on, hence a bad decision has not been established.
What’s of the past stays in the past. So do bad decisions. One cannot know if a decision is bad until one has implemented it and at that very moment the decision ceased to exist. Thus, there’s no point in trying to evaluate a decision too meticulously at an early stage. The analysis of situations and forecast can help avoid the happening of bad decisions. However, the truth is you can’t make a bad decision before you have already made it, and when you have made it the bad decision itself has gone. So be scared of no unmade decision.
One day, a curtain was shut with an unattended fold on the right corner. It left a small aperture where the sun light started to crawl in. Happy as little children found a broken door to the old house on the hill, ray after ray sneaked in to discover the mysterious place in exhilaration. They crammed the room and warmed it up. The walls had forgotten how glittering they could get reflecting the sunbeam. So did they forget the benign touch of the outside brilliance.
This alcove of muggy air trembled in such joy it shook down the other curtains too. The more sunlight it got exposed to, the more heated the air grew, to the point that it turned into plasma swirling tenderly in iridescent flows. The passionate substance overflew through the windows, spreading affection to other boxes. The whole system’s moonlight-silver radiance ebbed to give space for the fresh gilded sparkles.
The goblin tried to hang the curtains back on, but I decided to keep it that way. I thought it would be a good idea to let the colors explode. Once.
In the dungeon, the muggy air swirls slowly. It is dark but not pitch dark as a starless night. On a late summer day, the breezes caress your skin till you fall asleep on the bench at the park. You wake up to realize it’s already past the dusk and you try to figure out the trail home. That kind of dark is the dungeon.
The humidity comes from the vapors that nearly fall back to its liquid form but quickly rise up as gas again. They never escape the dungeon; nor can new water elements come join. The humidity is itself, turning itself into itself time and time again.
The dungeon has been like that for a decade, since the day the goblin came and closed all curtains.
The human body is, observing from another dimension, composed of boxes. There are boxes for every function that in our world, or looking from our ordinary dimension, gets embodied as organs. The head is a box, the lungs are a symmetric box made up of two hemispheres, the heart is a box with only windows and curtains.
Some people in history had this special ability to see through this other dimension, which allowed them to create bizarre images of the human bodies. Have you ever wondered why Picasso painted the women in cubes and box-like structures? Yes, he possessed the ability to witness that box-shaped warped in with normal anatomy. Such an ability is a gift his goblin bestowed upon himself.
I cannot tell you much of other boxes, but the heart is a special one: the only with windows in every direction and curtains hanging over them. You may argue the eyes have windows too (as the common phrase states they are windows to the soul), but they do not. Eyes have pinholes. How about the mouth or the ears? Those boxes have one side totally open and no windows.
You may believe me, or may you choose not to. It’s up to you. The existence of the box structure in the other dimension stays beyond your belief. That you cannot see it does not negate its righteousness. I have never observed those boxes. My knowledge of them came from the goblin’s mumbling every night, which like raindrops dribbles on my brain stone for so long it has carved a dent filled with unearthly stories.