HOLD ON TIGHT

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT And when we were children, staying at the archduke's, My cousin's, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. ~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot Saturday, May 12, 2007 SQ21 They move amongst the sleepers, their cool, long hands fluttering. Their sarong kebayas dip at their backs, accentuating the nape of their necks, necks that appear as long and pronounced as those of birds. The hair, like smiles, takes months to perfect. Those who have learnt to smile, smile gracefully; their lips turn upwards like the limbs of a dancer executing a jete - light, air-borne, suspended, without wings. In other words, a miracle. Those who are learning, are still learning how to be the bearers of a miracle. Yet a smile is a heavy and fragile object, adopting the wrong method of lifting it will cause it to break and smash. One lifts a new born infant and blows fish kisses at it. “Why? Why are you crying?” she asks, dragging the consonants like an opera singer, hurling the vowels like a professional mourner, “Why? Why do you cry?” She is surprised each time she lifts a child. The weight of a child is light; yet it is eternally heavy. She straightens out its blanket and wraps it tight. Then she disappears behind the cabin curtains to answer the call of duty, leaving behind the child, calling and calling. She walks down the isles till his cries become lost to the faint hum of the engines. The blue is blue, and eternally blue. One presses his nose to the window, sees nothing, only the eternal blue of sky, uninterrupted, unbroken. Her gaze fills up the sky, in all entirety, owning and possessing the sky. In the distance, sunlight spreads, a faint red dye. One who is perpetually in the air, could boast of having witnessed a thousand sunsets and sunrises. The thousand of sunset and sunrises, all leading to this, and then this, and this. The sky is valuable in itself. As for whether it could be valuable with regards to anything else, it is uncertain. Afterhours, they wheel their luggage across the corridors. They laugh amongst one another, talking about the children on the flight, the bad state of the toilets, the men who asked to sleep with them. One takes a long drag at her cigarette. “It’s bad for the skin, you know,” one tells her. She listens, and laughs. The smoke rises with her laughter, thins out, in forgetfulness. In the distance, a burst of birds fills up the sky like fireworks. ps: im home. :) yes i took that flight home, along other strange biopolis people and many young children. posted by dawn # 1:05 AM Comments: welcome home!:) # posted by ericlow : 11:50 AM excellent! will be home soon! lets go out! # posted by coloured light : 3:55 PM hello eric!! hello nurul!! when are you back? :D # posted by dawn : 6:15 PM haha, i believe that amongst the strange biopolis people was sheo, cyril's partner. it is a very small world indeed. :) u still have my number? # posted by ericlow : 9:41 AM are you serious! he attended the seminar in boston! yes i have your number, i'll call. # posted by dawn : 10:53 AM Post a Comment << Home		[publishing] Publishers Weekly . Dystel & Goderich . New York Center for Independent Publishing . Association of American University Presses . Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators [people] clarisse . nurul . aunty zarina (ummi's bakery) . jeremy . pak . cyril . softblow . karen & kenny (booksactually) . eric . joel . [other loves] digitaljournalist . ballet dictionary . poetshouse . urbanwordnyc [me] dawn, singapore, new york city, ithaca. [yesterday] someone is playing a jazz trumpet in the quadrangl... michael corleoni and king edward (the prelude to t... when one has lived alone for a long time, the quie... little earthquakes The Wish as i threw down the trash down the chute today, i ... notes from the city i woke up this morning feeling ok, the sunlight wa... APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding facebook [archives] January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009

HE SAID, MARIE, MARIE, HOLD ON TIGHT

And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

~ The Waste Land, "The Burial of The Dead", Eliot

Saturday, May 12, 2007

SQ21

They move amongst the sleepers, their cool, long hands fluttering. Their sarong kebayas dip at their backs, accentuating the nape of their necks, necks that appear as long and pronounced as those of birds.
The hair, like smiles, takes months to perfect. Those who have learnt to smile, smile gracefully; their lips turn upwards like the limbs of a dancer executing a jete - light, air-borne, suspended, without wings. In other words, a miracle. Those who are learning, are still learning how to be the bearers of a miracle. Yet a smile is a heavy and fragile object, adopting the wrong method of lifting it will cause it to break and smash.
One lifts a new born infant and blows fish kisses at it. “Why? Why are you crying?” she asks, dragging the consonants like an opera singer, hurling the vowels like a professional mourner, “Why? Why do you cry?” She is surprised each time she lifts a child. The weight of a child is light; yet it is eternally heavy. She straightens out its blanket and wraps it tight. Then she disappears behind the cabin curtains to answer the call of duty, leaving behind the child, calling and calling. She walks down the isles till his cries become lost to the faint hum of the engines.
The blue is blue, and eternally blue. One presses his nose to the window, sees nothing, only the eternal blue of sky, uninterrupted, unbroken. Her gaze fills up the sky, in all entirety, owning and possessing the sky. In the distance, sunlight spreads, a faint red dye. One who is perpetually in the air, could boast of having witnessed a thousand sunsets and sunrises. The thousand of sunset and sunrises, all leading to this, and then this, and this. The sky is valuable in itself. As for whether it could be valuable with regards to anything else, it is uncertain.

Afterhours, they wheel their luggage across the corridors. They laugh amongst one another, talking about the children on the flight, the bad state of the toilets, the men who asked to sleep with them. One takes a long drag at her cigarette. “It’s bad for the skin, you know,” one tells her. She listens, and laughs. The smoke rises with her laughter, thins out, in forgetfulness. In the distance, a burst of birds fills up the sky like fireworks.

ps: im home. :) yes i took that flight home, along other strange biopolis people and many young children.

posted by dawn # 1:05 AM

Comments:

welcome home!:)

# posted by

ericlow : 11:50 AM

excellent! will be home soon! lets go out!

# posted by

coloured light : 3:55 PM

hello eric!! hello nurul!! when are you back? :D

# posted by

dawn : 6:15 PM

haha, i believe that amongst the strange biopolis people was sheo, cyril's partner. it is a very small world indeed. :) u still have my number?

# posted by

ericlow : 9:41 AM

are you serious! he attended the seminar in boston!
yes i have your number, i'll call.

# posted by

dawn : 10:53 AM