Sunday, November 10, 2002

a saturation of color... when everything hits at once, when your eyes cannot hold back the tears, is when the forms start coming into focus. outlines shaded in yellow and mauve signal the end, and the start, of all that has been and all that will become. you want the shadows to remain, but they fade slowly, disappearing altogether into ethereality. the hour arrives, yet your memory lingers.

in the dark, things become clearer... what is invisible in the day becomes visible at night, when there is no light, but only poetry and petals, to guide you. i see in the blackness... warmth and solitude in the shape of a smooth landscape with golden fields and willow trees, the wayward breezes sighing into consciousness. in the wind --their leaves shimmering-- the branches enigmatically sway.

the leaves wink to me in iridescence, but my heart only beats faster.

i cannot wake up from this dream...

.. . . . ....... .. .. .. . . . .. .. . . . * ... ..








yesterday i spent most of my waking hours pacing the sidewalks of boston, taking shots of the grim-faced populace and imported fabrics of chinatown. i felt alive, independent, courageous on my own two feet. i haven't felt this way since i canvassed the city like a true bostonian this summer, gliding down newbury, strolling through the commons, taking a detour into south end. craving... invincibility among the elements of the street and of the world beyond.

it's comforting that i have not lost that power.

in chinatown on saturday, i ate lunch happily at best cafe, situated right next to china pearl on tyler street. i sat alone [yes, party for one] on a plain, formica table, watching the waitresses giggling amongst themselves and customers bantering like regulars. as i watched the women assemble the dishes one by one at the single kitchen-counter, seeing their floral aprons and tired smiles and sprinkled scallions made me very happy. i am not sure why. an old man with thick black-rimmed glasses, an old baseball cap, and a hairy mole on his upper lip sat in the next table, facing me, his head buried in his bowl, the chopsticks darting in and out of view, a chinese newspaper lying helplessly by his right arm. i mirrored him as i slurped my beef noodle soup, the soft white strands slipping from the sticks, the bites of meat rimmed with gelatinous tendons, the broth warm and salty down my throat. soup had never tasted so delicious, so mine. my camera sat patiently by my left elbow, untouched, taking in all of the scene through its lens, preserving the moment in its dark box forever. she remains my auxiliary eye, silent and comprehensive and honest. my thoughts drifted back to china and all the wonderful dishes i consumed on the crowded streets of beijing and the sugar-sticky snacks of shanghai.

i drifted for quite a while. my teapot was empty before i left the cafe.

the unexpected transformation was to follow: you can see for yourself. before and after, left and right: three dimensions into four. the suns sets in red-violet.



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