I recently had the a rather intimate exchange with a mysterious and delightful creature, and couldn’t help but to share some notions that were inspired by this meaningful event:
“The Moth comes out at night in search of the Light. The night represents the darkness of ones own ego and the pitfalls that accompany it. Moth recognizes that it cannot find its answers in the dark, so it seeks out any form of light to illuminate its heart. The Moth teaches the symbolic meaning of following the Light like it follows the Heart. In fact, the Moth’s light represents the “Light of Heart” that guides all souls along the quest of their destiny. As the Moth follows one light to the next, it sees the mirror of its own heart in the darkness, and remembers that there are no answers in the ego, no matter how many ways the ego may represent itself.”
—universe of symbolism.
“Only by taking yearning to its mortal limit can youth be wholly known.”
Turn your love way up inside
I know you like to hide away
Keep your head down, sleep the day away
You’re left in such a state
Keeps me so inclined
Just you turn your love way up inside
Now we got back, darling, don’t you wanna know
A little too soon, still a little bit soft
If I could make that bond, we could get to the bottom
It’s just you turn your love way up inside
Yeah, there’s always something
Oh, to making it true
I used to, baby
I don’t feel the strongest singing my own songs
And I used to, baby
Now that I forgot all those things I’ve been forgetting
Now that I said all those things I needed saying
I will come back, I won’t mind
It’s just you turn your love way up inside
To making it true, making it true
Like I used to, baby
There was always something
Oh, to making it true
I used to, baby
I don’t feel the strongest singing my own songs
I try to refrain from writing in first person, for doing so, personally, tends to alter the weight of words—as in, the text begins to sound verbal, conversational. What is the point of writing when one writes as he speaks?
Then again, there is not too much purpose in furnishing up an idea so superfluously so as to fall into the trap of ostentation. Honestly, as a human being (and therefore in possession of inescapable, innate egotism) I simply find it easier to get my thoughts across in first person.
Lately, between daily obligations, I have been settling for less and posting more pictures than this blog deserves; I am no photographer; my pictures are shallow. Critically, they would only be worthy of publishing unless I devote equivalent amounts of effort to their creation as I do to my writings.
Confession # One: my photos frustrate me—I only post them (for the most part) to perpetuate and satisfy the much unneeded urge for instant gratification: something the modern society has been very effective in opening people’s appetite for.
Will we, in time, learn to submit to the notion that significant progress, change, and accreditation has to occur gradually, through processes? As true affection require spans of time to solidify?
Confession # Two: A personal favorite:
Originally heard in the closing credits of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (2011 film adaption).
(you can sod it and go elsewhere if you cannot handle any spoiler that follows: watch the movie)—
Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross couldn’t have picked a more adequate song to wrap up the story, in which the protagonist Lisbeth, who’s spent her entire life not trusting anyone, bearing nothing but scar tissues, finally crossed path with someone whom she deemed righteous and harmless enough to confide in—only to eventually discover that, despite everything she did, from saving his life to rescuing his career, he was incapable of returning any sense of mutual affection. The movie ends with Lisbeth driving off into the darkness, seemingly gone forever, void of any elements of the sensational “happily ever after.”
A good, powerful ending; one that does not relieve but urges the audience to tap into their own feelings and think on behalf of the character, to see and relate. The ending was essentially, the movie itself.
As the song played, one could imagine Lisbeth in her mind, beckoning for answers to questions she has both for him (Mikael) and herself: is your love strong enough? Are you worth living and dying for?
More in context, was Mikael the end to Lisbeth’s suffering? Could she, through a trust in him, be capable of happiness for the first time in her life? At that point, anyone having been attentive would be aware that Lisbeth knew the obvious answer: having gone through her life, as difficult as it was, in which everything seemed to betray her, how could she be so foolish to have trusted anyone in the first place?
As such, the placement of this song more deeply acts as a rhetorical outcry to the viewers—I felt the lyrics interrogating the more elusive aspects of myself, almost doubting the integrity of the presumably established strengths of my own emotional boundaries—just how far will I truly go and how much I would sacrifice for someone to whom I hold dear? Do I have what it takes to care for anyone more so than I do for myself? I once thought I did, but this song made me think twice: was it self-deceit in claiming myself able?
But personal connotations go beyond the intended picture: I found the song reaching into every aspect of my life, down to my willingness to live another dawn. Somehow, every time I hear it, I am further reminded that I can do much more, as life and everything in it deserves that much more sincerity and effort from me.
Confession # Three:
When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
“You really love your plant, don’t you?”
“It’s my best friend. Always happy, no questions. It’s like me, you see? No roots.” Chuckles, innocent and sheepish.
Hesitant, after days of neglect, you decide to set foot on the back porch; it’s been too long since you last checked on the tomatoes, cucumbers, and the flowers in their distinctive pots.
They have been left to the worst of this year’s blistering sun, as you have left the corresponding portions of yourself to catch dust. Oh, what have you done to these garden greens (among other colors)? You have abandoned them on your way to a mindless degeneration, and let them wither into each of their own desiccated hues.
Beautiful. We live as we die, alone.
How cruel. But a glint of true.
Don’t deny it. Accept, so then you can hope again.
Objectively speaking, these damn plants aren’t where they belong anyways. It’s not your damn fault that these damn plants cannot survive a damn week without any nurture. Either way they’d die on you. This backyard is…Simply. Not. Their. Natural. Habitat.
To be truly good, one must occasionally acknowledge his/her innate evils—the best detectives often think like the worst criminals. You like an occasional expression of viciousness, for it is brutal, malignant, yet nakedly human and therefore true.
Spill all the bad blood as you wish, but know your place.
Then again (return to your angels, please; every night, before bed, do it), phew…are these things not just like you?
They do not recall a place to go—their home lies right where you desire to place them—everywhere, anywhere, and nowhere. The fluidity of their comfort allows limits that extend beyond the confinement of any particular pot; all they require are the essential nourishments of life; you simply need to heed to them, here and there.
They are the seeds you sowed, now you take responsibility and look after them, for they are none but the very extensions of you.
In your recollection, how much you know of her perfectly coincides with the only conversation you’ve ever had together, in which she did the talking while you performed the juvenile, intimidated yes’s and nods.
Great grandmother was lying in her death bed when she directly spoke to you for the first and very last time.
No, no Hollywood death scenes where the person passing on gets to squeeze in a few sensationalized words before they drop dead. Father and I had to return to town, where he held a job as a university lecturer. The students couldn’t have taken long before their study in plant sciences became a farce at the hands of substitute teachers. She passed away roughly a month and half later.
“Young, get on an airplane and fly overseas; go be with your mother” she said, gesturing with her feeble hand, raised and slowly moving through the air, mimicking motions of flight.
To an eight-year-old, an elderly lady so often silent and solemn was unmistakably a figure to be feared; her outwardly stoic dispositions exuded a demand for old fashioned, almost hierarchal respect, the kind that intimidated. But when her voice finally made its way to your ears, all your preconceived constructions of a harsh, strict old lady melted away.
She was stricken and sounded ancient, like the cracking of centuries-old, hollow branches. She was very sick and was on her way to an undoubtable decease, yet her words were clear as day, and infinitely warm—every single one of them spoken without a vestige of ambiguity, as if when she spoke to you, there wasn’t a second person in the world, and that all you had was her voice, which echoed and engrained itself permanently into your thoughts.
(be very, very careful of what you say to children—their sponges pick up certain things that will travel with them for life)
Mother. The Voice on the other end of the telephone. Early kindergarten memories: her long, sage colored dress in the summer; her studying through piles of paper; her getting on a train one day and seemingly disappearing forever.
Why would I have wanted to be with her?
Somehow, a few years later, what your Great grandma said manifested itself into a physical truth. Your memory is still blurry on the series of spontaneous events that abruptly led to it. It is only eerie because it was the last thing you had ever wanted.
Years of unexamined living, growing older, brushing off the ones who loved you, receiving hand-written letters and not having enough patience and perhaps compassion to deliver anything of equal value in return, have you not let your garden rot and become entangled with undesirable weeds? Leaving all the good wells to run dry and the youthful flowers to die.
What an asshole. What would the old lady think of this—her well-intended prophecy having been fulfilled, but what has become of the seed she had sown?
Father. Years later. Different university; different town—a long stretch from the where years before. Same occupation, a professor, or more humbly a teacher.
You see him most significantly as a gardener. He used to subtly praise them (he still does)—paraphrasing:
“Plants are reliable, given the proper nutrients and a suitable environment, they thrive—growing day and night to yield desired results—bearing fruits. They are efficient, unlike us humans, who rarely display signs of growth when our basic needs are satisfied.”
He used to squat next to his garden vegetables and study them, pruning them here and there, sometimes binding them to stick scaffolds to create order and induce upright extension. During crop season, he would visit them morning after morning, making sure they were well hydrated and in good development.
The old man smokes a pack a day; he used to (and sometimes still does) drink prolifically. For how much he puts his body into harm’s way, you cannot help but to envy him—how he undeniably sees a very special dimension in life that which you are doomed to overlook—how, there seems to persist a subtle yet insurmountable passion in his life, something that you are in a constant failure to maintain.
He loves and nurtures his garden, and its constituents love him back, each year blooming and bearing desirables past their expected portions. Your father’s garden is one of miracles. Why can’t you be more like your father in that aspect?
Perhaps, it’s an age thing. It is the only way you would prefer to rationalize it.
“If you really love it, you should plant it in the middle of a park—so it can have roots.”
*Face pauses. “Yeah.”
“You love playing with that. You love playing with all your stuffed animals. You love your Mommy…your Daddy. You love your pajamas. You love everything, don’t ya? Yeah…But you know what, buddy? As you get older, some of the things you love, might not seem so special anymore. Like your Jack-in-a-Box. Maybe, you’ll realize that it’s just a piece of tin and a stuffed animal. And the older you get, the fewer things you really love. And by the time you get to my age, maybe it’s only one or two things—with me, I think it’s one.”
—Staff Sergent William James speaking to his infant son. The Hurt Locker.