remains of the beginning of day

3 slices of toast
3 slices of ripe papaya
2 kinds of cheese
half a bottle of lemon concentrate
coffee, dregs
some thin slices of carrots
half a glass of water
two dogs, pretending to go back to sleep
the quiet of the morning
faint imaginary sounds of birds
sound of a leaving plane
occasional sound of rain drop on some roof
a faraway dog bark
















 
 

the orange of stones

my mother was a practical woman.  or maybe there was not much room for dreaming at the time when she was young when she had me and my sister.  a lot of time was needed to keep alive.  i've heard we've moved into war-torn place/s although she and father never told stories about it.  i've heard about long walks and trucks, but always as a word or two like the brief back of a person before she or he closes a door.  i've never knocked.  it is not in the family to ask questions.  although one time, on a clear day when i visited mother and we were outside the house, sitting on white hand-welded metal chairs, she told a story without asking. why she left the union. it was very brief. it ended before anyone could join the table.  

on essentialism and selves

possibly not the same person who takes the foil and the épée and point at another's chest to kill.  for sport.  a physical version of another involving the killing of hundreds and millions in several stages until one's own pawn becomes greater than another's king.  plans for war.  kill time while sharping the mind.  possibly 

not the same person who tends the basil, the tarragon, the wild mint, the parsley, the dill.  who takes time to watch the sunrise glow and dreams of sea.  not 

the same person, angry and a vise, who throws without regret, lines, lives.  not the same one who collects.  memories and serenity, joys in souvenirs.  the one who sings with a guitar and writes

the world as it is as is, and life as is, it is. 

dear hans

in less than forty lunch conversations, surely we will agree.  although there hasn't been any disagreement to begin with.  in the first place.  there will never be any argument.  between two people who refuse.  seeing the same wide array of hues:  such things:  diversity, plurality.  the multiplicity of lenses with which to view reality.  for instance.  take any fantasy.  and let lilia draw hers to recreate it.  give her a piece.  of manila paper.  some crayons.  and when the paper tears, the wrong crayon used, refuse the explanations.  insist on phenomenology.  how things are, as perceived.  as the way it is.  how we both see her:  treading on eggshells.  how she is asked.  as again.  as again.  as again:  what is your awareness?  

we do not interpret, hans.  keep your memories of munich. 

we do not insist personal realities.