Rooms by the Sea, by Edward Hopper

I woke up when the sun was way up, and the morning fog had already cleared. White noise filled the empty rooms — the tide was out, and the sand was darkened by the receding waves. I got up, but you remained in bed, lying on your side, your back facing towards me. Smiling at the serenity outside the window and the stillness that lay in front of me, I poured myself a cup of steaming coffee. After a sip, I asked if you wanted one. You murmured, no.

You finally got up almost an hour later, and in the meantime I sat at the the kitchen table, reading something pleasant and nice. Once you were dressed, you took my hand and we went outside and walked on the water, feeling the wind and the ocean breeze. The soft oscillation of waves would occasionally reach our bare feet, tickling our toes with the cool water. And the sea — it was the purest blue, and the sky only a couple shades lighter, paling into a milky white as you gazed further upwards to the midday sun. The shore was far away now; and the expansiveness around us was not at all intimidating, but rather caressed us in a motherly way, rocking us to a warm, summer afternoon nap.

But there was no sleep, in a literal sense, that when we got back, and entered through the door into the dim interior, I still had an acute awareness that these walls — opaque and hard as they are, were still only temporary monuments to our insecurity. What is behind it? Perhaps, sometimes, it is you, brushing your hair, crying to your reflection in the mirror; just as I close my eyes from time to time, it is the same as when I close the door gently and walk away. And when there is a knock, which is rare, you could peek through first and see, the unconceivable ripples of things far away, and the silhouettes of what is near. Birds in the sky, fish in the sea, and the vague forms of companionship drifting beyond your reach.

I keep the blinds open, if only to let in some light. And I can stare outside forever while you sit opposite me and do some other things. Maybe you’re observing this wall, of which you imagine there being a picture frame, or a small table in front of it with a vase placed atop, or someone you once knew: standing there, leaning away, well-dressed and with an inviting look. I came from somewhere far away, and it has taken me a long time to get here, but I am glad to see you, he’ll say. And then you’ll run to him and embrace, leaving me to my little corner by the window, contemplating the whispering voices of the quiet sea.

Several Circles, by Wassily Kandinsky

An eclipse upon an eclipse comes; and it is nighttime, when stars expand and wishes come true. There is radiance, singular thoughts that fly by like flashing planes across.

The colors, they shake. They tremble, on the cusp of falling, the way the ancients feared the stars would — come crashing down in one great inferno after the next, seizing the land, taking it back to the endless sky.

But it is, in fact, my mind, I think, or wish, with perfect circles delineating where anger is, and where my angst and joy are. Looming, of course, is despair, though I can do little about it. However, not much is needed to illuminate darkness, to a certain extent — the view is nicest on the verge of darkness, when the bright lights linger on the abyss of another slumber-ridden night.

So many moons later (or before) or now, what remains of this careful construction of vividness, and amalgamation of private rooms of feelings? How some swell and others shrink, and a few inevitably disappear altogether, lost in a way, but still there as well. Because through the darkness, I can still imagine a cute, purplish orb hanging right there, gleaming with blackened light, with a lonesome gravity remaining.

We’ve gone into orbit by now, hustled in quietly without commotion. It’s so celestially serene, circling around this unknown and unknowable body. My arms reach out with tenderness, with callus, spidery hands — but they’re only points of light. My fingers slip right through. As it should be.

Since when did we thus marked ourselves so brilliantly and precisely? Even if they avoid our capture, several circles — it is what the universe is, in a strange sense, if you flattened everything out, and rolled it up carefully. So it goes with me, and probably you: we’re just messy maps, without a locatable purpose, without straight lines, full of nothingness, and a tiny bit of stardust.

Lepanto III, by Cy Twombly

Huge monoliths flank the sky, and a thunderous bass grapples the unstable ground. There is murmuring, swarms of footmen scattered and splattered across the plain, where men meet and shake hands with swords.

We’ve been here before, someone says. It is ominous; it is inevitable. But this time, we are fading. We have faded. But she disagrees, and above the whirling sound of wind, she exclaims, “the solitude is solid; so we will always have shape. We will always have form.”

The air is cold and sterile, and I’m shaking uncontrollably. The movement is slow but continuous, undisturbed by gravity and resistance. By looking, I feel compelled to shift to my right, to the edge and the fall. What is the point? The chasm looks so warm and chaste, and as I hold out my hand, the liquid flows, gushing down in a way my blood has ceased doing.

But we all bleed, she says, we all bleed the same, and when we fall, arms eagle-spread, bones bracing the jagged ends between sky and hell — what will remain, but streaks of fear elongated across the void in sickly hues.

We are faded; fated to step back to the background as we lose shape. Our unnatural children take shape, yes, unsmiling, building up to greater densities. Where do we go?

Indeed, the corners of existence await, if it could be called existence. We see it between the barrel and the eye, when we could step over the void, and see, if only for a second, the thing below us, binding us, shaken up to sift out the creatures we fear. And now everything is awash; I am abstracted and extracted — and if you could, lend out a hand, and be taken.

This is not a battle, but afterwards, when souls pass through and ghosts remain.

The Muted Muse

Sing the song, O muted Muse,

The one that begins, “tut tut tut,”

And ends, “toot toot toot,”

The one the robin sings on

Humid afternoons, glazed over by

Flakes of younger days dancing

Outside, the wind from the inside

Holding still, with a gasp and a clap

That brighter, more elegant days entrap.

Thus today (tonight) the trachea tears;

Cries coursing within you, emptied seemingly

Into some solid slumber.

Do you feel it? The aches and pains—

You and I sense it; how wonderful

How tragic—

Dance without a care in the world

Because you think catharsis is in

The air and the heated flesh around you.

Dance around yourself, to the muted Muse’s song.

You, the lamb. I, the blade.

Let us make this music together.

And when the song ends before it starts,

When the silence comes before the fall,

When spring comes and goes without a bloom,

Remember the song you heard

On that restricted night alone,

The one the muted Muse doth moan.

Kites

So they fly,

Rippling in the wind,

Bending towards the arc of life,

Swooping down to

Where we lie.

The Burning Man

Charles is younger now, younger than he ever has been. Not in a Benjamin Button way, but inside, you could feel it. Youth. Eternity. Not a fountain — but fire.

When he first woke up after the accident, he was weak as hell, barely able to turn his head on the hospital bed.

        -Do you remember what happened?

        -No.

He remembered nothing, it seemed, and neither did anyone else. When everything is lost, what do you do? Yes, you make shit up.

        -Do you remember what happened?

        -(nodding) Yes. I was burned.

        -How?

        -Terribly...terribly burned.

He made headlines. He was numerously interviewed by all types of personalities and qualifications. The hospital buzzed with curiosity and rumors. When his mother visited him, after flying in from Arizona, he looked happy. She looked endlessly concerned. Wrinkles were visible, and a routine scowl melded into an expression of profound sadness and grief.

        -Why do you look like that, mom?

        -I’m worried. And scared.

        -About me?

        -(whispers) Yes.

        -You always tried to control too much. It’s ok.

Everything will be ok. That sentences echoes everywhere. It was raining fire once, up in the hills of Colorado. A woman was screaming and crying. Her husband held her tight, weeping silently. And then an old woman, standing about ten feet away, told them those words. And the crying stopped. The rain of fire continued, but their eyes were now dry.

Don’t fight the burning. Burn now, phoenix. Burn now, and rise.

There were no burn marks, no visible injuries when Charles left the hospital, a little over a month after the incident. All smiles, but once he entered the familiar rooms and walls of his apartment, he felt a little empty, and deserted. Everything was quiet. Charles thought he could hear the crackling of fire in some phantom fireplace beyond the living room wall — where there was supposed to be nothing but insulation and invisible life.

An old friend visited in the afternoon. His name was Neil, and they knew each other since middle school. They sat around the kitchen table and chatted over coffee.

        -Been one helluva month, eh?

        -Something like that.

        -How are you?

        -I feel...youthful again.

       

His backache was worse, Charles realized, getting out of bed the next morning. The sun was out and it was already past 10am. All the cars were gone from the side of the road. He remembered very little of last night — darkness and flashes of round, yellow lights. Dancing. Noise. But that was all gone now, and almost completely forgotten. The window looking out of his living room out into the street was dirty, slapped with dirt and smog. Charles looked out and saw in the pale reflection a woman he once knew.

        -Can you see me?

        -If only I couldn’t.

This is many months later. Charles held out a knife; a simple knife, and raised his hand to his face. The knife shined in front of him, glimmering and teasing. He made a careful, slow incision across his left hand, from the bottom of his index finger to the diagonal corner on his wrist. Wincing — and the blood, aching, seeped out and dripped down, smoking, sizzling…

He burns from the inside. Charles discovered the stomachaches, the headaches — all persistent with new intensity and searing pain. He saw a doctor — and then several. He had a fever, for unexplained reasons, and bloodshot eyes that were menacing to look at. Endure, and let it run its course: down the river of fire, and the slopes of the volcano. Charles: from head to toe, cloaked in skin, concealing the embers of glory and immortality. Power. He clenched his fists in agony.

He is the burning man; the sacrifice, the saint, the martyr. It was no accident, nor it was any particular act of fate or of divine cause. People saw him for who he was, and what he represented. Charles spoke very little, partly because he did not need to. His pained expression told enough of persistence and courage, and when he held out his hands, everyone went into a frenzy.

        -He is amazing.

        -He is the embodiment of _____.

        -He is all, the everlasting.

But at home, Charles still felt insecure. The crackling of fire never ceased, hiding under the floorboards and behind the clouds. It drove him mad. You see, the sin, the other’s envy, full of wrath and gluttony. Charles knew this; the consumption of flames, undoused by water, like Greek Fire. Smoldering at the surface. Melting on the inside.

Charles checked himself into the hospital, a quarter past 2am on a Sunday night. He said his throat hurt. Or rather, he pointed at his throat as he was on his knees, forcing out raspy attempts at words. Nurses put him in a bed, and a doctor comes.

-What’s wrong.

-Me.

-...But where?

-( - - - - - - - - - - - - )

A long exhale croaks through, creating a stream of hot air, rising and blossoming out. He bleeds profusely, from both hands, and from the ankles. And like his crown of thorns, the blood burns. And like air, like death, he rises.

The Road

Are we there yet? Probably not, said he. Probably never will be, to be quite honest. Trees are rushing by, the grass blurs, its hues drifting between green and yellow. The car’s warm from sunlight sinking in through the tinted windows, and body heat — breathe in, breathe out.There’s no clouds out today, at least not now.

Where are we going again? You’ll see when we get there, he said, smiling, turning his head back to make brief eye contact. You’ll see. It’ll be quite a sight. Nothing you’ve ever seen before. He nodded to himself in agreement. The road is absolutely straight; the ground’s absolutely flat. Just identical trees lining both sides of the road, and an infinity of grass spreading on forever, changing colors every once in a while.

It hasn’t been nighttime for a while, it seems. The sun goes from the right side of the car to the left, but it never seems to ever dip below the horizon. Maybe it’s because I’m always asleep when it’s nighttime. But I don’t ever remember sleeping, or closing my eyes. I’m looking outside at the trees; the radio’s off, so only the sound of the tires on the road is present. Occasionally, he’ll whistle little, happy tunes to himself, but almost always he’s driving intently, head motionless, not making a noise. He never stops for gas or food or water or rest. Don’t bother me, he said, about anything. I’m fine — trust me, he said, sternly.

One time, the moon was out too, right next to the sun. The moon’s out, I said. Oh, he said. The moon is a symbol of hope, he said. His voice was flat and emotionless, but I was barely paying attention anyway; the moon itself was much more important. It waxed and waned quickly — new moons every two or three hours, it seemed, though it was hard to keep track.

Are we there yet? Probably, he said. I don’t really know, to be honest. The road is all the same, with the same surroundings. The car still hasn’t run out of gas. The clouds are still gone. Come back, clouds. If time has been passing all the same, and the clock on the car is accurate, it’s been over 26 days that we’ve been going nonstop. It sounds tiring, but it really isn’t — if feels like it’s only been a couple hours, or a couple of years. Nothing feels quite right — but it doesn’t feel tiring.

Are we dreaming? I don’t think so, he said. This is pretty real. He’s right. I’m running my fingers down the dark, leather seats, and then the door handle, which is locked, and then the smooth, hot window. Yes, it feels real. Pinch, and it hurts. Wake up! Nothing happens. I think it is real, I said. You bet, he said. Bet what? Everything, he said. Every penny, every possession, every memory, every pleasure, every pain, every grain of existence, every —

Where is everyone else? They’re probably dead — or waiting, he said. Probably a bit of both. He keeps driving, eyes locked ahead. No other cars are in sight. No birds, no other animals. No time to stop, he whispers to himself. No time, no time, no time. The clock has stopped working. It’s been 1:32 for many minutes now. Right now, it’s now and forever. Will we be here forever? I asked. Perhaps, perhaps not, he said. We’ll never know; we’ll always know. Trees continued rolling by — the colors of the grass has even stopped changing. Stillness, staleness, the car keeps going, but we’re going nowhere. He still looks ahead and whistles tunes while he drives down this road.

Are we there yet? Of course, of course, we’re here, he said. We’ve always been here, in fact. Shall we stop? I nodded, intently, and he smiled from ear to ear. He turned around, grabbed the wheel with both hands, and turned violently to the left. We barreled into a tree, with just enough time for me to remember what my name was, before everything turned green, and then black.