It feels like there's something important here; an idea, or feeling, that I've touched upon before but which seems to be central to the moment described here. Primarily, though? I don't know what the hell is going on. And I can't say that's a place I've been in very often, actually.

---

And that if memory recur, the sun's
Under eclipse and the day blotted out.

Yeats' words, the conclusion to a stanza that was emblazoned in my mind from the first time I read it. I always liked the beginning of the stanza, because it was so direct in asking one of those fundamental questions of life, one that was locked somewhere within my mind yet was awoken the moment I read the poem. As with music, poetry needs to be revisited to be fully understood, I think. These last lines were certainly powerful when I first read them, but I never fully appreciated how True they were until recently. They now seem less a poignant, poetic turn of phrase than one of those amazing encapsulations of a moment, of a memory, of a feeling. This discovery is one positive to take out of the experience that follows. There are more, so there is a happy outcome after all, you might say. But we will have to encounter sadness along the way.

I was sitting on the grass, generally bored but otherwise content with myself, which in hindsight was the perfect setting for an epiphany; as attested by the great literary tradition, life finds the most unexpected moments to catch up with you. I made an innocuous glance at the horizon and caught a glimpse of her face for a second, maybe less. That moment was a sensation I have rarely experienced: it was a flood of memory, desire, possibility and destiny. (I think; I cannot deny the possibility that it was the worst possible combination of all, sadness & madness, both of which I seem to be prone to!) I have been trying to analyze each of these aspects ever since, because the point of most of my writing (as I see it) is to capture and understand moments. Sometimes I am successful, and mostly I manage to at least convince myself of the meaning of the moment, if it doesn't come across in what I write. This time, though, I'm not even close to figuring out the first thing about it. But let me at least try to analyze the following natural queries: what happened next? And what does it all mean?

The first, possibly disappointing, answer: the followup to my epiphany was fairly predictable. Quite simply, after the second or so spent in shock, I couldn't bear to look any longer, and looked away to try to pretend I didn't care. Whether I was worried that my inner thoughts would be visible to the outside world, I don't know. (Anyway, I needn't have bothered, because I seem to have the gift of infinite suppression, so no one batted an eyelid.) I ended up playing with the grass and waiting for the moment to pass. Which of course it did, blessedly, but if only that were the end of it all. Indeed, should it need explicating, unlike the swathe of people before me, what I related above is all there is to the tale: there is no dash to talk to her, no courtship, and certainly no resolution. But let's hold that thought for the moment, there is more.

To answer why the moment was important, let me first sweep away the naive reading, namely that I was immediately smitten or something of the sort. Ok, maybe a little, but more fundamentally, no. This was deeper. A memory was at the heart of it, and seeing her face was like seeing the past rise up and stare at me accusingly. (I'm reminded of the opening page of Norwegian Wood, where Toru lunges forward in his seat, breathless, unable to deal with the titular song that is playing because of the memory associated.) As I hinted above, though, the moment was double-edged; I said memory and desire, with the latter being fused both with the past and present. Put simply, whatever pain the past (unresolved) desire provoked was equally matched by the wild hope that standing before me was my second chance. One chance itself is something to marvel at; a second, well, that's enough to question whether one is living a dream. I'll admit it, desire is a strong force, especially when it is forged from an epiphany: stronger than hypersensitivity, maybe. So while I might have done nothing at the inception of the moment, when this apparition stood before me, now that time has passed there is a temptation to explore the matter further. What exactly that entails, I don't know, but good lord, do you know how many times this has happened? Twice, maybe, being optimistic. (I told you, this is big!) It's why I wonder if I've lost my mind.

But let's not get carried away. If things don't fall in place, I plan to do nothing. Because, really, what is the argument to pursue such possibly callow feelings as desire? To validate a memory? To explore a road I once turned back on in the past? Such is my condition that it is questions that I ponder, rather than take any action. So in sum, it is just one party (two, if you count the ghost from the past) gliding through life as normal, and the other trying to figure out what one intersecting moment between the two means (if anything). Writing it like that makes it sound sadder than I intend. Clearly it's no cause for celebration, but still there is a certain quiet beauty to the event, is there not? I don't know if it's a strength, but I can internalize such losses and view them at a level of abstraction. You don't have to tell me that life isn't art, of course; but it seems that when the cards are against you, one may as well appreciate whatever is possible. You might think it's masochism to live like this. Sure. At the very least, though, things are not unpleasant for those who I have every reason to believe are fine people. Jilted and unrequited lovers might share similar passions to me, but one must admit that they sometimes hurt the object of their affection. I internalize all that. I don't know where this will leave me, but like the narrator of "Walk Away Renee", I'm not questioning the defeat - I understand, and hold no ill will.

That's hardly an appropriate way to end such a confused piece of writing, I know. I really don't want to give the impression that I'm once again hard-pressed by the world at large - that's so 2004. Whether my problems are imagined or not, self-created or not, I can only hope to draw positives from them. I agree that when expressed in writing, my internalizations might seem absurd, but understand that these are exercises in understanding myself; the absurdity is plain to me too. I assure the concerned reader that I don't value artistic suffering more than life itself. The moment addressed above still has not left me, and there are decisions left to be made, sure. Being the eternal pessimist, I do fear that pain is the likely lingering outcome from the entire episode. But I hope for brighter days, because I believe in them. And who would deny a man hope?

Why is it that these pithy introductions always end up disparaging the painfully direct writings that follow the bar? I don't know if I mean to distance myself from things that I fear are more true of me than I'd like to admit. Anyhow, no exceptions here. But I'll save the rejection of the writing, because I think it does that quite by itself.

---

Those fools gathered by the beaches, they'll stop you and tell you they know pain. Stuff all that; sit down by me, brother, and I'll let you know exactly what it's all about.

The continuity of experience and emotion can be devastating. I always look to art to give me some answers, but as much as I believe in its transcendence, sometimes it cannot escape its temporality. Oftentimes when I need it the most, such as now. Alas, the full force of its reality simply cannot come into its own.

So it goes once more this time. Memories, moments, laments, and lines, they all haunt me from years and years ago. It is never enough to simply best them once, because they seem all too eager to return as often as you like. One clearly needs to get to the root of the problem, but I don't quite see how to do that in this case. Without blowing up an entire universe, that is: it would take some nous for it to be otherwise!

There is little worse than making the right choice, but regretting it anyway. I won't pretend that I haven't felt like it might have been wrong at times, but as I sit here and try to keep from laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, it seems pretty clear to me what the right of the matter is. I'd love to tell the players involved of all the hurt I've felt over the years, but I made another choice too, and that one, I am afraid, was wrong. Perhaps, if I had spoken earlier, without worrying where it would have led, things might have been different.

The most harrowing of all lines from Cloudstreet are Fish's words to Rose, talking of being in that wide vibrating space, beyond all time, where lies all that is and will be. I sense this sort of detachment in myself, but don't know what exactly it means. Why does everything feel so passive? I am truly starting to feel older, and it deeply troubles me that I seem to exist in a different plane, outside of all time, like Fish. I picture all around me moving on to whatever it is lies ahead in their lives, and I sit here, the pathetic figure who looks only to past glories and those brief moments where there was the possibility of escaping this all. It all seems to be gone now. I sit alone with these memories, and the people in them forget as they live their lives. Why can't I do anything about this...

I look upon these darling moments, and think it such a shame that they should all be to waste. Would that things could be different. Yet this world of ours cannot revolve around a will, no matter how earnest the person behind it, nor the tears he may shed wishing it otherwise. I hope you do not take that for bitterness, because I would like to think it is my only display of wisdom in the entire matter.

He had to slink away from the board as the instructor, rather indifferently, pointed out that it was pretty much all wrong. He just made a deferential smile and walked back to his seat, but not before something in the whole scene really got to me. I don't really know why his face, with its mildly embarassed expression, left such a strong impression. It was more than pathos, I am fairly sure. It conjured up a history of a life, so beautiful and simple, and suggested so much innocence and naivety that I felt it validated some of my intangible theories about existence and meaning.

Naturally, I cannot explain what these notions are, precisely, but my intuition tells me they are important. I am grateful to have moments like this that suggest something a careless eye might not see. While my impressions of them may be obviously rooted in an impossible world of fantasy, I assure you their resonance is very much real.

Moments now gone
They can be brought back, it's true!
But alas, how I wish
The same could be done to you.

Fascination Street

It was a rainy June day when I saw her in the distance, twirling an umbrella decorated with imposing dragons breathing fire, one that seemed to have no effect in appeasing the downpour. Yet it did protect its owner from the rain with its life, like some divine shield that broke each raindrop on contact. It was as if there stood a perfect invisible wall around her. She was in a lime green kameez that saw not a drop of water, and was making slow, measured steps along the footpath. There were tales about Judy, the mystical beauty from some faraway land, but I never did pay any attention to them. My interest was always in her aura - her appearance always seemed incidental.

I asked her once why she wore the local dress, and she said that she wanted to fit in, but also that she thought it very pretty. On that day, seeing her moving as a column unaffected by the tears from above, I noticed the floral patterns of her dress, and I think it was the first time I saw why people thought her beautiful. But there is a deeper force at work here, I told myself. I found myself struck with the desire to acknowledge these powers, hoping not only to appease them, but also to ensure that the story would not be forgotten. In the years to come, I told myself, people will speak of an enchantress from another land whose presence brought good luck to all who came across her path.

This was many years ago, and sadly today there is no sign of the revelation dawning on those around me. It was not many days after I saw her in the rain that she left abruptly, some say back to her native land. I would coyly try to find out more details, but no one seemed to have any. And so, Judy lives on as a phantom, walking along the footpath on a rainy June day, splitting the waters in two.

Ten years ago, I never knew what you looked like. When someone told me it was you, that it was really you, I will admit that I stared long into your face in the disance. But please see nothing more in that than what it was - I was just trying to see traces of the things you had said, to find them embedded in your eyes, your hair, your bemused smile. It seemed impossible that you were the one who said those magical things, the one who proved that heaven was within our grasp. I never imagined that there was a face behind those things; you were always like a spirit drifting around my head.

Yes, all this, but I still could not bring myself to say a word. It was only out of respect, you realize. And yes, there was probably more, but let us talk of it another day.

I think that to nearly any other person in the world, it would hardly be a memorable day, but I seem to revel in celebrating the non-descript. There is a problem then in attempting to capture the overwhelming beauty of what others take to be meaningless, and I run the risk of sounding like a fool (a role, thankfully, that I am used to playing). I suppose that's the way it’s always going to be; what's intensely memorable to me can seem to be laughably trivial when spelt out in words. No matter how powerfully persuasive one’s writing is, there are always some things that transcend succinct encapsulation. This is especially true with matters of a spiritual nature, which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, is how I occupy most of my time.

There have been numerous occasions when I've tried to assert that there is so much beauty in this world for one to appreciate, yet I've never been totally convincing, even to myself. I’m quite certain that nearly everything in this fair world can strike my imagination on a particular day, and make me so struck with it that I am inspired to express myself, such as with this piece of writing. This is understanable enough, but what's perilous about it is that I put myself in a particularly vulnerable position every time I attempt to open up and speak of beauty. It's true that these expressions are the result of some truly profound moment in my day that really speaks to me, and as such I tend to hold them close to my heart. As such, when such powerful sentiments are put into writing, by making a false step in my writing, it is as though I am blighting the sentiment itself!

I sometimes think it all very odd though, when at some arbitrary point of the day my mind drifts and begins to focus on the curious matters of life. Whether or not this foible is shared by the rest of the world I’ll never know, but it does make me ponder how others perceive me. I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve sat staring aimlessly into space, filling my mind with strange, fanciful notions, and suddenly becoming aware of this. At these points, I look at the faces around me, and wonder whether anyone would believe that the person they see in front of them is capable of such thoughts. I wonder whether they'd believe that I am capable of viewing the world in the way I do, with an almost detached air of curiosity. Admittedly, I can't see anyone else think like I do.

On this particular day, I don’t remember much of what ensued in my morning and evening. It must have been sometime before lunch that I started to feel genuinely content. Lord help me if I sound out of my mind, but it was as though for a moment I saw my place in this universe, and gladly accepted it. Rationally reconsidering such a statement would of course lead me to state it was little more than some nebulous philosophizing, yet that would be inaccurate; as I mentioned earlier, there is an element of futility in discussing these things.

A waft of gentle breeze greeted me, and played on my eyes for a while. Temporarily distracted, I looked out the window and was greeted by a tranquil blue sky. I realize it sounds overly dramatic if I say that I saw the infinite capacity for beauty in the world, but that is in fact the truth. I told myself that there was a point to it all, and that it is beauty. I took out a book, having an intuition that this was the perfect atmosphere to read, and with the hope that the words would carry special meaning. The first page read:

"But every man is not only himself; he is also the unique, particular, always significant and remarkable point where the phenomena of the world intersect once and for all and never again. That is why every man's story is important, eternal, sacred; and why every man while he lives and fulfils the will of nature is a wonderful creature, deserving the utmost attention"

At that point, it didn’t matter just what was being said. No, all that really mattered was the spirit of it all, the soft, subdued yet overwhelming force that was exuding out of it. The ghost of Huxley reminded me not to take art too seriously, and I nodded, but there I was on an entirely different level of appreciation. The words sprung off the page as though they were being written at the very time I was reading them! I was reminded of another old friend who managed to capture my precise feelings at the time:

"And each and every one of them words rang true and glowed like burning coal,
Pouring off of each page, like it was written in my soul"

Through one of my fictional creations, I once remarked indirectly that I hadn’t cried in a long, long time, but when I said that I had associated crying with sadness. But thinking about that little window of time where everything fit into its place, I think I can come close to shedding a tear of joy. Again, I come off as overly dramatic and far too romantic to be taken seriously, but with matters so close to my heart, I find it hard to be any other way.

I think I'm growing delirious.

---

I can remember
That moments never die
When I notice a small smile
Blossoming on your lips
Because then, for a moment
I can forget.