04.30.2013_Three walls

I am staring at the screen and I am not quite sure what I am supposed to do, or see.
I tried clicking on the screen several times and it is not doing much, and I wonder
(whether that is because I kept my computer on during past two days: I would let it sleep for a while and then log on again, let it sleep for awhile and then...)


I notice a phone number underneath the homepage screen so I called them to see what they do.

----calling-----

A soft voice tells me that it is a gallery and that the desk is now closed. She also tells me the important dates on which they are setting up artist talk and events.


-----------------


I think I am running out of patience.....my computer is so slow and I cannot concentrate on Three walls. I think about its name. three walls, that makes a triangle.
It makes a box that is not shut off, a semi open box that would invite things in.
If it is made of three walls, are they protecting something that is inside, or is it more like a pedestal on which something gets set up?
Three walls, three walls...

I think I actually need to shut it off and turn it on again. I think it is my computer.
Looking and reading a website is different from reading a book. You don't know what is going to interrupt your reading, and from where, or in what form.
That makes me weary of cyber world. I like my books. I like my pencils and paper.

----------------

Now I am able to click on something and it takes me somewhere.
I really don't like the font they are using....it is too.........inflexible......somewhat.

I like the image of a hand showing three unfolded fingers underneath the webpage and wonder why they are not using it on their menu....

[[[Mai & John]]]___Three thirty in the afternoon___(John's perspective)

written on 03.02.2010

translated on 04.25.2013



=



"John I have something to say."

So you say, and come in, without bothering to knock or anything.

"What's that."

What is it then that you couldn't say to me back then?

I asked you, you know.

"You took my ice cream, didn't you?"

Yes sure I did that.

"I like it with coffee. You didn't plan to finish it off on your own, did you?"

I remember. Her period is due pretty soon.

"You shouldn't eat stuff like that, you should eat solid food, you know.
What can you do without me eh?"

"Then cook me something. I'll eat."

You say that as if it requires a great deal of courage. You must have stayed at home the whole day, not saying a word all the while. Perhaps that's why.

"Got it."

I almost wanted to say that I need to finish reading this, but her face looked like it was almost sad enough to cry a little cry(but why?). That made me get up.
I almost left her there standing, but I got this feeling that if I leave her there she would really end up standing there like that until I come back for her. So I went back in and walked out of my room holding her hand. Her hand feels cold. That is unusual for her.

Our bare feet made slapping noises on the wooden floor, out of rhythm.


So we arrive at the kitchen, and I see her immediately walking towards a chair. She sits on a chair, hugging her knees. Miserable and pathetic, in one picture.

Oh, why is she like that, why?

I start cooking for Mai.
I light up the fire and boil away some chicken. I grab few vegetables from the fridge. I have a good feeling that I should feed her some rice, so I poured some rice into the soup. Maybe this soup will magically transform itself into a pot-full of risotto, but I shall see.

I turned around to ask Mai to wash some vegetables for me and I saw her

crying.

Not making a sound, not making a face
it was only her eyes that did the it,
tears fell, they just
fell.

There is a girl sitting in my kitchen
Doing crying.

The sight of such a girl crying in such a way stunned me,
so much so that I almost dropped the carrot I was holding.

Her eyes, red and soundlessly they
but
hey,
hey
hey,
what's wrong,

what's wrong.



She sort of laughed, maybe I looked funny, a carrot desperately held in my hands and my voice
stuttering. Or maybe she found herself funny.
That's too sad.


I didn't say anything though. I just stood there, my back to the boiling chicken things and in my hands, a carrot.
It was she who gestured to me to come closer. She smiles and she smiles shyly. That's what happens when you smile after crying.


"Come here, will you."

I put my carrot down and walk towards her and see her arms, stretching out towards me.
She looks like a tiny little girl asking her father to lift her up.
So I lifted her up, like a father holding up his tiny little girl.

Her eyes look down on me. This is new. Not bad. Her eyes are semi-open, which makes her eyes appear longer, filled with liquid. I see that her eyelashes are not dry yet.
Maybe she is done with crying or
maybe she is trying to keep it in, I am not sure. The moisture is dangling on the edge of her eyes.
I can see everything, looking into her from below,
I see you.

A pair of slender arms enveloped my neck.
I could feel her cheeks on my neck, wet.
I heard tiny whimpering noise, sort of trembling.

Now she is too close.
She crosses her legs around me like an animal climbing a tree.

What is wrong with you, because you say nothing, there is nothing that I can do for you.

I feel stuffed by that nothingness.
I feel stuffed,
stuffedand stuffed.




"What are you going to cook for me"


Her voice was low. So low it cracked. She does coughing for some time and then tries it again, what are you going to cook for me?

"What do you want to eat?"

".....something with soup."

"Chicken soup?"

"Yes. Without cream."

"Okay."

She looks satisfied with my simple answer. Her face is looking at me now, all exposed, not hiding at at.
I like that.

So you like my simple answer, my lady?
Well then you should try that yourself too, sometime.


"Sorry, I am heavy."

"Sort of killing my arms."

"I'm sorry."

"So tell me, what was it? Why were you doing that."


That question made her thoughtful for some time. She went why am I doing this why, thinking aloud, looking stupid. I cannot figure her out. Whether she is old and wise or simply
young and stupid.

"Why were you not there when I needed you?"

What is she saying,
telling me nothing.

"If you were always there, for me, it would be simple. I could simply believe that you will continue to be here, always here, next to me. It is hard for me to believe in it now. All of a sudden. It is hard to make a decision to believe in something new, you know. And I keep thinking that you could simply go away. But I want..."

I don't know what to say.
For still, she is not telling me everything.
There's pieces missing. But I know that I cannot put my fingers into her pockets and forcefully take things out. the missing pieces.
She needs to find time. She needs to find courage to finally let her own fingers turn the pockets inside out.
And finally get rid of all that, weighing her down.

I won't let that happen. I won't let her drown, but


All I can do now is to fold her in my arms and say I will stay. I will stay.
And make her
a bowl of chicken soup.











=




It's always more pleasant to write it in John's perspective.
He has an attitude that is neat and tidy. His mind moves carefully but not slowly.
I like that about him. I think this is a mode of thinking that I am trying out these days.


I changed the ending.

In the original text John was planning to ask her again, what it was that was troubling her.
He was determined to do so. But now he is not sure.
John grew into a patient man, in my head. Maybe he has grown a little, during that three years of time.

:-)

[[Longer something]]___Storyteller and his servant _take one

From the bottom of my heart,

I cannot really understand why I am having this urge to translate my stories now. In this time of the year.
I sit here, on the seventh floor in the computer room with my thesis thing and my thesis books, and I start writing translations of my stories. I mean what the -k?
My fingers go, right right, log onto your email, and instead of writing saic.edu my fingers end up typing gmail.com.
Of course, all the while, when I am writing away the un-thesis stories I feel like I am going to have a panic attack. It's very nerve recking and I keep consuming caffein and sugar because I feel like I am being hunted by something. I know that I would feel much better about all this if I stop here and start tending to my dutiful activities that is very MAT.
Yes.


-ck.


=




There is this story I have written some time ago, about a man who was a storyteller, a collector really.

So naturally he was a traveler too. He would pack his bags, his socks and a small notebook and scribbling tools and be off for days, for months.
He would come back though, always trail back his days and months and stand in front of his front door again. The door would be soon opened by a pair of hands, that belonged to his servant.

She recognized his footsteps before she could see him. Sometimes she wouldn't be at home, she would be out buying vegetables or tending his modest garden(they had an apple tree) that she would miss his humble return.
She would come home, and open the front door, and smell him. It was smell of an old body that was exhausted and torn. Smell of salt and stink. She would follow that smell and find him reclining in his armchair or asleep on the floor. She would feel a pang of guilt rising in her heart at times like that. That angry guilt would get translated into the gentleness of her hands that took off his shoes and socks.
She would see him clutching his notebook in his arms. That tattered little thing. It was almost a part of his body, worn and tattered. She wouldn't touch it.

He liked to share stories with others. When he finds himself in a place and time where he is surrounded by people, he would seldom talk about himself. His worries or his health.
He would listen with his arms folded, and as to respond to what is given, carefully pick out a strand of story and offer it to the speaker. It was almost as if he is braiding a woman's hair. Dark, lustrous hair being caressed and warmed by his hands, his voice, braiding different strands of stories into one delicate mess.

Some people would go home carrying his stories in their hearts, like shining little pieces. Others wouldn't see them shining. But how they shone.

Often people would wave their hands at him, and walk away, saying, I don't have time for things like this, and he, he would be left behind, standing there.
He would stand there and stare at the absence of the person that was left behind, with him. He would look utterly exposed at times like that, with eyes of a child who was hurt by the careless words of an adult for the first time.
He would always come home though. Bleeding and staggering he would come home. His servant would open the door, and welcome him home. She would take off his shoes and take off his socks. She would warm the water for his bath, and fill up the bathtub. For him. He would sit in his armchair, with his eyes closed, listening to the sound of the water being poured.





=



to be continued.

hopefully when everything's over,
thrown over my shoulders.

[[short something]] not yet

written on 10.14.2009

translated on 04.25.2013



=



Your eyes shone like glass beads. Nothing's reflected on the surface. I couldn't see myself in there.

I was thinking such thoughts, as I crackled a lollipop in my mouth.
How does one arrive at such pair of eyes
What happened to you
were you hurt a lot
any scars left
why do you let your hair down so low
to hide what

 It was a side profile that I have seen before. Wind was blowing and
your hair flapped and flapped against your face. Your hands gathered them together, a little too quick a motion, it let me guess that you were embarrassed.

That's when our eyes met.
You recognized me and I recognized you.
We've met before. But not as friends. Not yet. I was thinking about saying hello and
the wind stopped. Your eyes hid behind the long hair of yours.

Hidden under, you walk away,
that way.

I hesitated
to move but to which way? I wanted to walk
that way, with you.
But I hesitated. But I wanted to walk along with you and get rid of that long hair of yours.

Instead, I didn't move at all. Now I sit here and taste the sweet liquid inside my mouth.
Whether you have really recognized me, was something I was no longer sure of. I couldn't ask whether you knew my name nor no.
Will I see you again, though, probably. We go to the same school, after all. But could I once again
make your eyes meet mine. That is something

I don't have any answers to.









=

[[[Mai & John]]]___Three in the afternoon___(Mai's perspective)

Conversation between Mai & John

(three in the afternoon)

written on 03.02.2010

translated on 04.23.2013






=

- What is love to you?    


Midori      Let's say, I tell you I want to eat strawberry shortcake,
                  and you drop everything and run and buy it for me.
   
                And you come back out of breath and give me the strawberry shortcake.
                  And I say, "I don't want it any more," and I throw it out the window.
                  
                  That's what I am looking for.


- I am not sure that has anything to do with love.


Midori      It does. It has everything to do with love. 

                   I want the man to say, 
    
                   'You were right Midori, it's my fault, 

                      I have all the intelligence and sensitivity of a donkey. To apologise,
                        I will get you something else. What would you like?

                           A chocolate mousse? A cheesecake?"


- Then what?


Midori             Then 
    
                          I will fall in love

           


                                               ( from : :  

                       n o r w e g i a n  : : w o o d )

=



On a day like this, I envy the tranquil fluidity of
the movements that amounts to a wet trail, swooning in the water.
Twist and turn of the skin thin tail, of fishes.

Days like this make me think of it.
And I also think, that nothing is going to happen.

Such days cometa knock on my door, once in a while. Once or twice every other month. It almost sits in my mind now, almost a routine.

In the beginning, this used to devastate me. The feeling of helplessness would become a physical force that would diverge deeply into my chest, and would reside there, burning darkly.

When I was still a young thing, a high school laddie, I would prostrate myself upon my desk and bear the pressure of time, saying nothing. After school, I would come home and out of exhaustion of doing nothing the whole day, fall asleep.
During other times, my body would translate that feeling of helplessness into the physical hunger for food, that I would simply grab things and eat and eat and eat until I couldn't eat anything anymore.

Now, as a grown up sort of person well I when such days tap on my shoulders well I just very simply, in elegant fashion,

-waste my time.



Lying in my bed, with my head half full half empty, I try thinking for a while; there is a decision to be made; shall I stay in here or should I get up walk to the kitchen, drink some water and then come back to bed.
Or am I dreaming all this, am I not awake at all.

I may look like I am enjoying my leisure with peace in my mind. I can tell you for certain, that is very far from truth.
This is an act of protest, perhaps.
If I translate my gut feeling into words it would get weaved out into something like so:

Everything that stands so far far away from me, as if they can't hear my voice, wailing and waiting, oh wellfuckyoufuckyouverymuch. What else can I do, you miserable creatures why the bloody hell couldn't you reach out towards me before I do, why oh why. is that really impossible is that really so distasteful in your mouth

?

The fear, that however I try I would linger on the outskirt of things makes my hands turn cold.
 It is a scary thought.

But I was hungry. My hands fumbled around the tea table next to the bed, looking for something to nibble on. They found my one gallon-full-now-half-full vanilla ice cream.

I got a spoonful of that and licked my fingers that started to get coated with sticky sweetness.
 Oh but I am still hungry


That's when I hear a noise. Of a door opening and closing.

Oh.

My heart runs faster. I wonder whether I should get up, and that thought makes cold sweat run through my back.
I kept it under, he has never seen me like this. What to do. What to do. To get up? Do I need to get up, dress up and smile up to him?

Then I hear a laughter in my head.

-so what?

who is he to you?
Someone that you are in love with, and so what?

Strange, almost childishly simple irritation comes over me.





That is why I didn't turn around to look at you when I felt your fingers poking me through the comforter. I didn't respond. I didn't make a sound.
Who are you to me, who are you planning to become, in me, that I feel this need to change myself. Who are you to me, that you make me want to measure up and shape up my inside, even my sorrows.

That was not the way of me, not until I saw you. My pain, my sufferings, my sorrows were all solely mine to keep. Mine to lick. Who are you to me, that you make me hope, hope that someone other than myself would come and lull my pain away. Who are you. Who could you possibly be.

If you could be such a person to me, why weren't you there before?
I want to accuse you of such senseless things.

Why wasn't he there, do you ask?
You fool, you two didn't know each other then, that was a long time ago.

Yes that was a long time ago,
but at that time
at that time a long time ago,
I
and you
we both existed in that time and space too, did we not?

Then why weren't you there with me?
Why weren't you there for me.

Senseless,
and meaningless.
Such, such meaningless thoughts.







"What are you doing?"

"Sleeping."

"It's too early for that. It's only three in the afternoon. My friend, you should look outside, the sun, it's so pretty it's so ugly. What is...that.....ice cream? ......how could you possible eat so much of it, using a spoon so small? You haven't had lunch yet, did you?"






I say nothing. I just lay there. It's an old habit of mine.
Loosing my voice, when it is most needed.
Inside of my throat, nothing but desert.




"Get up, will you?"






John pulled over the comforter that was half covering my head. The light in the room was so sharp that it made my head ring. Everything with faded colours and contours slowly started to develop their true colours, like a polaroid shot, slowly developing.

I see him now. An expression of worry and care staining his mouth. A little bit of ice cream too.




"What is wrong, are you angry?"

"No...I am just..."

"You feeling sick?"

No it's not that.


"what is it then?"

"I'm just....it's..."





I can't talk, looking into your eyes looking at me, I just-

-Feel, as if I could tell you everything. Everything.

Things that haunt me, things that make me sweat and sweat.
I feel as if, I could name it all, for you, for your sake, I could. Perhaps if I call them by name, one by one, they would never visit me again.
Perhaps then, then I would be able to
believe. Believe in ernest, that all my sufferings were caused by nothing but loneliness.
Loneliness, a thing with a name, a thing that I could overcome.

But my mouth does not open. O, yes. Perhaps I should have practiced. this.
I hear a familiar voice, telling me familiar things.

John is still looking at me. My eyes cannot give away anything. That is because of my own words, that I have whispered to myself, wondering, whether
you could possibly

understand.

Understand me


me? no

no
you won't.



Oh, suit yourself, you say, before going out of the room. You are impatient. You don't wait for things.
I hear your bare feet, slapping on the wooden floor. Soon I smell some coffee, coming from the kitchen.

I put my head sideways on the pillow and try to look at things, through my hardly opened eyes.
There is nothing, nothing at all to look at.

You are probably using Mokka pot to make your espresso, not filtered coffee, using french press. I know. I also know that you would take that cup into the reading room.

The sound of you, walking away, fades away.


Silence remains. That makes me close my eyes.
Nobody knows of my eyes, closing.
Even the loneliness and feeling of guilt becomes meaningless,
at moments like this.

Only an empty space is left behind.

I sleep, in order to fill up that space. That is the only way I know of.
I sleep,
to dream.


Everything that I hang onto, everything and all of it about me and myself, get severed in my dreams,
their voices cut short.
I try to move away from the smell of coffee that has somehow moved under the comforter.
Biting down my lips, I murmur
inside my mouth,




but I want







=





continues onto Three : thirty in the afternoon


:-)

[[[Mai & John]]]__________tea break

I remember my Mai and John. They mirror each other, and no wonder, they are all from me, little pieces of myself.
These were stories I have written a long time ago. I used to tell my English friends about my Mai and my John, but that was as far as it went. Mai and John spoke in Korean then.



Conversation between Mai and John, 

(Tea Break)



written on 02.20.2010

translated on 04.20.2013

=

"Do you like rooibos tea?"




It's the voice that I like. Nicely kneaded into a warm rounded thing. At times it is light and crafty like a head of dandelion seeds. For such a person who keeps such a stubborn pair of eyes, you have a voice that's
-so warm, so genteel.

But you know, sometimes, when you like something so so much, you end up not saying anything at all. That sort of feeling makes me feel quite afraid, you see. That's why when I spoke, it came out with a flat thud-sort of noise.




"I don't think it's for me. I've tried it before."




I look at you, standing with your back to me.
Disregarding my words, you follow a trajectory of movements. In one, long throw of gestures, you end up with: your hand: pouring a cup of tea.
That same cup of tea is soon carried by your left hand, to me.

It lands right in front of me.




"Often even your dislikes start to grow on ya. It's all-a matter of timing."




I was thinking that your smiling face was drawing nearer and nearer-and as usual, your action precedes my thinking self. You are already here, your hands pressing down my shoulders. Made me jump a little. Hurt a little. And you tell me this:


"You like rooibos tea, I know it."


Your eyes, hands, and voice all on me. They demanded me to say something, so I sort of nodded.
I smelt that tea. A little like half-ripe apple, a little like the artificial flavor of certain flu-drops. I take a sip anyhow.

I see your lips, now twisting into a smile, almost a grimace, but a satisfied one. Your lips compressed into a thin line, like that of a young boy, malicious. Filled with jokes and puns. You almost want to ask me, I know it. You want to ask me : how was it? didya like it? And what if I didn't like it?




"What if I didn't like it?"

"Well then you shall drink cups after cups until you start to like it."

"What? But why? This is your kind of drink. Why should I try to like what you like? I have my coffee, you know."

"Of course you have to try to like it, I like you, you know."




Before I had sufficient amount of time to say or think my thoughts-why? what? What is that suppose to mean?- you just threw that statement of yours and also threw yourself upon me, sitting on a sofa.
I had no time to roll over or duck. I had no way to turn to, my right hand still holding the hot cup of tea. You boldly drop your head upon my shy knees. And I let you.

For it is a cold day today. Warmth of another body is welcome on a day like this, for it is almost as sweet as a small broken bits of chocolate, melting in your mouth.





"What else is there, the things I like, but that you dislike?"





You ask me, poking my knees with your fingers as if playing piano. I recite a mantra to myself: I won't let you know that I am ticklish. I won't letchoo know that I am ticklishea...

I say:




"Dogs, strawberry flavored gum, gin tonic, eating English breakfast for lunch..."

"Oh well well. You've got a lot to discover eh?"




I can feel your eyes looking up. Expectant pair of gaze, waiting for me to make some noise. That made it impossible for me to look down.
You didn't like that. Your long fingers take hold of strands of my hair to pull.
It actually hurts a lot, you know.




"You know, I think..you just need time to get used to me. Then you would realize that you somehow got into the habit of liking all of it. Just like, how, for me, loving you became a habit that I could not undo. Like I have waited for you to like me too. See here, now you are simply drowning in me." 





You just don't shut your mouth, do you.

After saying your say, you bark out sharply punctuated sounds of laughter. There's no ways of teaching you, reminding you that what you are fumbling in your hands is fragile, something that tend to break easily.
I would be there with my hands stretched out in front of me, I would say: hey, hey put it down, it can break. Your laughing eyes would respond with a question: but why? This is what you want.

For someone to come over and break everything into pieces, I know what you want. I know it better than you do, you would say, and before I have time to shout in alarm ohforthefucksakedon'tplease, you would do what you want to do.

And everything will break, everything flying around me in pieces.

That is you. That is how you are, you take everything away from me, completely. You plant a void in me and then without hesitation, or a glimpse of guilt, move into it, filling up that space in me. There, comfortably placing yourself in that space you would offer me your warmth, all of it.
You would say, take this, keep it. Mend yourself with this.
Your demands, which are also your comforting hands, which are also your warnings.
That horrifies me. Your presence horrifies me.

I think about all this, while I let my hands caress your hair mindlessly.
I think about all this, thinking which is a lot like sighing. What should I do. With you.

I contemplate this problem trying not to show that I'm contemplating. Then I hear you saying:




"I am going to become a part of you, you know. You can kill me, and I won't get killed. I'm going to become, something of a habit, a habit that has stuck to you since your childhood. I am going to stay here, for a long time."

"What made you think that?"





An angry flinch sparked for a moment in your eyes. That made me stay still, bearing that clinched fist you thrust toward me. A tightened fist, that just lightly brushed against my chin, before falling under.



"Because you kept running away.
One day I will be the one who would be running away from you. By then you would find my absence so unbearable, so terrible that you will have to run after me. Look for me. And find me again."

" What if you ran away from me not to return?"

"No. That's not possible. I have already took a piece of me and gave it to you. What should I do with that empty space then? Of course I will return to you. But before I do that, you will have to come and find me. You will have to give me a hand and put me back on my feet."





I follow your eyebrows with my fingers. It's somewhat unsteady and messed up pathway. Like an uncanny alleyway. My fingers get lost around the contour of your nose, before they finally stop.

A moment has passed, and it feels unnecessarily long, for you spoke of nothing.

Sometimes, you say things to me, which you wished I would say to you. Words you hoped for.
Then you would sulk and sulk and sulk.

I know now, I know. All those words and moves you make, are all you, arrogantly pleading. For me to understand you. To understand you. Such naked honesty makes me solemnly stay put. Rooted to the spot. You don't hesitate. Your eyes never dwindle away.
You surprise me at moments like that. You come to me as a kind of meaning, a shape a little too sharp, it pierces me in the core of me. Like a little knife, sharpened up with care.

That makes my heart ache.
What made you sharpen yourself so? what is it, what?

Sometimes you care too much about your love for me you don't see my love for you.
Like you have waited for me, now I wait for you.
I wait for the time to come, when, you would love me and understand that I love you too.

I contemplate all this, but not a word comes out of my mouth. Not yet.


I say, simply, that I actually don't dislike rooibos tea that much.


Oh such small cowardly words.

[[[[[[[[Watching a man sleeping]]]]]]]]]]

Watching a man sleeping

written on 06.09.2010

translated on 04.20.2013

=




I came home and found him sleeping.
There, hugging himself on the sofa, hiding his face away from me.
It was a picture so lovely, I looked at him for a long time. I was determined to keep it. I saw his chest ascending and descending, following the rhythm of his breathing.

Why is it that I always find the sight of people napping, so pitiful? I wonder what drove them to that defeated state of a body, at times when it should be moving around, up and about.
So here he lies, here he  sleeps,
this man that I love.

I wonder about his dreams. I moved closer because his hair looked very soft.
I sat just under the sofa, and caressed that hair of his. Soft and fragrant, like that of a young girl. In fact he does not look like a man nor a woman, when he sleeps. Wearing a youthful expression of a tiny kid, his eyebrows sadly descending, he sleeps. He breathes wearing such a face.

He looks as if he is willing to open his eyes at any given moment and yet they do exactly the opposite. Perhaps to cause me pain. Perhaps  to make me suffer a little.
I simply want to sit here, wait here, and look at him until he finally opens his eye.
Forever.
Perhaps the time frame of forever is shorter than I have anticipated, or maybe it was he who didn't want to let me have that pleasure; for whatever reasons, then and there he opened his eyes.

His eyes stared into the air, for a while, until they found me. I could see the inside of his eyes slowly bubbling up-getting warmer and warmer. Now they recognize me. Place me in his gaze. He looked relieved, and that enabled him to close his eyes again.

"When did you come in?"

"Just now."


As I held his cheeks in my hands. I could feel his head getting heavier and heavier in them.

It takes time to get to know a wild animal, to let it trust you enough to surrender its little body upon your hands.
That final point of relaxation. That final point of trust.
He looked as if he was getting a chill, so I took hold of a blanket. I unfolded that light thing and let it snow upon his body. He is sort of too big to crawl into it but he somehow manages.

I let him be, for he looked like he was off, looking for some sleep again.
I walked into the kitchen and found some coffee there. I boil water using a small pot, so I can watch it boil. I become oblivious of the time passing when I listen to the water getting boiled. I concentrate my thoughts on the water, so that it can boil faster.

I start pouring the water into the french press and watch the layer of crema forming on the brim.

The smell of coffee is especially tasty when you are just about to fall asleep. For that moment I feel an echo of envy towards that man, lying on the sofa.

I lay my body upon the kitchen table.

A time in the afternoon, that demands sleep.

[[[ Mai and John]]]_______Afternoon napping_2

 

 I wonder

I started re-reading the stories I have written some time ago. Before I moved to this strange city.

In another strange city I have written these. 

I feel the need to visit them again. I now feel comfortable enough to translate my stories into English.

Perhaps I am now strong enough to unfold them and share them with others sitting around me. 

It was a pleasant and painful experience, you know, translating them. 

Something always gets lost in translation, but,

you also find something else in return.

:-)

Mai & John

(Afternoon napping 2)

written  on 04.19.2010

translated on 04.21.2013

=

A heart is glad, when, it knows that it can look into the heart of the other, and smile. 

No need to say nothing. 

A gently warm colour spreads upon Mai's body, as she leans deeply into a sofa. That gently warm shade, almost as soft as the brown hair of himself, to whom that shade belongs. That is John.

He stands in front of Mai, his right and left hands holding onto the arms of the sofa, his body stooping down a little, like so. He looks into the eyes of hers that says, yes it is you I see, you, I recognize you. And there is a hint of aimless anticipation in them, asking, demanding.

So what shall we do? What can you do foarme? What do you want froame?

As if enveloping her, his shade embraces her, gracefully. In that shade they stay. That is when he kisses her.

Mai stretched her arms out, her eyes still closed. Her hands reach out to him and rest on his cheeks. A little bristle. When Mai opens her eyes again, she sees John, sitting opposite to her, a little far away. His movement, a little too quick for her.

On the opposite side, the shape of John's mouth draws a curve, mimicking that of hers.

A short legged coffee table fills in the space between the two. On top of that short coffee table stands two cups of coffee, so alike. Still warm.

Mai suddenly opens her arms wide, a welcoming gesture, perhaps.

That awkwardly shaped, awkwardly sized space formed by her open arms, reminded John of the half-caught time in the air that they are in. This strange time of the day, late afternoon.

"John, John, John........welcome to my cafe."

"Yes yes, I can see now why you come here so often. Looks like a place stuffed with the smell of books. Good wood too."

John tapped his fingers on the table. It made thick, growling sound. He found it lovely. Mai's fingers, or rather, her fingernails dug into the wood, slightly impatient.

"It's just today, just once. I decided to share the space withya just for today. I know that you won't find this place on your own anyway. You have got no sense of directions."

"Why? Why can't I come again?"

"Because this is mine. It's my space-this, only I know of."

"What about all these people then? There are others here beside me too, that come and go as they please."

"Them, I don't know. But you, I know. With them, I had a pact, you see. I pretend I can't see them, and they courteously pretend that they don't see me. 

So, you see, all this space, all this and all that, everything here belongs to me, really.

But now, in that space stands you. You are this new thing. You take space, you take some of what is my own and so my space is that much smaller now. I gave in that much.

If you want to come again, on your own, that is fine. But when I come here with you, I have to make efforts to ignore you.

That, that's something I can't do."

Mai watches John twisting and pouting his lips in discontent, and she watches it with pleasure. A very young, nasty smile, thought he. Something of an expression that he remembers from his childhood. On a very young girl's face, perhaps.

John knows very well, that this is Mai's favorite game, playing hide and seek. That must have been her favorite game when she was a wee thing.

He looked at her curiously. As if he is studying her. He tries to open her up, little by little, as if peeling the layered skin of an onion.

She is more alive and less beautiful at times like this. She, in her black jeans and blue shirts. A coat just lightly sitting on her silhouette, hanging onto her shoulders.

She looked like a captain, wearing her coat like that. Something out of a children's book. Her casual carelessness, almost lonely. Almost sad.

John was still watching her, when she took out a book from her bag, and still he said nothing. He simply sighed. So she came here to read her book.

So the idea of playing with me is not in her mind, he thought. Disappointed, John's eyes closed themselves as if falling asleep.

Perhaps he really fell asleep.

When John opened his eyes again, he could not fathom the amount of time that has passed.

Looking over at Mai's side didn't help, because she was sitting opposite to him, still in that same stubborn posture-her eyes looked slightly red now- her hands holding onto a book.

The sharp edges of her short hair wavered just above her naked shoulders, the sharpness almost touching the soft roundedness. A little longer now, than before, thought John.

Woman's hair always reminded him of the time that has passed.

He saw her closing her book, stretching her arms wide and high. As if reading and responding to a sign, John quickly closed his eyes and softened his breathing. Pretending to be asleep.

He heard a thud and a dragging sort of noise, perhaps a chair being dragged, letting a tired body get up.

He smelt something like coffee, just brushing his nose and then he felt something cold on his cheeks. (He knows now, that when she concentrates on something, her body grows cold, starting from her fingertips. A familiar coldness. Something he recognizes.)

The smell of coffee lingering on her hands, let him know that she drank coffee while he slept. So I was sleep, for a time as long as a cup of coffee, he thought.

Sort of hard to translate that back into the measurement of time.

That small fluttering pair of hands. Like a pair of small birds, flew from his cheeks, to his ears. From his ears, in one elegant movement, they flew up up to the roundness of his head. As if patting a child's hands the small wings pat patted John's head feeling into his soft hair. Then they retreated meekly.

That's when John sat up straight in his sofa.

But when he did that, all he saw was a body, a small one, round and crouching into a perfect Cee. Her upper torso leaning on the coffee table, perhaps trying to sleep.

That is so disappointing.

The man feels her brown hair with his fingers, as that is the only thing he can do now. A reflection of the gestures of her hands. He caresses that head, sitting there as if waiting for some uninvited but welcomed warmth.

Through the elongated windows, he sees lights dancing into the room, but in a hue that is rather exhausted and defeated. Times like this, colours like this, reminded John, always, of Red Butler. Times like this and colours like this, they pull in, seduce a person too easily, too quickly. There is an art there, a deadly sweet flavor. 

Times like this, in between different compartments of time, just hanging there between the late afternoon and the evening. The air and everything in it turns slightly golden, in that autumny colour.

He felt his body tightening and his heart starting to ache. It was just the fact that he was watching all that. On his own. His loved one sitting so close to him, so near, and yet not being able to share such such moments. That was what pained him so.

That feeling made John somewhat impatient. That impatient feeling lingered in his heart, weighing his chest down. Then it moved down through the arms, resting in his fingers. That's when his fingers reached out. Akin to the motion of a hand, gently mixing some droplets of milk into a cup of hot tea, just like so, his hands reached out,

touched and shook the round and small shoulders of hers. Wake up, wake up now.

Responding to that touch Mai trembled unintentionally, and that shudder opened up her body a little. John beckoned that half-wakened body, saying come, come.

Like a small kitten getting rid of the Summer heat, the small woman walks over to him. Her body stumbles towards his, her cold hands and feet trying to find some warmth, and when they did find it, her body dived in. The man's body welcomes hers without complaints, without any resistance. But he did want to resist the sleepiness on her body, keep her away from its grasp, so he spoke to her. As if speaking to himself, in a voice almost like a whisper he said,

"Everything's yellowing, the air, the sky outside, the table, your cup...all that's...very lovely. I believe winter is passing, for sure."

That was his voice asking her to stay, stay with me. Trying to keep her near. Sounding out each word carefully.

"There is a tree just outside the window there, and the sunlight's dangling in between the branches. That's just...pretty."

He could feel her mouth curving into a smile. (her head resting in that indentation just below his collarbones)

" It's like listening to you singing, I can hear you through your body. That's nice."

She said, her voice still stuffed with sleep. There was so much air in it, it almost sounded like a laughter.

"No, I mean..you should look at it, it's a shame that I am the only person who's looking at it...it's really.."

"That's okay. I can see it clearly. Talk to me. I want to listen."

Maybe she will dream it if I explain the picture good enough, that was John's thoughts. So he does his best to explain that colour that he is seeing. 

Her posture, hanging onto his body like a sloth, looked rather tiresome, so he moved her a little, so he could have her lying down, her head on his knees. He hears how her breathing becomes quiet, almost soundless. Very soft. 

Is she sleeping? Within her closed eyes, does she have the colour that I am seeing, in there too?

Mai's face, and his fingers outlining her face as if licking sugar off the table,everything is yellow and golden.

John looked into her face strangely, for her face wearing that colour, was not alien at all. it was strangely familiar. Just looking at her made him feel thirsty and dried out. So he let his fingers follow the ways of her eyebrows. To get some moisture.

Such a masterful shape, like the wings of a giant bird. Somewhat like the pristine and poised picture of the nineteenth century scholar she once showed him.

She has always appeared in that colour, to him.

That's something John knew. He knew about it very well. 

There were times when he wanted her to stay in him, in some other colour. Something, a colour that would last longer, a colour that is easier to hold inclosed within one's hands.

Because she was a colour that anticipated sudden disappearance.

Burning up in an instance. 

How easily it makes one's heart blow up and hope. How easily it unsettles one's grounds.

That yellow. In that colour.

=

This cafe actually exists. 

:-)

I wrote about Mai and John, there.

Which is..

-here.

04.09.2013_Teaching Channel: An Article: 'Playful Thinking' and 'Getting It'

(I found an article on this homepage that interested me very much:)

'MaThemAThical DiscOUrSs'

https://www.teachingchannel.org/blog/2013/04/05/mathematical-discourse/



"When students debate and play with math ideas, they create and identify a foundation of understanding.  Listen for moments when students are connecting the new to the old." 

"....display the problem without the actual question. It forces students to do two things:  
find all the relevant information that the problem offers and to generate possibilities for what the question might be."

: generating a chain of questions: this is the mode of thinking that 'Art as Research' tries to provoke. Where art making becomes a tool for enquiry. 

"Slowing down is key. This part is more discussion than discourse, but it builds a common understanding among classmates."

:Slowing down, seen as an important and healthy element in learning environment. Struggle in learning that empowers growing. Reminds me of Waddell and her praise of suffering.

04.09.2013_Street Level Youth Media

I like the fact that the homepage calls the students as 'Youth Artists'.

I was very happy to see the pictures from 'Show and Tell' event, where students go up to the stage, and present their work, in their own ways.