on and on I've been waiting on the open invitation...

"And thus we rust Life's iron chain Degraded and alone: And some men curse, and some men weep, And some men make no moan: But God's eternal Laws are kind And break the heart of stone. And every human heart that breaks, In prison-cell or yard, Is as that broken box that gave Its treasure to the Lord, And filled the unclean leper's house With the scent of costliest nard. Ah! happy they whose hearts can break And peace of pardon win! How else may man make straight his plan And cleanse his soul from sin? How else but through a broken heart May Lord Christ enter in? "

I see her as she stands. Her skin fragile, thin, and barely covering her bones. Her ribs poke out her sides and her shoulder blades cut through the thin and bruised the skin around. She was skin and bones. Almost. Skin and bones and hollow eyes. Almost.

The silence screamed out loud, piercing. And she covered her ears. I cringed at the ugly moment, and I wanted to run. Run and hide from the light. Forever.

Her hollow eyes drew the warmth out of me as my heart broke for the girl who was skin and bones. The light exposed it all. Every line, every scar on her body. Every flaw, every imperfection, the light exposed it all. And there she was, standing naked, alone in the light. My heart broke as I saw her standing, staring at the mirror, cowering, not a human no more, but an alien. Exposed. Alone.

The silence screamed out, loud, piercing. And I covered my ears. I cringed at the ugly moment and I wanted to run. Run from the light that exposed everything, and left everything open. Rotten skin opened revealing rotten meat, and the stench reached the pit of my stomach. The ugly rotten stench. I wanted to run. Run and hide from the light. Forever.

The ugly moment where ugliness was revealed, in all its measure. She turned from the mirror and her hollow eyes searched. My eyes met hers and I looked in. Her hollow eyes drew the warmth out of me and my heart broke for the girl who was skin and bones. I stripped naked and walked into the light. The light exposed it all. Every line, every scar on my body. Every flaw, every imperfection, the light exposed it all. And there I was, standing naked, alone in the light. His heart broke as he saw me standing, staring at the mirror, cowering, exposed and alone.

The silence screamed out, loud and piercing and the hammer of God came down. And we were standing alone in the light.

I turned from the mirror to stare at the sun. And in one swift moment, I came undone. Blinded by the brightness, from my ghastly flaws, and in that one swift moment, they all collapsed. In one swift moment I stood between the mirror and the girl who was skin and bones, and in one swift moment she saw all she could be, in one swift action I turned her away to face the day, and in that one moment, she came undone. She came undone.

The silence screamed, loud and piercing and the hammer of God came down. The rays of the sun warmly embraced us creatures of the night and He all at us pulled us up on either side.

"And thus we rust Life's iron chain Degraded and alone: And some men curse, and some men weep, And some men make no moan: But God's eternal Laws are kind And break the heart of stone. And every human heart that breaks, In prison-cell or yard, Is as that broken box that gave Its treasure to the Lord, And filled the unclean leper's house With the scent of costliest nard. Ah! happy they whose hearts can break And peace of pardon win! How else may man make straight his plan And cleanse his soul from sin? How else but through a broken heart May Lord Christ enter in? "

With new eyes I turned to look at her, the girl who used to be skin and bones. Her hollow eyes showed no emptiness, but glory burning from within.

The ugly moment melted away as we stood staring at the sun. The open invitation to come we received, and in that moment, while standing alone in the light, we were not alone. Not at all. He pulled us up, on either side, He never leaves us standing alone in the light.

In my hand I once held my heart, bruise and battered, and in one moment, on swift action, the empty space, that used to sit a heart, that space empty no more now beats, burning bright. And in my hands, where I once held a broken heart, I now hold, His hand.

"And thus we rust Life's iron chain Degraded and alone: And some men curse, and some men weep, And some men make no moan: But God's eternal Laws are kind And break the heart of stone. And every human heart that breaks, In prison-cell or yard, Is as that broken box that gave Its treasure to the Lord, And filled the unclean leper's house With the scent of costliest nard. Ah! happy they whose hearts can break And peace of pardon win! How else may man make straight his plan And cleanse his soul from sin? How else but through a broken heart May Lord Christ enter in? " (Oscar Wilde)

Pink and white daisies in the rubble...

Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?

Sarah Jane, Sarah Jane my babe. Sarah Jane. Come here.

There in the corner of the garden, just in between the ivy hedge and the jasmine bush was our little wee afternoon tea table. On the table stood a pottle of jam, and a butter knife, some butter and a plateful of brown bread. There was a pottle of peanut butter, with its lid off, and a little teaspoon, with greasy handles, stuck in the middle of it. It sat there half finished. I heard her laugh, and I laughed. Sarah Jane my babe.

Today was the day, we sat at the table again. It was the day so I called out to her. Sarah Jane, Sarah Jane, dear Sarah Jane, Sarah Jane my babe come here.

My little Sarah Jane turned to look at me and then she came running and jumped, with my help, onto my knee. I rearranged my white skirt that had creased up underneath the little girl. We sat in the garden and had bread and jam. On our little afternoon tea table. She on her little chair, and I, because I barely fit on that wooden stool, sat crossed legged on the floor. She began to butter the bread with the knife and took the little teaspoon out of the peanut butter pottle and stuck it in the jam. I winced and she giggled. She giggled so hard her whole body would shake. And it would be such a funny sight that I would burst out laughing, and that made her giggle even more. And when she stopped giggling, she would slap on spoonfuls of jam on a piece of brown bread and took a huge bite, licked some jam of the bits she couldn't fit in her mouth and then left the rest for me. Rain rain, she said, here's your half. I screwed up my face, thank you sweetheart, but it will be nice if you shared the jam too. She stuck her little teaspoon into the pottle of jam and stuck it in my mouth. There, plenty of jam for u. And we both giggled so hard we would choke on our bits of toast. What a messy sight.

He always came at such a time, when we were messy, with jam in our hair, rolling on the ground. He would come and pick us both up. He would plop me on the ground beside Him, put Sarah on HIs knee and then with His free arm drew me close to Him. So close. We would snuggle up close to him, and listened to HIs stories, the three of us, sometimes four and one more. And we would giggle and laugh, and play stupid games until it was time for Him to go again. Sarah would often cry when it was time for HIm to go, and He would leave a little gift behind, most often from His right breast pocket. A little painting, or a pink and white daisy. Her favourite, pink and white daisies. These simple pretty flowers, with both pink and white petals. He made them just for her you see, and so it was her favourite. She would smile and let Him go.

I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up, Sarah was gone. She must have gone home with the father.

Sarah, Sarah Jane! Sarah Jane, my babe, where are you Sarah Jane?

Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?

Today I explored the garden a little. Sarah fell asleep and I got restless waiting for her so I walked around a bit. I saw the canvas, the vast white clean canvas. I saw Him standing, with the other two. And I crept up closer so I could see my Father paint. He saw me and smiled, the other two drew me up close and I sat on His knee as He painted. And I listened, as He painted Anna, a blonde little girl so full of energy. With every stroke of brush, the Father breathed in life, a bit of Him is left in every drip of paint, stroke of brush. His beauty poured out and filled Anna, the little blonde girl, so full of life, so beautiful. And then tears filled HIs eyes as He kissed His little Anna good night. The brush He placed in little Anna's hands, the day she was born to a man.

I watched in horror as she painted her first stroke. She tainted the picture the Father so perfectly wrote.

I looked up at the other and took His hand. He nodded and said, but I will make the painting right again.

I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, they were gone.

Sarah, Sarah Jane! Sarah Jane, my babe, where are you Sarah Jane?

Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?

The father was painting again and I sneaked up behind him and put my arms around his neck. He laughed and picked me up and sat me down beside him. What are you painting? I asked. He pointed. and I saw. What was the roof of my carefully built house lay on the ground, and the walls that held it up, rubble. Rubble. I swallowed the pain as I forced myself to stand. Complete utter ruin. Utter ruin.

My father painted the rubble.

I gasped. And I turned, and I ran.

Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble.

I turned and turned, there was nowhere to go. Nowhere to turn. I could not turn back to the one who painted the rubble. Bitterness, a vile taste began to creep up my throat and fill every crevice in my mouth. My stomach began to turn and as if it helped, I coughed, I coughed as hard as I could. And I spat.

It was dusty and I could hardly breathe, but that didn't matter anymore, breathing alone suffocated me. My eyes were so dry, and the pit of my stomach, beginning from my tighs began to go numb. I was cold, cold, so cold. So numb. My father painted the rubble.

Aimlessly I headed towards the garden again. And this time Sarah Jane, I did not find. The canvas stood on its easel and I had to stop to look. I hated the fact that I was back in HIs garden, why did they even let me in again? But I had to look.

As I looked at the picture my eyes hardened, and I tried to harden my heart a bit just to brace myself for what I am about to feel. I stood in horror as I saw the picture of the pale little girl, laying still, fetal position, in pain. Pain. Excruciating pain flowed from every part of the body in the picture. Her tender hands, and her once pink cheeks now drained, all its blood, its colour, its life, drained to the pool on the floor. Drawn out, by that knife in her heart. All life, drawn out, by that knife. My eyes studied the pale little girl, as she lay still, in the fetal position, in pain. I stared at it. I stared at it. I stared at pain crystalised forever, and I gasped. The feeling I braced myself for? I never felt it. I felt nothing. Wide-eyed I stared at the picture of my Sarah Jane's crystalised pain.

Pink and white daisy carpeted the ground. Pink and white daisies. I choked.

He painted the rubble.

Where is Sarah Jane? Was she safe with the one who painted the rubble? How could he have? How could he have painted the rubble?

I walked away.

I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, I was amidst the rubble. And I had in my hand.....

I held the knife that caused dear Sarah Jane's pain.

Sarah Jane. Sarah Jane.

catch me if you can, says charlie's butterfly

Catch me if you can, says Charlie's butterfly. Silver moon, not blue. Silver beet dinner caused silver beet blues. Silver beet blues.

Look through heart's prints. Skipped beats and imprints. Sand trails and dig marks. Unrooted trees, pink and white daisies. Soul's sharings. Scrapbook of the heart. Room for you, room for me. God deposits shared in the sun, watered by tears in the rain.

Awaken. Arise. The sun beckoned his eyes to open. Open and awake. Slowly wake, slowly usher in the sun. Slowly rise. Awaken and arise. Bright sunlight opens an empty space before us. Open spaces. To sing freedom's song, sung for whom? Sung to whom? Beckoning call to come. Beckoning call to come and receive. Beckoning call, to come and receive to give. Beckoning call to open thy mouth. Words of wisdom on thy tongue. Swallow. Fresh breeze.

The atmosphere is filled with expectancy when you rise early to greet your maker. God deposits in thine heart. Expended to him? For whom? Get on the train as it begins to screech to a start again. Movement. The heart's cry to collide. To collide to touch. A touch marks, a mark changes. What will be changed today?

Walk through today. Tread slowly, eyes open wide. See the yearning of souls to be collided with. God deposits in thine heart, for whose soul will you invest them deposits? Deposit em in another's. Take that rake, and rake it if you can, sand trails and dig marks. Share in the sun, water in the rain another's heart.

What heart print will you make today?

Silver beet dinner caused my silver beet blues. Silver beet blues leaves silver blue shoes in the rain. I'll leave them in the rain.For who?

And the little girl picked up my silver blue shoes. She's been barefeet for a while.

Deposits, shared in the sun.

Awake. Arise.

You're beckoned to come and to collide. Today.

cheese toast

Face before the toaster door, eyes wide like curious macadamias, she had peered in. Observing quietly the golden cheese blankets rising, browning, heaving, sighing even as they rose again to smother the happy bread.

The timer buzzed and the toaster stopped. The clock on the wall chimed 3 o'clock. Papa sat at the kitchen bench, patient, smiling. He always had all the time in the world.

It had been a long time since they had done this. Both of them had missed it very much, but she had been busy for a long time. Until today, when her boss had told her to leave for the day and never come back. "We're closing down," he had whispered, "we can't pay you."

Papa had known before she said anything. He had met her near the bus stop, and they had both cried.

Now here they were in the kitchen, two long years since the last time they had eaten together. Papa looked the same; she looked tired. She realised how much she missed Papa.

Trembling, she slipped on her crimson oven mitts and laid the slices of cheese toast on the tabletop. The risen golden blankets cooled and sank slightly. Two expectant faces leaned in to take in the delicious smells. Papa ate with his hands; she ate with knife and fork. It was the way both of them liked it.

Suddenly she felt all funny and strange inside. Like a child, curious about everything - why was cheese yellow, why did it rise like this in the oven, why did it taste so GOOOD??? Like what she learned to be as an adult, tired and having to wear black suits to work to talk about boring things. Like she was happy and excited but sad and angry all at once. How could it be, that one could feel a million things all at once?

She remembered the first time Papa made her cheese toast, and her unceasing wonder at the magic of it. She remembered the time she had thrown it all at Papa, who had looked at her sadly before walking out of the room. She remembered the times they had laughed and sung silly songs together while bits of melted cheese stuck to their cheeks. She remembered crying after her rabbit died, Papa making cheese toast to cheer her up.

Papa looked up. After so long, He understood. She climbed into His lap. They ate like comrades, like hungry beasts, like happy hearts.

scooters and rain

Lights out. Deciding to take off five minutes early, the traffic police puts his helmet on and gets on his bike. There was something eerie about the night and he was rather nervous. He hated working alone at this time of the night, especially at that corner. One too many have had their lives robbed of them at that corner. One too many. When his bike finally started he was relieved to be driving away towards home. He smiled as his wife's face flashed before him. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His heart melts everytime a smile breaks across her face. Her smile could melt anything. Her delicate features, small and intricate made him proud everytime she stood next to him. Proud as her husband, her protector. His body began to ache for her.

Lights out. The scooter outside his house indicated that his teenage daughter was home. He shook his head. He remembered the first time he laid eyes on his sweet child. It began to drizzle and so it wasn't discernible whether the water droplets on his cheeks were tears or rain. Over the years she seemed to have been consistently distanced from her parents. She was a good kid, just growing up. He sighed.

He opened the door and entered the quiet house. He hated coming home this late when there is no one to smile and welcome him home. But it's been this way for a while. No one had greeted him for a while. He undressed and slid into the shower. He carefully slid into bed and fell asleep. Lights out.

Lights out. For years now they've been riding on those scooters. The travelers with their backpacks. Rain or shine. They kept moving on. Movement seemed to be the best solution. Mobility allowed them to escape themselves, and cast their attention on the practicalities of arriving, on the beauty of the landscape and the wonderment of the surroundings. Sometimes, the not so pleasant wonders of the human condition. But even that, better than their own pain. So on their scooters they get rain or shine, they kept moving onward. Lights out.

Lights out. He sighed. Another silent night, another nervous ride home, another memory, reminisce, another tear cried. Another night greeted by silence. This time, it was deadening silence. For a long time now, he had wished they would return home. Things never changed. He took on the night job to take him away from the empty house he dwells in everyday. The place wherefrom he could not run from his broken, broken heart.

Lights out. One too many have had their lives robbed of them at that corner. One too many. When his bike finally started he was relieved to be driving away towards home. He smiled as his wife's face flashed before him. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. His heart melts everytime a smile breaks across her face. Her smile could melt anything. Her delicate features, small and intricate made him proud everytime she stood next to him. Proud as her husband, her protector. His body began to ache for her. The memories flooded back as he swiftly turned around the corner. Memories flooded back as the truck collides into his side. His heart began to sink to the deepest depth and break as the wheels of the truck mercilessly rolls over his body and crushes his bones. It began to drizzle and it's undiscernible whether the droplets on his cheeks are tears or rain.

He closed his eyes. Her voice singing the baby to sleep rang loud and clear. He fought the pain so he could see her face again. Blood and tears stained his face. Her face flashed before him. Once again he was captivated by her beauty. Pain began to surround him. Pain began to drown him out. Her voice turned into a whisper before it became inaudible. Nowhere to turn from the pain, just so he could hold her once again. It had him, and it began to take over. Aggressively. Her face began to fade. He took his last breath.

Lights out. She had lost something she could not replace, and this time there was no one to fix her. Tears stream down her face, and this time there was no one to fix her. She had lost something she could not let go. Nothing she could do. Something she had to live with. No escape. And this time, there was no one to fix her.

Lights out. Or was there?

Was there?

Lights.

Hot air balloon

The fluffy clouds I could not resist to try and touch as I rise up on this hot air balloon. It was a beautiful day. Fresh, new and full of hope. Hot air balloon rises up above with me in it.

The faint smell of cigarettes seemed promising today. I walked past the old pub and its familiar whiff of beer, cigarettes and grease filled my nose. Somedays the promise from above is so hard to believe, so hard to receive, when all I've got, is the smell of the old pub and the comfort of the old taste of cigarettes. I pushed past and walked on anyway. I could not go back there anyway. Anyway.

He promised that I would rise up in the hot air balloon, high above and beyond the stars. He promised I would touch the sky, and open the doors, walk up the steps that led to him. My hot air balloon rises above with me in it. Fresh, new and full of hope I breathed in, reached out and waited. Waited to touch the sky.

My heart ached today. A certain kind of pain, and there is no where I can turn from it. It sank to my stomach and with me it stayed. Stayed a while. The closing door looked so much like an obstacle to me. So much like an obstacle. Like a scissor the cut off path trims my dreams off my heart. It pained a little. I died a little. And yet hope springs.

I looked into His eyes. His immense pain showed, but I searched, I looked deep inside. I looked at the love He couldn't hide. The vision, the dream He had for you, for me. The faith inside that He'd set us free. I looked deep inside His eyes, my confusion, my pain, I could not hide. He caught my eyes and looked deep inside, no sign of love, not yet, not from I. His anguish flowed, even more He questions His father once more. He was told His death would make a difference, but until now no sign was to be seen. He was told His presence on earth would change, redemption, salvation for all He sees, but He looked into my eyes once more, no sign of love, not yet, not from I. His dreams, His visions, He believed to be true, but today the cross like an axe severed His dreams off his heart. It pained a lot. He cried, out loud. He died.

And then hope sprang...

The dark side of the moon

We all live on the dark side of the moon. Trains a chugging down the tracks, slowly, daily, predictably. Time clicks on, its wheels rotating pushing things forward. A fiction that holds things in the places they are. A structure that gives things walls, so as to enable us to manage lives. The train chugs on in accordance with time. And we are all bound to this time, and everything, all things run, move in accordance to the clicking wheel. We all live on the dark side of the moon.

We all live on the dark side of the moon. Tears stream down endlessly, where pain is rather numbed out to avoid the truth. We feel we must move. Together with the train so we don't get left behind. The train chugs on. Empty lips kiss cigarette butts and empty lungs inhale its fumes. The soul screams as it dies once more. On the dark side of the moon, no one hears soul sounds. No one hears heart beats. We all live by the clicking wheel. We all live on the dark side of the moon.

We all live on the dark side of the moon. Hidden agendas, hidden dreams pull and tug, and yet structures bind us. Money takes hold of the reasons behind the petty pace guided by the walls of the clicking wheel. The leech sucks the blood of the leech sucking on the blood of the leech sucking the blood of the other leech. Blood sucking. Blood sucking, wheel clicking, blood sucking, wheel clucking, blood sucking, wheel clicking. Soon blood sucking and wheel clicking marries and become one. For wheels to click, apparently blood must be sucked. We all live by the blood sucking clicking wheel. We all live on the dark side of the moon.

Look out the window, darkness closes in. No one knows what light means. No one's seen it at the dark side of the moon. The sun is but a fiction. Laugh. Reality is fiction. No one knows what is truth, the clicking wheel has silenced all truth. The predictable structure that we all live by. Veiled eyes don't see truth. Look out the window and see to the end, the edge of the light behind the smog. The light behind the dark side of the moon.

Cross the line.

To the other side.

To the other side.

What is on the other side?

The red velvet scarf

There was a shop in Claymatia that sold the most beautiful velvet scarves. It was told that those scarves were made with blood and tears, and velvet divine, by a woman whose heart was smashed to pieces by a man with fire in his eyes.

The tips of my thumbs brushed against its calloused companions. My eyes adjusted to the brightness of the sun as I stepped outside. The white washed walls of my apartment had frequently been a glaring sight especially on bright sunny days when the sun shines through the blind less full length windows. That was before. Before the dust coated the windows. Before I was shut inside weaving. Before I closed the door on the world and began laboring on white velvet scarves.

Our eyes met and he beckoned me to come. It has been a while since our eyes met. I remember the first time, and never quite forgot. What has kept us apart for all these years, in this story I tell. I walked up to him and we both walked down towards the harbor. I felt a certain serenity in his presence. I remember when I was but a girl and the flutters that influence the state of my heart stood in between us, and I often distanced myself. The flutters have settled in time, and I am able to discern surely the certain serenity and comfort I feel standing next to him. I did not quite know what to say, so I remained silent. His voice filled the space in my ears and I listened intently to his stories and jokes. I laughed and smiled, and once again our eyes met. I resisted from looking away as his eyes fixed itself upon mine. I checked with my heart. It was still, no flutters, just a deep sense shouting out, I like him. He stopped and looked at me with reassuring glance, that it is only I his eyes are fixed on. I smiled.

There was a time when all my heart knew was pain and I had forgot even the childhood joys I spent in my castle. Broken glass had been the only carpet that laid the floors of my heart, and I closed the door on the world and labored in my room. My room with the white washed walls and the big wooden weaving machine where I sat and labored weaving white velvet scarves.

He laughed out loud and continued talking. There were moments of silences where we would quietly enjoy each other's company and then there was more laughter. Joyful moments. I never want to let this fade. I closed my eyes and breathed in. The air was light and fragrant with freshness. The tips of my right thumb once again brushed against its calloused companions and I smiled. These calloused fingers had once been pretty, but they labored so hard weaving white velvet scarves they bled. One night they bled so hard the white velvet scarf I was weaving, it turned red.

I spoke and began to tell him the story of my days as the velvet scarf weaver. He stopped to look at me and he listened intently. He asked of the days before the door was closed upon the world. And I whispered so softly in his ear, that was when the man with fiery eyes ruled the world. He was a glass breaker that man, and a liar and he captured me from my castle. My father grieved and my brother he set out to rescue me home. The man with fiery eyes he took my heart and crushed it, then he veiled my eyes so I could not see. I could not see my brother when his arms to me he extended. I could not see when my brother grieved as I turned away back into the snare of the man with the fiery stare. My brother he vowed one day to come back, and rescue me home again. I was captured for a while by the mystery of the man, and then my broken heart began to ache for when and where I began. My ears pricked up as I heard the cries of my brother and my father. I closed my eyes and dreamt of my home at the castle and prayed that my father would take me home.

I tried to escape his fiery glare but he was unwilling to let me go.The angry man pursued as I ran and ran until I found before me a white room where he cannot go. I entered it and shut the door and found the only way I could go home was labour in pain at these scarves all night and day. As I weaved and weaved and weaved my fingers they bled. And as my fingers bled, my tears they flowed. I kept weaving scarves all night and day until the white velvet scarves turned red. And I swear they said I wove the best red velvet scarves in the land.

We stopped and he looked at me. The man with fiery eyes have captured many a princesses you see and your brother had continually extended his hand to the maidens the man with fiery eyes had snared. The funny thing was the princesses that took the extended hand, were the ones who wore around their neck red velvet scarves.

I smiled and whispered to him softly. I knew each scarf I weaved in pain were for the ladies who bore much pain.

He reached out his right hand and pulled me closer as he looked into my eyes. And then he kissed me with a kiss that sealed our future together. A kiss that has been a long time coming. A kiss so tender. A certain fear erupted inside and I pulled away to check his eyes. He smiled tenderly as tears flowed down his cheeks. He wrapped a red velvet scarf around my neck and pulled me close again. The man with fiery eyes had long been gone, your father slayed him the day you came home.

He took my hand as we walked on home where the gates were wide open and my brother was waiting with a wide embrace.

Dumplings galore

I love the sound of them heels of the hard wooden floor, especially in this art gallery. There she was again, I could see her staring at that same picture. She often heard of the paintings her granddad painted. They were beautiful it seems. So here she was, admiring them for the very first time. I allowed my heels to continue making the click-clock sound as I walked towards her. I wanted her to know someone was in the room with her. You see, only she knew what that mind conceived. Only she knew, not all things were beautiful within that picture. If only they knew that the very beauty of the painting was the only way of escape the man had from all things real, and so he worked and worked to make it beautiful. He had no name until he was fifty three, a broken, broken heart conceived and painted the most beautiful pieces. She half-smiled as tears streamed down her face. I stood behind her as I stared, deep into the deep colours of the sky perceived, conceived by a man, who was blind. Beauty unscathed by sight. The man painted something out of nothing.

What wouldn't I give to be stuffed full to the core with dumplings galore. So full so full until emptiness is but a word and too many strides away. The door was open, and I could see her through the crack. I almost mistook it for a mirror. I saw her face. She looked up and I looked into her eyes, never been this low huh? She shook her head, never, I have never in my life felt like walking forever into nothingness. I nodded. How I mistook her for a mirror, I felt just the same. What wouldn't I give to be stuffed full to the core with dumplings galore. Elephants are stomping in my backyard yet again, and I run to save the mangoes on the floor, but today I just didn't care anymore. The golden mangoes on the ground probably will not be stamped out, by those big grey feet, but really, I do not have the strength to bother, no strength to care. What would I give to be stuffed full to the core with dumplings, big fat dumplings galore.

Desire crept up into my heart and filled it with a big big hole. My desires. The more I see the more I wanted, the more I knew, the emptier my head became. I look around and it's all emptiness, what I see seemed full, they seemed like big fat dumplings and I wanted. The more I wanted, the bigger the hole became. I stand on the cliff and saw the vast nothingness of all I am, all I knew. It was nothing. And today, all I wanted amounted to nothing. Vain, vain nothing. What would I give to be stuffed full to the core with dumplings, big fat dumplings. Ambitions ravished what was already there, and all I had before me, was distinguished in its flame. Desire crept into my heart and filled it with a big big hole. I desperately held on to the desires and was rather overpowered. It dragged me down into the big hole together with it. Around me, nothing, inside me, nothing. What would I give to be stuffed to the core with dumplings, big fat dumplings galore.

Click-clock, click-clock. I found myself in the middle of that place again. The gallery displaying a million perceptions, a million interpretations, a million births, a million broken hearts, a million loves, a million deaths. Funny when it's the quietest, that it is the noisiest. The orchestra was playing today, harmonious. I was relaxed. Very relaxed. Peaceful, and the music played, gentle, quiet, and harmonious. The melodies were joyful, and serene and the instruments played together, perfectly, all in-time, in-tune, each filling the other's gaps. Perfect. My eyes rested on each painting. El crucificion. My eyes saw, and examined each and every one of them. El Greco, Diego Velasquez, one by one, my eyes glazed upon His face, His hands, His feet, the orchestra played and I plunged deep.

Click-clock, click-clock. Someone was there with me and I turned to see. She need not say a word, we walked out into the cold towards the river. Click-clock, click-clock. Our heels sounded on the empty pavement. Click-clock until we reached number 42. Up them steps. Keys jingle. And as the doors opened the fresh smell of dumplings filled my nostrils. Comforting. She looked up and smiled. I carefully poured the hot hot tea into the cups and sat down. I noticed her walls They were empty and I looked at her. An obsessive collector of art she was, and she had nothing on her wall. She pointed to the veiled painting on the wall. She sold all her other pieces to buy that one piece. A wall once filled with all sorts of paintings now upon it, only hung one. The last piece I ever need.The first piece her granddad ever painted. I nodded and watched as she walked towards it and pulled the white cloth that was draped over it. My eyes rested on it. What is it called I asked? Nothing she replied. I lifted my brows and slowly began to smile. I understood it. I did, and so did she. She was content, and satisfied and me, I am full. Filled to the top with dumplings galore.

Anna

It has been a while since she's played pool. Her companions set up the balls and they begun their game. It was her turn and so she nervously pushed her glasses back up and tucked her hair behind her ear. She remembered so clearly the times they had playing pool and she aimed and shot. The ball stopped short of the hole but it was close. She smiled. Her pool playing skills were wholly dependent upon him. He used to tell her which ball to hit, where exactly to aim. He would place his fingers at places where she would need to hit. All her shots were to his credit. She played his game really. He would sometimes even hold the cue in position. It was her turn again. She cannot help but play his game. The only way she knew how to play it. She saw his face, his smile, aimed where his finger was and rested as he held the cue in position. Shot. Her turn again. Turn after turn, she played as directed by him. His voice orating the colour, number of the ball, his fingers pointing, his head nodding, his steady hold behind her as she shoots. Another shot. Shot after shot until the last final ball. She wanted to play it herself now, she wanted to play her game now, for she had always been playing his. So she pushed him out of her mind and focussed. The number 8 ball taunted her as she aimed and shot. Missed. Turn after turn she missed. She was frustrated and sighed. She closed her eyes and remembered him again. Clearly. He gently came around to her side and directed her as she closed her left eye to aim, she carefully pulled the cue back and pushed it gently forward. The white ball rolled and stopped as it firmly nudged the black ball into the hole. Game. She won. She wasn't much of a pool player I guess, not as much as he was. She sighed. I guess it's alright. That way he could still be there to play the games. Even though he'd been gone for a long time now, gone far away. He still lived in her pool-playing. The one she loved with all her heart still lived, in her pool playing.

O Brother where art thou?

It was quite early in the morning when he woke. He sat up and propped his pillow against the bed-head then turned on his bedside lamp. He reached for his book and skimmed across the pages before he fell asleep again to wake up five minute before nine. Time for work in five minutes. He was rather annoyed at himself for being late again, the third day in a row. It was hard, not being able to sleep, and then waking at wee hours in the morning and then oversleeping. He was reluctant to go back on the pills again, but he's afraid he must. Too tired to work today but there was this blasted meeting he had to attend. He hurriedly jumped into the shower, pulled on his shirt, brushed his teeth and shuffled his laptop into his bag. He grabbed his keys and ran out the door. Damn. Forgot his cellphone. He pushed the door open again and searched for his cellphone. He finally found it under his pillow. He grabbed it and walked out the door. He thought about calling his secretary but decided that it would safe him more time to just get into his car and drive there. He can get breakfast on his way up. He wondered what his boss would think, although he usually was late too and does not notice. The great thing about being late is missing the traffic jam, he was pleased so he did not notice that the roads were quieter than usual. He drove along the road he had recently familiarized himself with. He had just moved to his new place and had managed to get himself lost a few times. He enjoyed the drive today though, no traffic, no long waits. He pulled into his parking space and walked up. Strange. It was strangely serene, the good man thought to himself as he opened the door. Too quiet for a working day. Oh well, good for him, he thought. Get through the day and then go to that social dinner that he had been invited to. The front desks were empty so he walked in and frantically pressed the buttons of the lifts. As he reached the floor he worked on he stepped out of the lifts and headed towards his office. There was nobody there. He hoped that they had not called an emergency staff meeting. He sat down and connected his computer to the cable. He picked up his phone to call his secretary. No answer. Annoyed, he walked to her desk. It was empty too. As he walked back to his desk his cellphone rang. Breakfast? The voice at the other end rang. I have to work he replied. Work? The voice asked, but it's a sunday. What? It's a sunday!! Sunday? Yeap. Oh well, I guess I will have breakfast then, he replied. See you soon. He sighed as he sat slumped into his chair. A Sunday. The one day he could've slept in, he rushed. Such a waste. He dragged himself off the chair and back downstairs. As he walked towards his car he noticed how quiet it was, not even the sound of his shoes on the pavement. He looked down. Something began to tickle him inside and the annoyance and frustration he felt melted away. Staring at him were two mickey heads, the bedroom slippers he had gotten for his birthday this year. He burst out laughing. He forgot his shoes. As he drove home he wondered what made her call for a breakfast date, she knew he wouldn't usually be up on a Sunday morning. He opened his car door and ran back up so he could get changed into more comfortable clothes and put on some shoes. He walked up the stairs towards his apartment and what he saw made him smile. A bottle of spritzer, two packets of nasi lemak, and the smiling face of the voice ringing to offer him some breakfast company. Happy Birthday, she sang. He's got all the time in the world for breakfast, after all he never worked on Sundays.

Chasing wind

The sky is grey, not because it was a dark gloomy day, but because the white clouds have spread itself so thinly across the blue blue sky. At the edge of the horizon remains a strip of rich blue, cloudless, and along the outlines of the oblong hill the raspy white clouds surround it White, fluffy and very appealing to the tired who longs for a soft place to rest. I want to climb up to make my bed there and watch the sky change from day to day.

We often ask why the sky is blue, and the answer is always, it reflects the sea, or is it the other way around but anyhow both air, and water are clear...I stood in the middle of the space, alone.

It was time for me to face my father again, my father and the lover of my soul who waits patiently with open arms for me. Ever so patiently he waits and watches, how many tears has he poured out for me, when I turn away to embrace the world who would, time and time again leave me broken, empty and alone.

When will I ever recognise that I must forsake all for Him...for He is the last man standing, He will be the last man standing when all has left me alone. I stand alone in the emptiness again. This time I chose to come to this place. I stripped myself of all and ran to this empty place hoping to find him standing, hoping to run into his embrace and then hoping that this time I will walk away with Him...hoping with all I am, all my heart, and soul, and mind that I will never turn from that face, or run from that embrace.

The wind began to blow as I stand, I allowed the soft arms of the gentle wind to caress my face, it undid the knot of my scarf and my scarf lifted to follow its bidding. I chased. As I chased the wind picked up its speed, and I chased and ran, until I reached the edge of a cliff. I reached to catch my scarf but it was too late, the wind stopped and dropped my scarf into the ocean beneath. I stopped and stared out at the cliff before me. The wind, flirted and played with me, for its own leisure and fun, ignorant, disregarding my safety. I folded my arms and sulked.

Why do you chase the wind my sweet one?

His voice gentle, still and yet clear. I remember once again why I came to that empty place. How could I forget.

Why do you chase the wind?

I turned to see the face that belonged to that voice. No face, no face to be found. I turned to search, and I sought and I sought. I longed deeper and deeper for those arms to embrace me, again.

Why do you chase the wind?

I closed my eyes and whispered back. I am sorry.

Why do you chase the wind? It shall not be found by you.

I stood silently. The sense that He stood near stilled me.

What do you seek my child?

I quietened my thoughts and unloaded my heart to get down to the deepest depth possible. I want truth to be told. Cleanse my heart.

What do you seek my child?

And the words rang loud and clear from my mouth, I want to find you. I fell back into the hold of the white fluffy cloud that surrounds me and His hands gently touched my cheeks. I stood still so to not loose that moment. I was once again in His warm embrace. This time I hope forever. Seek me my child, seek me and I shall be found by you. I shall be found by you.

Dance with me white dancer

Once again she was on her hands and knees picking up the pieces of broken glass. Time and time again he had smashed them. Who was she to assume the root that has caused him to smash them glass, but time and time again he did it. She did a bold thing today, she stood and looked him in the eye and told him to stop, of course this was after he smashed the dinner set to the pieces. All their life together she had been on her hands and knees picking up pieces of shattered glass, she did not know anything else. In the deepest corner of her heart she began to hate. And out of that deepest corner of that broken heart she began to act.

Look at that picture. The bruised and battered woman, ever so alone in that ever so dark a room. See the brokenness in her face, her tear stained face, her bloodshot eyes that had been dried out. The bruises on her hands and feet, and the cuts from picking up those pieces of broken glass. The bruise and battered women now holds a knife. She is on the run, fueled by her rage, and the pain from the wounds only made her run faster. Look the lunatic woman is on the loose, ready to cut before she is cut, ready. Ready and willing with all her might. Look at her eyes, vacant, and yet when you look deep you see the gurgling blood, dark, nearly black. The most horrific picture of the abused turn abuser.

The day I took her home I still remember. I heard the piercing scream from the room inside the building. Piercing scream. I ran with urgency for I knew that voice was crying to be heard. I ran up the stairs and burst into a room, stark white apart from the dark red that was flowing from the flesh that carried the voice. My first instinct was a sisterly one, to embrace her and remove the knife from her hands so I approached her. As I entered in I heard glass crunching under my feet. I looked down to see pieces of glass covered the hardwood floors of the room. I carefully drew near and removed the knife from her grip. I drew that body to mine and I tenderly rocked her to pacify her. The shaking soul collapsed in my arms in exhaustion.

Each day she met with the Gardener called Grace, and both worked through my garden. Each day little by little, she says, the garden, like her heart, was made new again.

Today I sit with her at the porch of my house. The bruise and battered woman had a new soul. She was ready to show me the pictures and so we sat side by side as she showed and told. A story so uncomfortable, and as I listened I head glass crunching under my feet. The sharp crackling edges of her story cut me enough to make me cringe. She painted the picture of a maiden who was so pure, but the Batman came and fed her flesh. The seeds of corruption grew and covered the girl and bit by bit the pure maiden was covered with spots and her hands began to be stained with blood. Everyman came to take and take from her. After all she was stained and covered in spots.

The White Dancer rescued her once. He extended His hands, strong and sturdy to her and invited her to dance. He took her in his arms and assured her all was well. He told her he was watching her from afar all this time, and each time she was stained, he cried bitter tears. He told her how much she meant to Him, and how much it cost Him to extend His hand. Princess He called her, too good to be true, not ready to dance yet she pushed Him aside.

The Glass Breaker came and posed as her prince, but he like Everyman couldn't see the pure white maiden buried underneath the swampy muddy mangrove tree. His words sharper than knife, and his flesh a veil so thick, his pride was a wall so sturdy and his self a child, with needs, with wants, and with the will to do all it takes to get it. He was the glass breaker and she, was glass shattered.

She remembers daily the White Dancer who extended HIs hand to sure. She longs for Him everyday and so He sent me to fetch her, so He can meet her again, right now, right here.

I sat and smiled as He appeared at my door to invite her to dance with Him again. This time she smiled and answered so clear, I trust you White Dancer, hold me close and dance away. Yes sweet princess I heard you cry, dear sweet princess I longed for your hand, you my dear princess are safe in my arms, and we will dance away, into eternity, forevermore.