Three years ago, as I walked past the woods, in the middle of the conversation between the treetops and the early morning breeze (I was eavesdropping!), I was taken aback by a different song. Although familiar, the spell sounded alien, odd, remote. It was sweet, it was fresh, lively and alluring.
As I approached the source of such lovely song, the voice grew clearer, more familiar but still unknown; and powerful! Oh, yes, powerful and strong, yet sweet and delicate.
After a few hundred yards (nothing valuable is easy!) I came to what seemed to be the crowning tip of the mountain that guarded the valley where I was. At its foot, a deep, dark gorge stemmed sombre and a little spooky; even the crows evaded the area. To my astonishment, that was the origin of the voice, the mermaid's song.
Shyly, almost as if apologising for its mere radiant existence in such a sordid place, a stream sprang, fresh with crystal-clear water, rumbling among the nooks and crannies of every rock, stone and hollow there was along its way.
The watercourse seemed to merge with its surroundings. It flowed slowly but steadily, with occasional rapids, surprisingly appearing here and suddenly disappearing there. The trees, flowers and other living things about it seemed to enjoy the same as I was: the rest of the forest was still, apart from the caress of the breeze. Yet these creatures danced to the song of the stream. Even the smell of that part of the woods was different, like just squeezed lime juice, newly made tea and melting chocolate.
Suddenly, the voice addressed me. It addressed me! And the voice, now clearly a woman's, uttered my name. I was agape, speechless. In other circumstances I would have run flat out, in fear, but the voice touched my ears as if with the feather of an eagle's chick.
I stood there, looking stupid, waiting for the miracle to come back. And it did. She, the lady of the stream, asked me what my eyes had seen of the world, what men were doing to other men and to nature, what colour the sky was under the ocean, what the seabirds told about their long journeys across continents.
I answered her questions as best as I could, telling her I was not wise, well-travelled, well-read or well anything.
I spoke of beauty and ugliness, of love and fear, of hope and despair. While I talked, magically, the stream swang its mood: sad, alarmed, pensive. One could actually sense, touch, step on the feelings. I was surrounded by them, imbedded in them.
I spent my day there. No hunger, no tiredness, no digressions; our conversation progressed. Love, life, hope, light, water, the seasons, the rain, are now some of the words my mind recalls hearing. I listened and understood; her voice was clear and appeasing. I replied naturally, like we'd always been close acquaintances. Strange. I am not like that... was not like that. I told her of my deeds and sorrows, my loneliness and thirst. She listened and kept enquiring about me, my world, my minute world.
Time had elapsed unseen, undetected. The moon, that selfish, intrusive full moon overhead, told me it was time to go back to my village. She asked me to come back the following day, because she had -she said- something important to tell me. I said I would and, slowly, as if regretting it, walked away towards the village, the expected, the commonplace.
On my way back and barely recovering from the wonder, I realised I could only remember the feelings the voice had stirred in me, not the sound of it, very little of the contents apart from the brief list above. I later thought it was obviously the case that I, a mere mortal, could not be allowed to comprehend the uniqueness of such a creature: a composite creature. Was she a fairy? An elf? A spirit of the forest? My memory of the encounter is blurred now, restricted.
Of course, I've loved her hence. Of course I went back as promised. And, of course, she was not there anylonger. Hasn't so far. Most likely shan't.
Instead of the singing stream, the ground was covered with fallen leaves. The stones were not there. The gorge was now a cliff between the two columns the mountain was divided into, leading down the other valley. The whole space I remembered did not exist... anymore? had it ever been there?
I walked up and down all day, trying to find some clue, a hint, traces, something that would assure me the apparition was not a hallucination.
Hours later, exhausted, my eyes dry at last, my heart in pain and confused, I saw something odd. In the middle of the barren soil covered in dry leaves and shaded by the tall trees grew a flower. It caught my eye because it was not supposed to be there. It took me a few seconds to indentify it, mainly because of the colour: a hue of blue (or was it purple?) so dark it seemed black.
Somehow, I thought to myself, the flower was a farewell note. For reasons I could not understand (perhaps don't have to), the lady of the stream could not meet with me, would not. And, I guess, she knew I would notice the 'note', the flower, that black tulip. Yes, for a tulip it was. Well, I did see it. Yes...
Do you want to know why I love wandering in the forest early in the mornings? Well, there's this rare flower that should not be there but is . . .
Not all bd presents come wrapped in paper. Not all happy ends are evident. May the last one be the first...?
First published on April 3rd, 2007, as a BD present for DIRS.
Visitors (friends, curious readers, migratory birds, those who took me for the Chinese actress, odd netsurfers and other virtual fauna -flora?!!) are hereby requested to leave a little comment regarding their wanderings here, in my humble (quaint) blog.
Why?
I keep a record of regualr visits from different parts of the globe (by regular I do mean regular, i.e., coming often and repeatedly) and I just can't take it anymore not knowing WHY THEY KEEP COMING BACK!!!!!
Don't get me wrong: I'm more than flattered. It's just ... that...I would like to know. OK?
Thanks
By the bye, I simply loved this song...simplicity bathed with truth can be soooo soothing:
The day I first saw her was not the day I met her, I got to know her. That came later, ...ages later. As ages it has been since I last sensed her sweet presence. There are quite a few good reasons why muses do not mingle with mortals. We tend to think it's because they're so haughty, up there surrounded by clouds and vastness, that we -little ants running everywhere - appear to them simply as parts of the landscape, the chocolate in the box nobody wants.
That, however, is -of course- wrong. They don't mingle with us because we might get the worst of it.
Once I heard somebody say: "If there are any aliens out there, why won't they talk to us, communicate? If they're so smart as to have crossed half the universe just to examine us, if their technology and wisdom are so advanced and stuff, one would think that the least they could do was to try and contact us, right?". Wrong! In the context of the quote above there was another bloke who replied: "you know a lot more than cockroaches, you're aware of a lot more than they ever will be; still, have you ever tried to teach them anything?".
Sometimes, nonetheless, a parrot falls in love with a dragonfly. A muse casts a spell on a mortal. The "worst" I mentioned above relates to the old saying that goes: if a slave dies a slave, he'll pass away quietly, even happily, for his life will have had a purpose, a telos, fulfilled. But if he has a taste of freedom, if only for a few glorious seconds, nothing, but absolutely nothing will be better or more desirable, ever again.
The muse I met and loved left for her cloudy summit. I had a taste of freedom. Still, I could not possibly do without my "worst of it".
This is the first day of my life I swear I was born right in the doorway I went out in the rain suddenly everything changed They're spreading blankets on the beach
Yours is the first face that I saw I think I was blind before I met you Now I don’t know where I am I don’t know where I’ve been But I know where I want to go
And so I thought I’d let you know That these things take forever I especially am slow But I realize that I need you And I wondered if I could come home
Remember the time you drove all night Just to meet me in the morning And I thought it was strange you said everything changed You felt as if you'd just woke up And you said “this is the first day of my life I’m glad I didn’t die before I met you But now I don’t care I could go anywhere with you And I’d probably be happy”
So if you want to be with me With these things there’s no telling We just have to wait and see But I’d rather be working for a paycheck Than waiting to win the lottery Besides maybe this time is different I mean I really think you’ll like me.
Oblivion may have won the battle (it actually DID), but wounds and scars remain. Please, don't get me wrong: I do not regret it, not for a second. Still, here's something for you to read.
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the Ocean,
The winds of Heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle.
Why not I with thine? ---
See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea:
What is all this sweet work worth
If thou kiss not me?
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (4th August 1792 – 8th July 1822)
The Dragonfly and the parrot (or a case of love that be could not possibly be but was).
Hi. I'm On Toh Kae. Some of you will think it's a funny name, but it isn't. Actually it's quite common among us, parrots. Yes I'm a parrot, a male parrot (Kae is a man's name). I'm youngish for my species (I'm only 42) if you consider that some of us can live up to 97 years and more. And time (years, seconds, moments) took on a different hue of grey (and gold!) for me since the event I will soon be referring to took place.
I live in a rather hectic jungle. Jungles are thought to be nice, peaceful places full of vegetation, animal life and rivers. That image is mostly true, but incomplete. There's the struggle for life, there's death, anonymous death, there's good days, bad days, lousy days. There's also Love. Funnily, there's no hate. Some fear, maybe; but no hate, which seems to be an element in human 'jungles'.
My jungle, however, changed before my very eyes one fine morning of October. October in my jungle (I don’t like saying this, because I don’t own this jungle, I simply dwell in it; ownership is a human trait I’d rather not share) is a placid month: the change from rainy, cool September to warm, moist November. Life was at rest, or expectant, you choose.
My flock is huge! Boy!, the sky goes dark at noon when we all go to drink at the Lark’s Nest, the place where the river kisses the rocks on the side of the mountain and creates a permanent sheet of clouds that gives you the impression of being up high, whereas in fact you’re only a couple of wingflips above the ground (50 feet in human units). It’s a magical place. Yes, we’re many, but we’re all different, too. At least I now feel different, and also I must look so too, for my flight mates eye me with a little suspicion these days. Can’t blame them.
We’re blue front parrots. We’re playful, jolly folks, whose sole purpose in life seems to be eating, loving, rearing and having fun. Of course, there’s more to it. Sometimes, there’s even more than that. For me there is now.
My kind is noted for its mating habits. Not that, you perverts! No! We, like geese, choose only one partner for life. It’s quite easy, really, if you are a blue front parrot.
In our world (our tiny side of the universe), Love is a matter of life and death: your blood line will be lost forever if your choice is wrong; and you don’t want to always be just another feather in that huge, dark flying spot overhead, you want to be special and unique for one, at least one other parrot. And I am a blue front parrot. But now not only a blue front parrot.
That fine morning of October (fine it was, oh, yes!), I was dozing, as usual, before the drink flight (one of our 3 major daily events, the other two being gathering fruit and fighting our neighbours). I was on the branch of a catalpa longissima, a beautiful tree. At one point I opened one eye and looked down at the creek down below. Often it was fun to watch the sloths, howler monkeys and other tree dwellers come down and drink when they couldn’t find any wet leaves.
That day, however, there was no one there. Well, that’s not entirely true.
Our eyes can see things other eyes can’t. We can spot ripe fruit, good to eat, from a long distance. Sunlight at dawn has colours I cannot verbalise: dual hues of orange along with yellow; and blue with a dash of pearl. Amazing? That silly word!
My one open eye saw this subtle, brief reflection, right above the water. The creek is shallow, so apart form the usual sparkles ... but this was different. It took another split second to realise it was a wing. An insect’s. The way in which it moved among the dense vegetation, not touching one leaf, stem; not getting entangled in cobwebs, and hunting at that!! I was fully awake now. Both eyes open.
We’re not great fliers but definitely better than sparrows and them noisy guacamayos! But this technique, Gosh!, was like nothing I’d ever even dreamed of!!! I was hypnotised.
I flew a little closer, barely making noise lest it would startle this supernatural apparition.
The creature’s body was long, slender, with incredible hues of blue and purple. But although the wings had first caught my eye, and the body was so awesome, the eyes....
Those eyes seemed to contain everything about them, each and every item of existence there was. No colour; rather, all colours. I stood there, still, agape, deeply embedded in the contemplation of this dance of colour, grace and frailty. Don’t ask me why, but perhaps I’d never paid attention to these other (read ‘lesser’) creatures of the forest, I had been blind. Like most of us, right? It takes half a second with wonder to shake us awake from the drowsiness of normal existence. From existence into life.
And so it was... a miracle, quiet, inconspicuous, almost invisible, the way true miracles are.
Suddenly, and as silently as it had appeared, the creature vanished. Honestly, I don't know why (can't recall), but I was sad and pensive for the rest of that day.
I didn't get to see that little piece of awe for the next two days. But my mockery, the fun I used to make of sloths drinking water at ground level (have you ever seen one of them funny-looking hairy carpets!?) would teach me a lesson or two.
I'd decided to fly down and land next to the creek. Our laughter is so loud, it sometimes blurs our own thoughts, and I'd been a little down since my encounter with the strange flying stick (an unkind name I'd chosen for it; one usually resorts to making fun of those wonderful, mysterious things one can't have, as if having them -owning them- would make them ...what, yours? hahahah! What a daft prick I was then!!!), I wanted thirsty sloths to chase the blues away.
There I was, short of breath from laughing, tears in my eyes, when a little but potent voice (potent, not loud but…) addressed me saying: "Hasn't any of you, noisy feathers, ever dislodged their jaws by laughing like that?!"
I looked around, both surprised and upset; who would dare interrupt my therapy?! But there was nothing. I mean... lesson 1: what the eyes cannot see is oftentimes more real than what is seen... distrust the obvious; rely only on the evident. But evidence is so elusive...But I'm digressing...
After a few awkward seconds I asked: "Who's there? Why don't you show yourself, you cowardly little crawly!!"
"Right here, I am, you filthy dirtbag! Who's hiding, you blind, dumb log!!?"
Hahahahaha. Oh, boy! And actually, there she was, less than half a wingflip away. On a white lily by the stream. Under my very nose!
Yes, ... she was. It was a lady. A dragonfly. My beautiful dragonfly princess... the miracle had started.
Our rather brisk first encounter slowly derived into unexpected areas of common interest: the rain (too much or too little); food (she's a hunter, hehehe!). The first surprise was that we could actually communicate. I mean, I can't talk to a cockatoo, for example, despite being members of the same species (reportedly!). A dragonfly, however extraordinary, beautiful and captivating, was not a likely candidate for a parrot to strike up conversation with, to say the least!!
But there I was. There we were. You know, the blindness I was referring to goes beyond images. I was there, listening to this creature impossible, charmed like never before. For instance, she told me that the best thing that could happen to her was to wake up one fine 'overcast' morning.
-What?! But ... you're a hunter. You spot and eat insects, right? And you like clouds in the sky?
-Sure. Bugs are dumb (she couldn't possibly think of herself as a bug) and we have these eyes that can see not only farther but also deeper. Sunlight on a cloudy day gives us an additional weapon. Bugs go blind.
- Our eyes are also like that, but we don't hunt. We collect, we gather.
-Ain't that boring? I mean, you just fly about looking for food and then find it and it won't run away from you?
- Yes. And it's not boring at all. We do it together.
-Together? How's that?
- We fly together. We're a flock. The Morning Dew flock, we are.
- What's a flock?
- It's a big bunch of parrots, flying together. We eat and chat and quarrel. It's so much fun!
For a second she fell silent. I thought she hadn't understood a word I'd said and opened my mouth for the second explanatory round when she said:
- Together?! Always?!!
- Yes. But why do you ask?
- It's unthinkable for dragonflies to want to do that. You see, we hafta hunt alone, fly alone, eat alone! Another dragonfly is not only a nuisance, but a danger. We...we do it all alone.
Her hesitation sounded like she was still trying to imagine what it's like to always live in a group. She couldn't. It even seemed to horrify her (her voice got this buzzy quality).
It must have taken us two days to come to terms with our respective views on life, language and symbols (for me a ripe fruit meant something completely different than it did to her). At first I cherished her company because of its uniqueness. Meeting one another had been so unexpected, so amusing and fun.
By the fourth day we had set a place and a time.
"What is it that parrots do when they're not eating", she asked toyingly.
"Well. We do lots. We chat; we do our feathers; we sing (some say we holler)". I replied, sure of the sound of importance of both my voice and the contents of what I was saying. I must have made an impression on her, I told myself.
"Is that what you call lots?! My wings! I fly and hunt most of the day. When I'm not feeding I rest, but I must find a safe place to do so. There's danger everywhere: spiders, ants (them tiny bastards!), sticky plants. Leaves shaken by the wind can also pose a threat. While I rest I imagine".
"You imagine", I asked, not understanding. "Why, that's amazing!" That last remark, as innocent as it appeared, was the cause of it all, as you'll see.
"Amazing?! Why? Because I'm an insect and you're a bird and they don't mingle? Or is it that insects can't imagine because they have no minds? Ah! I know it: could other birds' food do something as elaborate as imagine, or think or feel. Right?! Is that it!!?"
Her voice was harsh, even brutal. Her tone, however, hid something that at first escaped my attention: pain.
"No, no!", I babbled, taken aback by this sudden fit of anger. "I didn't mean to say that, at all"
"Then what -by the Good Rain- did you mean? And let it sound convincing because I'm about to start to think that I've been wasting my good time here."
"My goodness! How... how could you...?" I could not finish the sentence. In a split second she'd gone away.
We didn't see each other for two days.
I thought of her words. Of her. Then... I began to actually miss her. I missed a dragonfly. No, I missed her, that dragonfly. Even more despairing: I could tell her from the many other dragonflies. That startled me: when did that happen? Why didn't I know? Why?
On the third day of her absence, by the Lark's Nest, I was having a bath (warm day it was) when my thoughts were interrupted.
"Why did you say that? It was not necessary. You could have very well said that you were bored and tired and..."
"Why did I say what?", I asked. "I don't know what you're talking about".
"You implied I was not able, or entitled to imagine." She said. Her voice conveyed tired sadness. "And I do. I have often wondered why I do. It's been like a curse, you know: I don't know of any other dragonfly that publicly states that they can imagine things. As a species, we're noted for our memory, flight and eyesight. But imagination?!... My fellows have always eyed me with suspicion. But I like it. I think it somehow saves me from an otherwise dull existence, you see. I sometimes daydream, too. I believe that is another kind of imagination..."
“I.... I’ve just realised I don’t know your name. I need to know your name.”
“Need?” Surprise had replaced sadness.
“Yes. I need to know your name. I must see you, everyday, from now on. I don’t want to be without you when I wake up, when I feed, or have a bath, or... What is this? It...feels so strange”.
“What is what?” She asked, as if this ‘topic’ had been the all we’d been talking about since we’d first met.
“I don’t know what to call it. It’s something like how you feel after the first rainy day at the end of the warm, dry season. Yes, quite like that”. I could not stop talking. It was odd, but it didn’t feel odd, it felt refreshing.
Suddenly, almost rudely, I said: “Of course that’s amazing! Precisely. Can’t you see? You actually imagine things. And so do I. And you were telling me about that”.
"So, you never thought I was ... dull?”, a shy question.
"Please, your name”. The words just left my mouth.
"德嫲, my name is 德嫲.It means ’Noble grandmother".
After that we met everyday, and talked. I had never seen the world in such a tiny, predatory way. The lower levels of the jungle -to which I flew only to get water and that not very often- became the source of fascinating stories: darkness, stalking, pouncing, waiting, struggling. My eyes reacted to light reflected on dew drops on leaves, roots, logs. The rainbow threw its colours down there so mysteriously: hues of green (emerald?), grey (pearl?). Also the sounds!! The murmur of the running stream, the warm breeze singing through the jungle at dusk and dawn (she had these odd hours for hunting); the rustle of the scales of a serpent against the hard bark of trees, it all seemed magnified there.
I must admit she dazzled me. Every word she uttered acquired a meaning unknown to me; new concepts appeared in my vocabulary (I never had a word for those full square turns she made while flying, those that caught me aback and lost me so easily; she called them crawts). She taught me her technique for still flight (very tiring, but I'm sure none of my fellow parrots has ever seen the blooming of a wishflower at dawn. It's a flower that blooms and opens its beautiful colours only for a few minutes before dying and, so they say, reappears somewhere else on the jungle ground).
I clearly remember our mutual...discoveries?
She flew above the canopy, where the wind blows hard and either the clouds or the sun will blind you. I could "hear" her awe and fear as she lay motionless on my back, but I also sensed her joy! She'd never dreamed of doing that. And I had never carried any passengers, either! It felt nice, having to carry someone who depends on you wholly for a few seconds.
I learnt to fly among cobwebs, young shoots, in the darkness of the bottom of the jungle ground. Colours, sounds, smells, they all felt different. She taught me to fly so accurately that I wouldn't stir one droplet of dew in a cobweb line. That still flight, like the humming bird's, wow! so tiring. And...and those sudden 90º turns!!
Two whole weeks of glory, until I realised what it was all about. On my part, I found out while doing my feathers early in the morning. One's feathers are one's life, you see. And doing them gives you this funny sort of…household pleasure?? Well, it always makes me smile, and as I was doing just that: rearranging my feathers and smiling, when I wished she was there with me to tell her. And she wasn't. Then and there I knew I loved her.
I guess she knew when we came back from our high flight. She was silent for a long time. She stayed with me till dusk! (She usually left before that). I think I saw her smile (can't be sure of that, but you could tell she was very happy). But I'm guessing here, and digressing.
One day she didn't come back. She had spent the day before with me, all of it: flying up high, drinking water, watching me "flea myself" (that's what she called my feather sessions). We talked about the sound of the rain on leaves, on the ground, on us! (She hated it). She told me more about her life, and others like her (I still hold there's nobody like her at all). We would sit next to each other, in silence. She loved the way in which I stared at her wings over the corner of my eye (I could never fool her). They glowed like a hundred minute suns, and looked so frail and yet I knew they could perform the most awesome acrobatics! That day she looked especially pensive. Particularly sweet she was, too.
She didn't come back. I waited and waited. Never came back. My love of her turned into a keen eye for detail, into a silence that made my fellow parrot mates grow suspicious (A quiet parrot!?? C'm on!).
It must have been 5 or 7 months after my last encounter with the lady of still flight, my heart had sunk into a condition so strange that I find it next to impossible, even now, to produce a decent definition, but I'll do my best: it was sadness and expectation, it was solitude sitting next to loneliness; it was pain and silence, a feeling of loss vis-a-vis gratitude. By now, the other parrots had arrived at the conclusion (not much mistaken) that I had snapped, lost it, gone mad, but since my craze was not noisy or otherwise threatening, they simply let me be.
I was doing my feathers when, suddenly a squeaky voice got me out of my digressions.
"Are you the stout flyer?" The voice asked. When I looked, my heart came to a halt. It was a dragonfly!!! No, it was not her, I could see that right away, but... another dragonfly was talking to me.
Perhaps realizing I was speechless, she hastened to add: “I want to know if you are the stout flyer that taught us to soar up into the sky when there’s no wind and reach the full sun and see the edge of the universe”.
“What?”, I exclaimed in amazement. “I am sure I’ve never done anything remotely similar to that!!”
“Odd. She told us you’d done that and more”.
“Perhaps you could tell me who she is?”, I said.
“德嫲, the brave”.
“You know her?!”. I was ecstatic. We had a common acquaintance!! The thought made me smile.
“I did, but briefly. So, then, you are the stout flyerafter all”.
“She said all that? Well, I think she’s exaggerated a bit”.
“She lied? Are you sure? Did she not ride on your back to surpass the treeline? Did she notsee the sun from there and peek at the place where clouds are born? Did she not manage to speak with you, a parrot, like none of us before? Is it not true that she learnt to wade the wind and keep her wings intact? Is it not true that she saw the dawn from up high, when darkness still ruled the jungle and dusk when night had already set on the trees?”
“Yes, she did. We did, actually.” I said after a pause.
“And she”, I added, “in turn, showed me the magical nooks and crannies of the jungle. She taught me how to read the lines of dew and know what time of the day it was, or what season, without having to use the position of the sun. I’ve found enjoyment in solitude and in silence. And I can hear the whisper of a minute wing, sense a tiny variation in the breeze and …” I stopped. “briefly”, this dragonfly had said.
Filled with a cold feeling in my heart, a sudden fit of fear and realisation I asked: “Where is she now?”
“Sheflew away. A long time ago. Didn’t you know? We all fly away. Don’t you?”
She’s gone. With her I had learnt the brevity of a dragonfly’s life, but –of course, a trick of memory- I had unilaterally decided she was not going to die so soon, or ever for that matter.
This new dragonfly flew off and left me without a word. They are like that: silent loners, hunters.
德嫲 had left for good, had shown me a universe inside a universe. Had let me love without questioning, need without fearing and hope without expecting.
Yes, I loved her, and yes, she had left. I, however, will not degrade the present she gave me by mourning, grieving. No. I shall live and learn things her way, and mine.
I loved a dragonfly and the dragonfly loved me back. It was all true, however brief. I loved once and I am certain of it.
I am grateful.
In memory of...
第安 公主, so beautiful and yet so brief.我 相思你. Aunque sabiendo pronunciar el nombre 德嫲, a la musa inspiradora le resultará fácil saber que es para y por ella: Dagmar I. Riesle, te recuerdo. Vive feliz tu nueva vida.
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