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Much of who I was has been swept away. Instead, standing in the place of all that, me. After the fire, the collapse of everything, a new self, as always, risen from the ashes. Not who I was, yet more myself than ever. Perhaps that’s how it goes, this life: always building, always falling, the old continually making way for the new. Photographs from the past few years all seem to have been of someone else; even the writing I no longer recognise as mine.

I tried to build a new life, a different life. That’s over now, and in its place there’s yet another me. I’m not really a writer any more, nor even much of a poet; all that fell from me the day I turned my back on magic. But still this site exists, and I owe it to myself, I think, to make use of it somehow. So I’ll write. I don’t know how successful I will be. But I’ll try, for a little while at least, to see what I can do with my own strength. After that, we’ll see.

after the fire,
fresh seedlings from the ashes —
life after life

One day, when I have found the right sculptor and have enough money, I will commission a statue of Justice: the traditional figure of a woman, naked (for she has nothing to be ashamed of), her hair tied back and out of the way (showing discipline), grasping a sword. The sword should be undecorated (to denote simplicity) but not crude; it should have the efficient look of a weapon intended for use, not adornment. The sword should have no sheath or scabbard, nor should it be resting on the ground; it should always be ready for use, and should be held ready, though its user should seem neither reluctant nor impulsive. The woman’s eyes are open and alert, not closed or blindfolded; she should be standing erect, ready for movement, her proportions noble, her aspect at once both admirable and terrifying. Her face should be implacable, ruthless, utterly beautiful. The statue should be in bronze, or in steel, or some other powerful metal, and should be finely finished but unpainted.

I write these words tonight because I finally realise this to be my highest value, and that I have lived for Justice all the days of my life. Sometimes I have succeeded, other times I have failed, but never have I wavered from that vision. Every major decision in my life has been born out of this. Justice, unswayed by either pity or covetousness, and all the more beautiful because of it. It is born out of the simple principle of fair and equal exchange. It lies in the simple belief that credit should be given wherever it is due, and that to those who have accomplished nothing nothing should be given. It is the reason why, among the professions, I once considered both law and law enforcement, and it is why I have currently settled on education.

Few things to me are more horrible than the man who believes he is owed a living, who believes that he has a right to demand things from others out of their pity or goodwill or gratitude. Foul indeed is the man who believes that his mediocrity ought to be rewarded with as much honour as another man’s achievement; the only thing fouler is the man who encourages him to continue thus. The right sculptor for the job will therefore be a person for whom the superlative quality of his work is the only thing that matters, and who will charge me an appropriate sum for the work of his hands. Thus will we honour the principle of a fair and equal exchange, the principle which forms the backbone of all justice.

face set, unsmiling, I step out of the ashes; still the rain, the rain

~|~

Today I feel as one does after battle: somewhat sad, a little tired, aching from the comedown one feels after victory. Not triumphant; simply in that limbo where one tries to figure out what to do next. Not even particularly victorious. This was, after all, a war which should never have had to happen; and I wonder if I might not, perhaps, have set myself up for it by adopting (how could it have been?) somebody else’s moral code, foreign to my own. Still. It will not happen again. That much I promise myself.

Now I have things to do. I leave for Jogjakarta the day after tomorrow; I have some writing and marking which needs to get done; I have to plan for new students, a new school, a new term; and, next month, I will have to cheat death. Just another item on the agenda. I have a life to reclaim.

Thirty-one days left, and then thirty, and soon enough twenty-nine — and after that the valley of the shadow. Even now I’ve suffered yet another setback, had to grit my teeth against yet another snub. But something has changed now. I don’t feel beaten. Something has awoken inside me, there is fire again in the furnace; something strong and vicious and glorious is singing, lighting my eyes, setting my jaw, igniting every step with purpose.

These may or may not be the last days of my life; either way, I intend them to be some of the best. This is the thought which drives me, even as I stride down quiet grassy paths with Mayee, talking about books and ideas and scripts; as I nuzzle into Islin’s ear on the dancefloor in a club, or take hands with women on the studio floor; as I watch Desiree and Sebastian delighting in each other, or sing along to the radio with Denise in the car; as my fingers race over the computer keyboard, or my pen slices through swathes of marking. I am returning to the wars. There is fire behind my eyes again, lightning underneath my feet. I am coming back. To all who are still on my side, I say: this is the moment when everything matters. Let us stand and face the world again together.

Nearly a month now since last I updated. However could this have happened? I know I always meant to update, but demands on my time from work and crazymakers have driven it from my mind. Still, all is well, inasmuch as it can be said to be well; I’m sitting in the pub now, quietly, having a couple of beers before going home to dinner and work and rest. I haven’t had a chance to properly think in a long time; I hope that season is over now. All I want, really, at the end of the day, is peace. A world of gentleness and silence instead of chaos and horror and endless drama. So little to ask for. Too much to ask for. Who knows, who knows? Perhaps none of this will matter anymore in a little while.

But still for now I’ll enjoy the moment, this pocket of time and solitude before everything explodes again. A little something. Anytime. Anywhere.

even in the dark
between dreams, sleep and waking,
music wanders on

though I watch the skies, the birds still know the seasons better than I do

~|~

Other birds have joined the mating frenzy: tailorbirds and orioles, and now there’s a pair of sunbirds building a nest right in front of the staffroom doors. Is the weather really all that great? Funny things, birds. I stepped out to get a photograph of them, and a bunch of students just stood by and stared at me. They did it the other day, too, while I was photographing a woodpecker. Funny creatures, students.

Over the past week or so I’ve noticed that the morning star’s somehow picked up a companion, and today the two lights were bright and close enough for me to look them up. I’m glad I did: the other light is in fact the planet Jupiter, and there’s a conjunction expected for February 1st. Tomorrow morning! I think I’ll get out of bed a little earlier to watch the sky for a while. It is, of course, if I remember my horary astrology correctly, a highly auspicious sign: Jupiter conjunct Venus, the Greater Benefic combined with the Less, a season of generosity and expansiveness and pleasure and love. (Maybe that’s why the birds are building.) Not that I’ve cast a chart or anything, of course. But still it’s something worth knowing.

dead grass, fibres, dew — from these leavings of the field tiny new lives stir

~|~

I don’t know if it is the season — the weather has been changing, becoming noticeably warmer, with earlier clearer sunrises since my last post — but everywhere I look I seem to see birds carrying nesting material in their beaks. Crows and mynahs and sparrows, on rooftops, in rafters, between generator slats, industriously labouring away. Home-building. Creches for the young. I don’t know if it’s an omen or an irony.

so silent the world, even with music playing — sweet monsoon evening

~|~

The air smelled good when I stepped out of the car this morning: raindrenched grass and dew on damp soft earth, the world just warming before sunrise. Girls running, lamps still lit. It’s been raining every day for the past week or so, great storms and sheets of rain that scare dogs into houses and keep us all marooned in offices. The rain is beautiful, at least to me, knowing it’ll all be over soon enough: another month now and it’ll be the Spring Festival, and the heat’ll start baking the land. But for now it’s still January, and fresh, and calm, and the winds can still carry me on.

I look at the sky now, this January evening, and pray its kindly blue will last. Even as the year begins to gain speed and to tumble over us like an avalanche.

Christmas went well, the new year went well. Out with family, out with friends, in museums, in cafes, in bars, with music, singing, celebrating with joy and colour and life even amid silence, under skyshine, among crowds. The air flavourless, promising nothing, but even so connection, sparking electric between heart and heart. Back to work again, busy but personable, brimming with the possibility of a year better than before. So far, then, so good; and one can dream, and one can hope.

The new year is always a special time; or perhaps, at this moment when we feel the passing of time most keenly, it becomes a moment out of time, an instant of timelessness, just like the moment of every new year before it; a space where, beyond the eternal passing of the rains and the seasons, we are freed from the bleak grey heartlessness of the merely everyday, and given the chance to imagine. Resolution: now there’s a word looking both backwards and ahead in time, healing the wounds and the conflicts of the past, bringing the future closer to what we hope it will be. The new year, the special season, one of the five of Japanese haiku. If only there could be, this year, trust and comfort and love.

the world as it turns —
a sleeping princess laid upon
a soft velvet bed

I went to the university library today, after a late lunch, but I’d forgotten it was vacation time, and it was closed by the time I got there. So I stood and looked out at the quiet high trees in the steady afternoon rain, and read, and wrote.

rain upon the leaves;
patient in the pool beneath —
two waterhens

even the ripples
on the speckled concrete path
know where they’re going

twilight slips softly
through the grey December sky;
streetlamps burn brighter

a yellow balloon,
silent as the evening falls
among the flagstones

After that I took a bus down to Vivocity. The windows were completely frosted over from the rain. They looked like sprinked gold, like maki-e. I found it heartening that I could still tell where I was simply by looking at the patterns of the lights outside.

an infant shrieks —
the voice of a wild bird
defending its nest

the sound of the crowd —
gravel underneath the wheels
of an oncoming train

Is there any difference, I wonder, between writing this country as it is and as it ought to be?