such a perfect day

so here i am again. revisiting madame geneva's backyard. the parks and the avenue de la paix.

i entered swiss on saturday from strasbourg france through land frontiers near basel. across the river rhein, welcomed with a smile by the majestic mountains and rolling hills of the cantons. seven years ago this place was a meeting point between twenty five young souls who came from different countries. we stayed then for about three weeks at madame remy's bed and breakfast.
never thought at all that i would one day make my way here.

almost seven years later, now, the broken chair monument's still there in front of the united nations headquarter. the old city, the bridges and the fountain remain the same, except now the water is much colder. the river rhone that goes to france, the trams, the swiss clocks that decorate the city... all are like they used to be.

i wished i could see freddie mercury's real "made in heaven" statue in montreux, overlooking the lake at sunset from the lake geneva shoreline. i don't think i have time to come there this time. i also tried to absorb the feel of the "smoke on the water" song of the deep purple, in which they said that they came out to montreux on the lake geneva shoreline to make records with a mobile.

but anyway, yesterday was particularly a perfect day for me. one of the best weekends i've ever had. i sat on a bench looking at the lake leman as blue as the sky. no clouds either in the sky or in my head, just swans swimming and spray from the giant fountain.

lou reed's "perfect day" was a right soundtrack that describe my weekend, "when problems were left alone and we're just weekenders on our own..." hohoo..

... i really thanked God alhamdulillah for that wonderful sunday...

madame geneva's

i’m a maker of ballads right pretty
i write them right here in the street
you can buy them all over the city
yours for a penny a sheet

i’m a word pecker out of the printers
out of the dens of Gin Lane
i’ll write up a scene on a counter
- confessions and sins in the main, boys
confessions and sins in the main

then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s
keeping the demons at bay
there’s nothing like gin for drowning them in
but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day

they come rattling over the cobbles
they sit on their coffins of black
some are struck dumb, some gabble
top-heavy on brandy or sack
the pews are all full of fine fellows
and the hawker has set up her shop
as they’re turning them off at the gallows
she’ll be selling right under the drop, boys
selling right under the drop

then you’ll find me in Madame Geneva’s
keeping the demons at bay
there’s nothing like gin for drowning them in
but they’ll always be back on a hanging day, on a hanging day...

the letters that lenny sent

and there he goes, singing a song about the letters that he's sent...

"she never liked to get
the letters that he sent.

but now she's got the gist
of what his letters meant.

she's reading them again,
the ones she didn't burn.

she pressed them to her lips,
his pages of concern.

he said there'd been a flood.
he said there's nothing left.

he hoped that she would come.
he gave her his address.

her story was so long,
the plot was so intense,

it took her years to cross
the lines of self-defense.

the wounded forms appear:
the loss, the full extent;

and simple kindness there,
the solitude of strength.

she walks into his room,
she stands there at his desk.

begin her letter to
the one who's coming next..."

five-word message

this is a poster in my dining room. the original ones were used during the world war two to influence public opinion. there were no television and internet back then. poster was a highly effective medium to steady public's resolve and maintain morale. and the five-word message sums it all. in today's context the words are still relevant somehow. keep calm and carry on. nothing ideological. just simply british.

time to cook

perhaps i shouldn't treat academic homeworks (essays, dissertation, presentation, etc.) the way i do poems or fiction stories. i mean, not substantively of course, for certainly the two categories do belong to different baskets of qualification. but more in terms of how to craft them.

lately i came to discover that i spend quite a splendid amount of attention and time in trying to make my homeworks tasty and delicious, which is nearly impossible. there is just not enough time to do that. it's like you can't cook a real good fancy food when you have less than five minutes.

i guess there is an appropriate limit of time to be allocated for each work that we do. circling around one single job for a long time may give you the advantage of seeing the details. but this benefit comes to you at the cost of losing the opportunity to tap the other possibilities.

i know i can not always choose what i want to do, what i want to write, or read. or eat, or cook. yet i try to be wise in administering my twenty four hours a day, so that i can remain intact and still can escape my room in the daytime to breath the fresh air outside. i can read what they want me to read, even if i disagree with the material that i read, while i also can read books about china 's foreign affairs which are compulsory for my dissertation. the same with writing.

if only you understand what is expected from your text, or your work, it will be simpler to finish the job. perhaps not necessarily easier, but at least you can focus better and accomplish the mission sooner.

nightingales

midnight birds, what are you doing out there. i can hear your conversations from my room. after everyone in this house is asleep, except me, you and your friends are still singing in the park. why?

do you discuss something out there? i believe you don't have essays to submit this week, do you? so what do you discuss, tell me please. in english if possible.

are you cold, or scared? are you a bit drunk tonight? or are you just having a late night picnic at the wellington square? is it a bit hungry that you feel? would you like to have some bread? or are you just being touched by loneliness? it must be dark out there, isn't it. i hope you are not lost.

i'm sure you're not afraid of darkness. i hear your's is a lovely song. it seems as if nature speaks through you in this midnight hour. even though to me it's a bit odd to hear birds singing at this time, i admit your cheerful music bring a sense of spring into my mind. so please carry on singing. tell your stories to the stars, or to the wind if it's a cloudy night... and i will sit silently right here, in my room at the basement of this old house, guessing what is the meaning of your sweet song. if you wouldn't mind.

---

"...i built my house beside the wood
so i could hear you singing,
and it was sweet and it was good
and love was all beginning..."

- nightingale, l.c.-

antidote

he is just trying to remain intact these days. because it feels like standing in an open field and four strong winds try to drag this grip away. from all directions the questions come, freezing and hard, embracing the youth that resides within him with their arms of ice. asking him for his time and his name. he gave them both. they still want more. the rest. oh he guessed only the red twinkling lamp attached to the rear of his bike would really give him protection from behind.

if he squeezes an hour of his time, he will get five to ten minutes of it as the core of that hour, the essence of his concentrated work. the summary of the sixty minutes. because the rest are but a story upon which he dwells to get to his ultimate quality. a story he presents to the world, with his name on the top of it as its title. when the clock is ticking, the heart is beating too, and the evolution goes on. dark, bright, ever changing of seasons. the progress, or not really, simply the movement, continues to make sure that the ship reaches the land. now look at the waves, and be silent... ah, and he knows it's the time for the swan to float on the english river.