On August first, there was a total solar eclipse. The moon's shadow fell on parts of Canada, Greenland, Russia, Mongolia, and China.
Here it is then, my very own personal route, from an initial country to the destination one. Always on a narrow path of totality, where I walk in the dark, seeing at its best the vastness of the solar system.
It is only during such times, marked by full obscurity, that we can perceive the sun’s corona. A halo of bright lights, like majestic strings or feathers, particles running along the fine lines of magnetic fields, undulating, the rays curling against pitch-dark space.
It is only during such times, marked by full obscurity, that we can perceive our essence’s aureole. A ring of bright filaments, like majestic outward motions or weightless wings, the grain of our spirit running along the fine wrinkles of corporeal regions, undulating, the beams from our soul curling against the sadness of our surrounding area.
Towards the end of her life, my mother was very sick: A slow, gradual deterioration of her central nervous system, the Shy-Drager syndrome.
Three times during her illness, she told me she could see lights shining around my body. It scared her.
Fluctuating blood pressure, autonomic dysfunction, vision disturbances, all well-identified symptoms linked to her condition, can well account for her hallucination. Nevertheless, I thought of all the possible sensory mirages she could have had, and that one was quite proper. It pleased me.
Taking care of her was an ordeal. She would constantly complain, never satisfied with anything I did. For years, she criticized the food I cooked for her, the way I cleaned, my conversation, my time availability - caught as I was between the needs of my children, of my job and those of a mother stuck in full dependency.
So, on a few occasions, she did see me twinkle. Good.
And she felt afraid when I illuminated the room, bending her sense of scale, glistening despite our mutual despondence. That’s good too.
These three, four years were so heavy, so murky, no wonder perception was enhanced. Suddenly, for the first time ever, I may have simply become visible to her naked eye - her despair moving in to block that indomitable strength of hers.
She saw me.
Finally.
My center occulted, void, but its contour brightly painted, vivid white chalk spread outward onto an infinite blackboard, spelling the sign of an apparition.
My figure cut against the imperious opacity that always accompanied her.
She probably thought that a terrifying splendor emanated from where I stood, something luminous and out of reach, a fluorescence that couldn’t be canceled.
She had, indeed and at last, detected me for a few minutes - not much longer than the time-span of an eclipse - discerning my crown made of impalpable flashes stretched in the margins where I had learned to exist.
Basically, she saw I wasn’t her. And that meteoric awareness startled her like a blast. Because she had no eclipse-viewing shades, no solar filters – the view fried her composure.
My brightness, even though delusive, emphasized her profound life-long suffering. The one she felt in her heart, the one she covered others with, the dark blanket of anguish she would use to envelop the world. The mechanics, the travail of her sense of drama conclusively packing all arguments into a tremendous shadow that did acknowledge my presence, casting its tight mass right through a radiating arc, a crescent, a brilliant anti-sun.
The orbital geometries of our relationship had fallen into place.
She saw that life after all had punched a hole into that night sky.
From where I was born to where you were born. On August first this year, you and I, my lovely ones, we were together, in a country where the penumbra became complete, allowing a ring of diamonds to rise. And we approach this spectacular event as a way to live. Despite darkness, obscurantism. Trough all the shadowy deficiencies that may be. We no longer mind. Because that’s when we show best the luster of our secrets.
Laolao
Here it is then, my very own personal route, from an initial country to the destination one. Always on a narrow path of totality, where I walk in the dark, seeing at its best the vastness of the solar system.
It is only during such times, marked by full obscurity, that we can perceive the sun’s corona. A halo of bright lights, like majestic strings or feathers, particles running along the fine lines of magnetic fields, undulating, the rays curling against pitch-dark space.
It is only during such times, marked by full obscurity, that we can perceive our essence’s aureole. A ring of bright filaments, like majestic outward motions or weightless wings, the grain of our spirit running along the fine wrinkles of corporeal regions, undulating, the beams from our soul curling against the sadness of our surrounding area.
Towards the end of her life, my mother was very sick: A slow, gradual deterioration of her central nervous system, the Shy-Drager syndrome.
Three times during her illness, she told me she could see lights shining around my body. It scared her.
Fluctuating blood pressure, autonomic dysfunction, vision disturbances, all well-identified symptoms linked to her condition, can well account for her hallucination. Nevertheless, I thought of all the possible sensory mirages she could have had, and that one was quite proper. It pleased me.
Taking care of her was an ordeal. She would constantly complain, never satisfied with anything I did. For years, she criticized the food I cooked for her, the way I cleaned, my conversation, my time availability - caught as I was between the needs of my children, of my job and those of a mother stuck in full dependency.
So, on a few occasions, she did see me twinkle. Good.
And she felt afraid when I illuminated the room, bending her sense of scale, glistening despite our mutual despondence. That’s good too.
These three, four years were so heavy, so murky, no wonder perception was enhanced. Suddenly, for the first time ever, I may have simply become visible to her naked eye - her despair moving in to block that indomitable strength of hers.
She saw me.
Finally.
My center occulted, void, but its contour brightly painted, vivid white chalk spread outward onto an infinite blackboard, spelling the sign of an apparition.
My figure cut against the imperious opacity that always accompanied her.
She probably thought that a terrifying splendor emanated from where I stood, something luminous and out of reach, a fluorescence that couldn’t be canceled.
She had, indeed and at last, detected me for a few minutes - not much longer than the time-span of an eclipse - discerning my crown made of impalpable flashes stretched in the margins where I had learned to exist.
Basically, she saw I wasn’t her. And that meteoric awareness startled her like a blast. Because she had no eclipse-viewing shades, no solar filters – the view fried her composure.
My brightness, even though delusive, emphasized her profound life-long suffering. The one she felt in her heart, the one she covered others with, the dark blanket of anguish she would use to envelop the world. The mechanics, the travail of her sense of drama conclusively packing all arguments into a tremendous shadow that did acknowledge my presence, casting its tight mass right through a radiating arc, a crescent, a brilliant anti-sun.
The orbital geometries of our relationship had fallen into place.
She saw that life after all had punched a hole into that night sky.
From where I was born to where you were born. On August first this year, you and I, my lovely ones, we were together, in a country where the penumbra became complete, allowing a ring of diamonds to rise. And we approach this spectacular event as a way to live. Despite darkness, obscurantism. Trough all the shadowy deficiencies that may be. We no longer mind. Because that’s when we show best the luster of our secrets.
Laolao
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