My Autumn Sonata

It has been a longish time away from home and I realise I am even more of a gypsy in familiar surroundings. With dust and soot to greet me on my return, it indeed would have been possible to pitch a tent.

I ran my fingers over the table top. A tiny film of black stared at me. The portion where I had run my finger was now bare glass; I could now look below through it. Looking at floors through smoked glass amongst the patches of dust is an experience. Everything appears altered. The floor is a small strip; you are not sure which part of the glass is for real -- the one with dust or the clean bit; as for the dust, it seems to overwhelm you. Even as you clean it, there are trails of it left, on your hands, on mops, in the air.

I reconcile myself to remnants. I always have. The fact that having left something and then returning to it and finding it covered gives an indication of how we can be overtaken and ensnared.

A bunch of letters were waiting. Greeting cards, bills, pizza promotions, offers for 2006 diaries/calendars. I preserve most. Junk is gratifying.

Imagine, some pizza outlet needs me! And whatever would happen to 2006 if I do not legitimise it with a desktop calendar, never mind that I lose track of Time?

I throw open the windows. The air is still. The wind-chime is silent. I shake it. It makes a laryngitis-like sound. Perhaps the metal is rusting and those little thingies hanging down are numb from disuse.

I tie the cord to the curtain and something drops down. I assume it to be a piece of jute from the threads. I pick it up gingerly. A flaky dried cockroach is what I end up holding. How fearless one becomes! A little leg, thin as hair, falls. Perhaps I am ridding myself of the past, after all...one leg at a time.

The bamboo plant was supposed to live forever. You did not have to care for it, water it...it grew and grew. But this time it did not. The roots were dead, sodden and sullen. The stems drooped and the leaves had turned brown.

And to think I travelled all the way hoping to see Fall.

Is it self-destructive to see things die? Or is it a hope for rejuvenation?

I took a picture of two trees -- one with Fall colours, the other tall, proud and green. They stood together.

Nothing ever ends if it ever existed.