Winged Seed
There is this book by that *points to the title* name, written by a young man named Li Young Lee. It found me when I was in the 7th grade... a long time ago, and a strange time to read this remarkably lyrical and plotless work.
The title stuck with me though... the image being as powerful as it is. A single grain-like seed, suspended by the finest of strands, held thrown carried loved and discarded by the wind. Whether it germinates into something more-- palpable, I think is the word-- or not, depends on nothing at all. It could happen, it could not. All that really "is" about a winged seed is the fact that it has that flight, that no earthy apple or tamarind seed could have.
Winged seeds are a common sight here... diaphanous, lit-by-the-sun tendrils, wafting over the light breeze, just missing your fingers, tumbling over grass.
I just returned from California, on a road-trip that just begs blogging. 25 hours of cities and lights across Tupac's state in a bus that is wrongly named "grey hound". Grey, yes. Hound's the misnomer though. In my mind, aided by the Baskervilles tale, I imagine a lean-limbed, fast-moving even lethal, dog. This bus was anything but the above. Well, maybe lethal. But that's only because my fellow passengers, especially on the Oakland-Sacremento-San Jose stretch looked like those who were on parole for something I wouldn't tell mum about. Anyway.
My point is, I returned a few hours ago to the cool, grey, welcoming arms of this city I love, imagining the comfort of my room with a certain tender joy.
Only to realize that today was the day that I vacate, so that my room can be spring-cleaned and un-priyankaed for some preppie kid to use, since the Fall semester begins in a few days, and my summer session ended a week ago.
It took hours to leave. Not because there was that much packing to do. Heart-wrenching, taking down the Woolf poster, moving the suitcases, hauling the Mac down the hallway to Ben's room, where I will be bunking this last week in Portland. Heart-wrenching, seeing a room as bare as I first saw it.
Of course this was not permanent. Of course I knew I'd leave in three months time. Just that no one told me how attached I'd get to this campus, and to this room, or how fast those 3 months would pass.
Boxed and cleaned out, I left the dorm an hour ago to walk the ultramarine blues away. Accompanied by the faithful Camels and my ipod.
It was still good to be back, because anything is better than a grey elephant... erm.. hound.
Isn't the same though. Whether I like it or not, I cannot ignore the fact that now is not the time to find roots, slip on chappals and wander out onto the lawn for ages, and drowsily wonder whether I should carve my name in the stone wall by the reflecting pool.
Traveller, wanderer I am. And there have been many before me, ones that have even raised that identity to a level of glory.
I always wanted to be marco polo. Hsüan Tsang seemed the coolest monk in the word in history class.
But at some point, these guys pulled off their boots, sighed and sipped their soup, murmuring "home sweet home" in italian and chinese respectively.
I suppose its not my time yet.
Ben and I-- my dearest Sancho Panza. How I will miss her. Some, yes. True that all in life moves on and suffers short-term memory but... some, yes-- were talking about it before I came to this darkened, almost-closing computer lab. And came to about the same conclusion.
Its interesting how this scholarship pulled people together who at some level felt the same: the fact that there can be no rooted-shooted comfort right now. Not at this time in life.
Seeds on the wind, flying god knows where. Damn, it was hot in Cali. Things grew, nonetheless, squinting against the sun and dryness.
Next stop, Rhode Island. And from there on, even during the two years, even that Laughing, Blue-eyed, Lounging being above and around me does not know where the wind will blow.
If it must be that way, then--
Here's to rambling on, and singing my song.
And by whichever god there is, they all better listen good, coz bloody hell...this flying solo can get grit in not just your eye, sometimes.
The title stuck with me though... the image being as powerful as it is. A single grain-like seed, suspended by the finest of strands, held thrown carried loved and discarded by the wind. Whether it germinates into something more-- palpable, I think is the word-- or not, depends on nothing at all. It could happen, it could not. All that really "is" about a winged seed is the fact that it has that flight, that no earthy apple or tamarind seed could have.
Winged seeds are a common sight here... diaphanous, lit-by-the-sun tendrils, wafting over the light breeze, just missing your fingers, tumbling over grass.
I just returned from California, on a road-trip that just begs blogging. 25 hours of cities and lights across Tupac's state in a bus that is wrongly named "grey hound". Grey, yes. Hound's the misnomer though. In my mind, aided by the Baskervilles tale, I imagine a lean-limbed, fast-moving even lethal, dog. This bus was anything but the above. Well, maybe lethal. But that's only because my fellow passengers, especially on the Oakland-Sacremento-San Jose stretch looked like those who were on parole for something I wouldn't tell mum about. Anyway.
My point is, I returned a few hours ago to the cool, grey, welcoming arms of this city I love, imagining the comfort of my room with a certain tender joy.
Only to realize that today was the day that I vacate, so that my room can be spring-cleaned and un-priyankaed for some preppie kid to use, since the Fall semester begins in a few days, and my summer session ended a week ago.
It took hours to leave. Not because there was that much packing to do. Heart-wrenching, taking down the Woolf poster, moving the suitcases, hauling the Mac down the hallway to Ben's room, where I will be bunking this last week in Portland. Heart-wrenching, seeing a room as bare as I first saw it.
Of course this was not permanent. Of course I knew I'd leave in three months time. Just that no one told me how attached I'd get to this campus, and to this room, or how fast those 3 months would pass.
Boxed and cleaned out, I left the dorm an hour ago to walk the ultramarine blues away. Accompanied by the faithful Camels and my ipod.
It was still good to be back, because anything is better than a grey elephant... erm.. hound.
Isn't the same though. Whether I like it or not, I cannot ignore the fact that now is not the time to find roots, slip on chappals and wander out onto the lawn for ages, and drowsily wonder whether I should carve my name in the stone wall by the reflecting pool.
Traveller, wanderer I am. And there have been many before me, ones that have even raised that identity to a level of glory.
I always wanted to be marco polo. Hsüan Tsang seemed the coolest monk in the word in history class.
But at some point, these guys pulled off their boots, sighed and sipped their soup, murmuring "home sweet home" in italian and chinese respectively.
I suppose its not my time yet.
Ben and I-- my dearest Sancho Panza. How I will miss her. Some, yes. True that all in life moves on and suffers short-term memory but... some, yes-- were talking about it before I came to this darkened, almost-closing computer lab. And came to about the same conclusion.
Its interesting how this scholarship pulled people together who at some level felt the same: the fact that there can be no rooted-shooted comfort right now. Not at this time in life.
Seeds on the wind, flying god knows where. Damn, it was hot in Cali. Things grew, nonetheless, squinting against the sun and dryness.
Next stop, Rhode Island. And from there on, even during the two years, even that Laughing, Blue-eyed, Lounging being above and around me does not know where the wind will blow.
If it must be that way, then--
Here's to rambling on, and singing my song.
And by whichever god there is, they all better listen good, coz bloody hell...this flying solo can get grit in not just your eye, sometimes.
posted by The Wizard of Odd at 8:13 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home