2004-08-25
The Four Seasons
Taking a stroll through this ideal summer afternoon, I see that it strongly resembles that of yesterday�s. The fresh summer breeze that caresses my face, what is that made of? Is it made of the smiles and laughter of cherubs? Is it made from the elegant perfume of pallid roses, or of those silent lilies in the cold, black pond? With this bright and clear blue sky blanketing above, I feel that I remember this scene from somewhere long ago, but perhaps I have only visited such a place in one of my many forgotten dreams. But I do know, that this breeze tastes of something. The wind shakes the young, orange blossoms off of the trees, and suddenly, without warning, these fragrant things float down and land on the top of my head. Young leaves reach out from branches and tickle my face as I walk through, and certainly, this must be a dream.
With hands in pockets, I continue. A small feather dances down, out of the sky. Looking up, I search for the bird that has dropped it, yet I see none. Immediately, I scurry and reach my hand out with open palm to catch this floating beauty. Gently and slowly, it lands in the middle of my hand, and this moment is golden. I have caught the feather of my innocence and youth, and Ferenc Liszt�s Libestraum No. 3 plays inside of my heart, and I let out a soft and placid grin.
Did you watch my one-hundred steps through this same, dusty road? Did you see the pollen stumble through the tall grass blades? What dry, melodious tune did I hum?
When Langston Hughes asks, what happens to a dream deferred?, I would ask, what happens to a summer day?.
Summer days leave with the sunset and close like an archaic storybook, only to repeat themselves. What is the difference between today�s sunshine and yesterday�s? Did the leaves silently shiver differently? When the day burns out its flame, and turns to ashes with the cool moon, where does it go? Only the echoes remain inside of our hearts...you know, our own laughter and the voices surrounding us; songs of birds and the song that we ourselves hum when no one�s around--these things stay with us.
All of these innocent, ivory piano nocturnes make such knots inside of my throat, and I smile because of their sheer beauty.
At night, silently walking out to tread on the cool grass blades bouncing off sounds of an orchestra of crickets, I catch a glimpse of the sky above, and it�s been a while since I last saw so many stars burning so deeply within. They truly are like glittering diamonds, and I smile as I try to pick the brightest--the one that burns with the most passion.
Just standing in the darkness with the moon painting the green leaves on trees a silvery-white, I see two ghosts smile and embrace before my eyes--I am one of these ghosts. These crystalline images that are like smoke, yet incredibly beautiful, calm and clench onto my soul.
Come to think, this is exactly what Etude in E Major feels like.
The world around us is like a placid lake, and when one reaches for it, ripples form and disfigure the glossy image. After some time, it returns to its normal state.
These serene nights surprise me with shadows of images now tossed into time�s scrapbook. At times, the company of my pen and notebook are simply not enough. Yet, things are much more bearable if we drop our secrets into the deep, endless well that lies, covered in ivy and stone, within our very hearts.
But my love for Chopin and Liszts can disperse any gray melancholy. Each time Consolation No. 3 in D Flat plays, my eyes wander outside, to my sunflower tree. Upon hearing this soft tenderness that plays, its as if the vivaciously green leaves gently tremble, and dance.
This is the one piece that gives me the story of my life from beginning to end. In muted, black and white pictures, I see my life pass through my dreams. The Spring of my youth will age into summer, will age into the silent autumn that blankets velvet flower petals, will age into the last stage--winter.
Spring is the most innocent of all seasons, and young birds and fowl wander through this new earth as a human would some never-before-seen paradise. Running, with our bare feet pressing down on the grass blades, we are blindfolded children in this Eden. Our hearts, ruby-red and not yet marred by experience, beat wildly with fascination and possibilities that flood our na�ve minds. Clouds in the sky are endless, and satiny. During the spring, we are transfixed with ourselves without giving into vanity, and we know only joy. Yet, dew-drenched mornings of golden dust must come to an end, as the day inches towards the inevitable dusk. But we�re children, still, and searching for our fluttering butterflies, leaping crickets, and rapid dragonflies. Eager, playful, and carefree we will chase after the vague image of life painted in the horizon ahead and playfully, run after it like we would a frog in the pond, saying, where are you? and I�ve almost got you, but this excitement begins to fade once you get closer.
When the sleepy summer arrives, we would like to think it a continuation of spring. Rosy lips begin to lose color, and glimmering eyes their luster. Within the disenchanting mirages that begin to take shape before us, our hearts begin to lose vivaciousness, and their healthy ruby-red. Crickets buzz within the grass blades, that have turned a brownish color, and the feathers of joy become somewhat dotted with melancholy. This season is sleepy, and it lures us into faint feelings of regret and nostalgia. But we still explore our dried Eden, and we attempt to look for another young fowl, or singing bird--desperately, we seek for another spring. This season is meant for dreamily picking our flowers and with an acquaintance saying, Isn�t that lovely? or, usually, the words I wish... escape our lips. But do not search! It is a waste! Summer is summer, no matter how we spend it. Always, the gentle night creeps upon us, and we stand on our hillside, waiting for the moon.
Leaves crunch during the autumn, and our hearts beat slowly and rhythmically. We try to embrace the changing winds, and the late night hoot of owls. We attempt to hear beautiful waltzes within the swirling of leaves, and we sob as the night blankets the pink roses with velvet brown. Wandering around, we become fixated with the things which remind us of both summer and spring. Already, our eyes sag, and our lips know of no other than frowning. Our souls and hearts are dabbed with shades of gray, and we sigh with the wind. Our footsteps echo, with our imaginary walks through cobblestone streets. Only lamplights illuminate our imaginations, and the stars are the only things that bother listening to our enfeebled words. This is the season to say, I remember or, I think I�ve almost gotten this figured out, because I heard the clinging of white-enamel mugs sitting on the greasy, checkered table-spread of some midnight diner. You know, the one on Mango Street
When the moon arrives, it gives light upon the blanket of snow. Completely frozen, our hearts cease beating, and we find that as a relief. We feel nothing at this point, and the fresh laughter of youth has suddenly turned into a cackle. Strangely enough, we begin to delight in sleep; and sleep becomes the medicine for any malady which we may face. Consolation No. 3 plays while our eyes close--for the last time--and we fall asleep, alone, by the gentle moonlight. And here you say, I remember, but it doesn�t matter anymore
I believe myself to be in the middle of a spring day. I wonder how many butterflies I can catch with my silver net, or how many roses I can place in this basket of mine? How many stones can I toss in the brook, or how many berries can I taste before the day ends?
Oto�os silenci�sos contienen los retratos mudos
y con inquietud, recuerdo sola
fant�smas blancos que--como un reg�lo--me dan mis mem�rias muertas.
Qu� ser�a de esta vida sin dolor impenetr�ble
haciendo holas en la profundidad de mi alma?