Aphorisms

Despair, it comes in many colours, many shapes,
And only one taste.

                          *****

I slept in a blue lake, far form the world,
before waking up in a singing day.

                          *****

Loneliness, it wears either like a coat
Too big, or too tight.

                          *****

Loneliness : a frightened heart
Splintering to silent screams.


                          ******

Shyly, the birds in your ebony eyes
Hovered by my blue heart.

                          *****

They talked, trying to mend bleeding wounds,
With silence a vulture, watching them.

                          *****

He wore his boredom
Like a crown of thorns.

                          *****

These are from a collection of  aphorisms I wrote between February and April of 1981, when I was an undergraduate student at TCU, in Fort Worth, Texas, the last year I was there before graduating in the spring of 1981, and moving on to a Master's degree in Spanish at UT in Austin, Texas. I was 23 when I wrote these. My interest in aphorisms stems from a collection I read in Flemish when I was 17, "Zwervende Vogels", "Stray Birds" by the formidable Indian Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore. It left a lasting impression on my psyche and heart, as did Kahlil Gibrans' collection "Sand and Foam " I read two years later.

Idir ou le courage d'aimer

Une amie francaise m'introduit depuis beaucoup d'annees  a la musique du monde. Ainsi, elle m'a fait connaitre un musicien algerien avec l'ame d'un poete et le coeur d'un ange. Inspiree par les chansons qu'elle m'avait envoye en cassette, comme "Tizi Ouzou", j'ai vu et ecoutee un de ses concerts sur l' internet. Son amour pour son pays et la region algerienne de la Kabylie etait une experience profonde. Sa voix tient une chaleur et sagesse qui touchaient une part de mon ame blessee de 37 ans de depaysage et pertes de famille tragiques. Je suis flamande de naissance et la seule experience que j'ai de la culture de l'Afrique du Nord est a travers des amities et un desir d'etudier la culture et l'histoire. Mais ecoutant la voix d'Idir et ses explications des chansons, je me sentais acceptee dans la chaleur des mesages de ses mots et de la musique.  J'aimais comme il parlait du coeur qui nous unit dans le mystere des tragedies humaines. C'etait hypnotique de sentir les blessures de ma vie sentir se guerir un peu simplement en ecoutant les chansons super belles de cet homme gentil et intelligent. Je me sentais chez moi, pas seule et isolee ,pour une heure et demie, comme une enfant epuisee ayant finalement retrouvee sa maison sur le chemin trouble. Idir est musicien, poete, et emissaire de paix dans un monde qui risque se perdre l'ame dans la haine. Mon coeur buvait sa musique et ses mots comme une fleur mourante de manque d'eau. Natacha Atlas dans sa rendition super belle de "Mon Amie La Rose ( est morte ce matin ), chante " ... et moi, j'ai besoin d'espoir sinon je n'existe pas "... J'etais la rose, qui a retrouvee un peu de cet espoir necessaire,  ecoutant la musique el l'amour d'un musicien et poete de la region Kabylie de L'Algerie, un homme nomme Idir.                                                                    

Grito (Scream)

Vivimos enamorados
No de nuestros amores
sino de anhelos oscuros
que como pajaros negros
enloquecen nuestros suenos.

Vivimos en un tiempo de locura,
Dulce y amargada,
que embriaga nuestros corazones
con desesperacion y coraje.

Si, vivimos bajo un cielo borracho
Buscando una esperanza en la divina
y no tan divina locura.

Trudi Ralston
February 2nd, 1982/ August 18th, 2013.

I wrote this poem initially my second semester in graduate school in Austin, Texas, where I had started my master's degree in Spanish and Latin American literature.The somber tone of the poem as to the existential deterioration of the human condition seems as relevant now as it felt to me 31 years ago. I revised and tightened its length, but changed none of its content or mood.

Blue Rain

After a long bout of hot, sunny days, it started to rain two days ago, bringing in the clouds, humidity and cooler temperatures. The light changes, and that is why I am glad we have an abundance of brightly colored flowers, like our fuchsia and our large Morning Glory. The Morning Glory come mostly in 5 inches across white blooms with a hint of pale blue in a star pattern across their lovely large trumpets. One stood out this morning, a 5 inch Morning Glory of an almost neon lavender blue hue, that just took my breath away. Somehow, the sight of this gorgeous flower amid  eight white same sized Morning Glory triggered a melancholic memory. The reading in middle school of Paul Verlaine's poem " Il pleut sur mon coeur  comme il pleut sur les toits". The poem made me very sad when I read it the firs time at age 14, and now, all these years later, I am reminded of this same poem and it makes me equally sad. At the same age I read for the first time Arthur Rimbaud's " Le dormeur du val", written in 1870. It is an enchanting poem about a young dead soldier shot in an open field. Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud were stormy lovers around that time, but of course we were not told that in our Catholic girl school. Perhaps intuitively I perceived both these poets had deep knowledge of the depths of despair love can experience, because those two poems haunt me to this day. So, here I am, at 56, looking at my electric blue Morning Glory, looking both special and lost among its white robed fellow flowers, and the melancholy of the 14 year old school girl comes back, like a wound that never healed properly. Perhaps the fact that I feel my isolation more acutely these last weeks as I wonder what happened to a friend of mine who seems to have dropped off the planet, adds to the jolt I felt. Instead of Marcel Proust's " A la recherche du Temps Perdu", with my soul and heart it seems to be " A la Recherche du Cle Perdu", le cle qui me permetterait de retrouver le chemin de retour aux amities perdues. Enfin, voila mon histoire de perte totale. C'est beau, quand -meme, les fleurs. Got to love those gorgeous Morning Glory, especially that blue one. My, my, what a beauty on a rainy, humid day. " Il y a deux trous rouges au cote droit."

The Tiger and The Grasshopper

Once in a blue moon, a friend comes along who knows just what it takes to make our heart and spirit feel free and at ease. As luck would have it, this friend now lives on the other side of the planet, far beyond the big blue sea, if I think of it in fairy tale terms. Somehow, my friend D. reminds me of a benevolent tiger, and I always thought of myself as a grasshopper, a little over exuberant, always trying  my friend's patience. I have a fiery disposition, with a lot of energy and passions, and he had this ability to just absorb it all, making me feel accepted just the way my Flemish- French blood was put together. For years we lost touch, many years, like close to thirty. Then modern technology allowed us to communicate easily and we do, for more than a year now. The fondness I had for him then easily returned, and now I find myself thinking of him again as the benevolent tiger, very far away, but close to my spirit. And I am the eager, slightly annoying grasshopper, trying hard to keep up with the tiger's larger stride. I haven't heard from my friend in some time now, and it makes me wonder what is happening with him. Distance is as distance does, and I can only hope he is all right. When I do hear from him again, I will tell him that he is unique in how he affected me to inspire peace and dignity to my being whenever I heard of him. It is an affection that transcends time, space and circumstance. A big brother, a friend, a fellow graduate student at one time, always gracious, kind, tolerant. I miss him. I have no way of doing anything about it, but wait, and hope the tiger will check in with me and we will go walking again across the e- highway, sharing tales of wonder with ease and comfort. Ubi est amicus meus?

Pajaro Rojo, Herida Azul

Que cosa fragil pueda ser la amistad. A veces me parece como hecha de alas invisibles y por eso su vuelo puede sufrir dano que toma tiempo de averiguar. Tengo el corazon pesado hoy, porque no se si va sobrevivir una amistad que me llena de paz y esperanza, y no se si es cuestion de tiempo y paciencia, o si es realmente una ruptura en la fabrica de una amistad que yo crei verdadera y sincera. Quizas es simplemente una pausa breve en el ritmo del verano. "There ain't no cure for the summertime blues"? Me imagino que es possible. Estaba pensando en el pajaro que simboliza la felicidad, el pajaro azul, "The Blue Bird of Happiness". Pero por el momento, me parece mas el pajaro rojo, "The Red Bird of Sorrow", el pajaro rojo del dolor. Pajaro Rojo, Herida Azul. Bleeding red bird, blue wound, instead of blue bird of Happiness, red wound bleeding. It would make a cool painting, something Chagall would have done justice. Some friendships come easy, others are constructed cautiously and then become very comfortable and reassuring, others yet take a lifetime to realize their richness. Some friendships remain elusive in spite of mutual respect and tender care. A testimony to the complexity  of human nature and human relationships. Time heals all wounds. Sure, but time is also a great killer, stalking quietly and efficiently. I am not sure yet which way the dice are going to fall on a friendship that I thought had finally beat the dusts of time. "Ce n'est rien, tu le sais bien. Le temps passe, ce n'est rien"... sings the French chansonnier Julien Clerc in one of my all time favorite songs of his. J'espere qu'il a raison, que quoique ce soit qui trouble l'eau de mon amitie en ce moment passera avec le temps, plutot que le temps l'efface. Cela me rappelle ce que disait mon pere des fois: " joe weren,he, lik ne puyt up nen harte wegel", "you gotta try very hard sometimes, like a wet frog on a sharp gravel road". That made me smile at least. Maybe Mick Jagger will be right, that "Time is on my side, yes it is, time is on my side"... Pajaro Rojo, Herida Azul.

Tu N'existes Pas

Tu n'existes pas, je te dis, tu n'est pas la.
Foutez- moi la paix, ce n'est pas vrai,
Je suis la, moi.

Tu n'existes pas, tu n'existes plus,
Tu n'est personne, je te dis encore,
Tu n'est pas la.

Mais, qui es-tu de me dire tout ca,
Je ne t'ecoute pas, moi.
Je suis la, moi, je suis la.

Ah, peut-tre, peut-etre, tu es la, toi.
Mais tu verras, ce n'est que ton ombre
Qui te parleras, tu n'est pas la, je te dis.

Non, non, j'entends ma voix, mon rire.
Je suis bien la, moi, tu n'est qu'un fantome.
Va t'en, j'ai les yeux bien ouverts maintenant.

Je suis la, moi. Je suis la.

Trudi Ralston.
August 6th, 2013.

I wrote this poem to remind myself that it is possible to move beyond the limitations negative experiences and people can put on us.

The Village

The famous American architect Gordon Matta -Clark came to mind yesterday in a conversation on-line about art. What I took away from the dialogue was that the trauma of post World War II intellectually  never really healed. The disenchantment with the modern world and its hypocrisy at glossing over the ugliness of the industrial world's insatiable greed is as relevant as ever. Gordon Matta-Clark was a genius at bringing that hypocrisy and ugliness bare, and one can only speculate what other ingenious, bold architectural statements he would have achieved had he not died so young. Technology seems to only further the exponential speed at which the industrial world can reap its stained harvests. Yet, for all the cause for somber pause, I find there is a glimmer of hope in social media. The alienation modern society imposes invariably on us 21st century citizens now finds ingenious relief and resources in social media. Through Facebook I have re-connected with some friends I had not seen or heard of in 30 years. The reunions are not bitter-sweet, they are sweet. I feel like I am visiting a village in some science-fiction setting, where it does not matter that my friends are half a planet away, I can send them a message and within seconds I have a response. Granted, some conversations are more gratifying than others, depending on the level of gregariousness and interest of the person, but I am finding that over time, these re-connections are very rewarding. There is also the interesting experience of meeting new friends. A bit unnerving at first, but again, I am finding that overall, with patience, discretion and respect, it is very possible to discover a mutual bond that goes beyond the superficial or mundane. It feels to me like being part of a village, where the meeting on-line is not unlike a gathering at a cafe, or a home, a gallery, a town square. With people you already know, there is a certain ease, a chance to deepen connections. With people you have not met physically, there is the added interest of getting to know them, their reactions, their patience, or lack thereof, their sense of humour, their style, personality. I find the whole process intriguing. It seems to express a desire to break down the walls of anonymity that modern life invariably infects us with. Oh, sure, you are going to come across the occasional creep, but that happens in real life too. I am finding that most people have good hearts, have worthwhile dreams and aspirations, are often damaged or hurt in one way or another, which makes for stilted conversations at times, but I have come across great chivalry and kindness, which re-affirms my faith in humanity. There is an artist in Texas who I respect enormously for his intellectual integrity, and one Texas artist who I cherish because he makes me laugh with his outrageous humour. I have not physically met either of them and may never see them in person, but, they make a difference when I walk into one of their town square conversations and I am grateful for their existence. I grew up in a small Flemish town, where everyone knew each other. I have not been back due to various circumstances, in 26 years. But, to me, as illusory as it may perhaps be, joining my old and new found friends on-line, is kind of like going home, because I am always welcome, and people make me feel like I belong.

Broken Chains

The verdict in Cleveland, Ohio to sentence the monster in their midst that held three young women captive for over a decade hit home hard the reminder of the reality of fathomless depravity. The power of one evil person who enslaved three young people in his "House of Horrors" as it became known, leaves one numb, trying to comprehend. It was disturbing and creepy to see the huge rusty chains Ariel Castro kept the women prisoners with. It would be disturbing to see an animal abuser use such chains on dogs, for example, that would be revolting enough, but to see these chains that were used on people the way they were used on slaves 150 years ago, was revolting in modern day 2013 USA. The conviction of life without the chance of parole plus a 1000 years seems lame, unless he lives to be very old, which in this case I really hope will happen, so this depraved man can have a lot of time deprived of his freedom. Michelle Knight's testimony and statement showed an incredibly strong person, determined to mend from the tremendous trauma she endured for 11 years and somehow survived. Her tormentor abused her the worst , probably because she was very feisty and determined just as she was in court . Her strength impressed those journalists who came to witness her courage in court, and my heart goes out to her. That does not make Amanda and Gina any less brave, considering they too survived this unimaginable nightmare. Their survival is testimony to their spirit, their will and determination. They kept diaries, willing themselves to have hope, faith, that someday their hell would end. More than 10 years later, it did. The healing can start, already did start with their testimonies in court, and the PTSD they will deal with will be softened by therapists, family and friends. It is incredibly sad to be reminded of how low as humans we can sink, in spite of thousands of years of civilization. It is hard to fathom in times of war, when man's brutality and inhumanity sinks to truly shocking levels. But it is even harder to comprehend that sort of depravity in peace, in our own country, in a neighbour, in a person who kept his monster mind carefully hidden from family and friends. The evil that lurks within, that you don't expect or suspect in an ordinary looking person like Ariel Castro. I am glad he was afraid of the death penalty, because life in prison might just give him a taste of his own medicine, as the chains are now on him, for what I hope will be a very long time.

Open Air Market

My dreams are always very detailed and complex. I travel all over the world it seems, and sometimes out of this world, too, from the looks of it. Last night, I was wandering around alone, as is often the case in my dreams. Gregarious by nature, like some frustrated journalist, I travel and explore alone in my dreams. Where this came from I have no idea, but when I asked someone where I was, a man in my dream answered : " Croatia. " All right, I thought, Croatia it is. I found myself in a huge open air market, loud, with a ton of people milling about, selling everything from pastries to jewelry, clothes, rugs, tools, plants. I apparently was hungry, so I bought this very sweet chocolate covered piece of cake. My eye caught sight of a very enthusiastic woman selling hand made jewelry. One particular pair of sparkling bright yellow crystal earrings seemed very appealing, so I bought them. Every one seemed comfortable with the idea that I was wandering around their market, trying to make myself understood as best I could. I remember it was a very warm night. I asked one woman where she was from. She started answering me, then realized a long answer was going to be lost on me, so she said, pointing to herself and the people around her : "Romani". I smiled, feeling right at home. I have always had a soft spot for Romani and their struggle to be accepted and belong. Interesting that my restless soul at night would go looking for a family of gypsies to ease the sting of feeling I don't belong in my waking life. There was music everywhere, and I remember an uncle of mine inviting a band of Gypsy musicians to his restaurant, and how I loved the passion and melancholy of the violins. It felt like a family gathering, like we were all one big family. Impressive experience for a ten year old. Not much family left these days, so, I guess it is fun for me to go look around for one in my dreams. I grew up around open air markets in Belgium, every town had them. The first one I became familiar with, was right outside the front gate of my elementary school on the PolenPlein in Roeselare. Polen Plein referring to Polish Square, a reference to a group of Polish soldiers helping in the area during World War Two. I remember my mother picking us up from the school, and stepping right into the market, where she would buy fresh shrimp and sole. I remember being in open air  markets in Mexico City, in Guadalajara, Panama City, and in Kinshasa. I am glad we have a farmer's market here in Olympia, and that it is varied and friendly, it always fills me with nostalgia when we go there. But last night, I was far away from a market familiar to me, but yet, it felt like home. Maybe I'll go visit again in a next dream. I think I'll buy the bracelet to match the earrings when I meet up with the Gypsy artist.