bluishorange is one of my favorite weblog. Its owner, alison headley, doesn’t update often. But whenever she does, I eagerly devour her entire entry, whatever the topic may be. Afterwards I always always want to write something of my own.
Her words never fail to make my heart tingle. Her words makes me want to pour something out, something as moving and true. From the past or the present. Anything at all.
Once my sister and I were discussing Hemingway and somewhere I saw a discussion regarding Hemingway’s openings. So I had an impulse to imitate one myself.
“In the early summer of that year we lived in a small apartment by the highway, with orange colored roofs like those on the shores of the Mediterranean. We could hear the sprinklers turning on in early morning, and tennis balls bouncing off rackets when it was on the weekend. Along the paved narrow path leading to the stairs there were bushes of hydrygenia with large blue flowers, wet and fresh in the early morning mist, and snails were confused and slowly moving from one side of the path to another. In order to catch the first flight out of SFO every Monday, Kate had to leave in the predawn darkness, which was so dense, even the chilly air had a hard time to penetrate it, let alone any hint of sound.”
“It is good.” My sister said then, “But it is not as impressive as Hemingway’s original. Because he had a purpose, wanted to communicate a desolate feeling on the ugliness of war. What are you trying to convey here?”
I didn’t know. I still don’t. But the paragraph stuck with me and I constantly thought of it. It was a beginning of a possible story. But somehow I never felt quite ready to write it out. My sister was right. It was not as ambitious as Hemingway’s because it is not trying to ridicule or to express anything grand. It is the beginning of a relationship. There is a sense of tenderness and wonderment. Simple and naïve.
Those were the people who once held our happiness in their hands, and now we’ve left them in the past. From time to time, we look back onto the days and moments that touched us. It is a little sad to realize that so much had been invested in something that was doomed. But that cant’ be helped. I wouldn’t want it any other way. I wouldn’t want to, or be able to, hold back anything. Sometimes I thought it must have been destiny, for all those little moments leading up to the first meeting to go exactly so. How could anyone not treasure such a miracle? Unfortunately, relationships seem to be synonymous to heartaches and unhappy endings, until one day you met the one. It is like a apprenticeship. Should we wear our past scars like heroic medals? Or hide them in the dark and spider webbed corner?
How does a bruised heart look like? Will it be “bluish orange”? I wonder.