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Welcomed by the gradient blue wave of the sun, before anything declared itself as mornings, the beginnings of life swayed between impulses and leisure. Together, those misunderstood under barriers of unknown came in lone droplets as the lively locals worked; most of them walked in, stationed between trees, and moved mildly, closer to null, in their claimed patches of grass. Sometimes locals would roam around them, curious, even if they'd forget their daily responsibilities for a while. They were usually the young, or the tired, or the dying. Polygon was the three of them. But she didn't know that.
Unlike butterflies, whose lack of time accentuated the desperate flap of their wings, she spent most of her time on a park bench, taking in scenery as it was before her. She didn't really know anything about herself other than the fact that when she worked too much, she started slowing down. Friends told her rest would fix her. Eventually. So she rested, and, while doing so, perceived. The easiest things to perceive were the slower, those who looked like they weren't busy, like her, and that made the misunderstoods the common object in the periphery. She spent many days like that, and that way came to recognize some of those who wandered in fractured timelines. They'd mostly walk alone, carrying things that they probably valued, but it wasn't always like that.
Often, Polygon would see two figures of comparable height who would capture her interest. One crowned to match cherry blossom petals that would outgrow their cozy nests around the end of spring, a hue so mellow it welcomed the smallest of creatures; and another washed in brown and yellow, like a timid bee in the wake of a flower’s bloom. Compared to all the faces she noticed every day, those two were the brightest. They never carried any song makers, nor boxes of spotted sand to stare at while in the shade, like so many accustomed to around this area. Instead, whenever she saw them every now and then, they would walk side by side and cross a bridge while looking at anything but each other, and everything positive tinted their capable faces. Polygon stared, intrigued by their behavior, and reminded herself to remember them.
Someone else tossed plastic. Liquid poured out.
Today, the park felt silent. Rhythm blurred out the wind. For those unable to participate, all friends and family suddenly vanished, as they did in the holidays. She was mostly alone in those days. Left behind. And then, she watched how one of her remembered figures walked towards the bench and sat down beside her, begonia strand waves singled out over songless concentration. She noticed the difference between the brightness of her memories and the mute stillness from beside her, of the now, and she wondered if the bee-like companion went away for the holidays too. Alone, the remembered figure resembled all the other misunderstoods that drifted their way into grounds silent to comprehension. Still. Still, as if in need of goodbyes. Polygon almost gave it to her, for she submerged in sudden grief as lack of movement nudged at her collection of losses. But the figure turned to look at her, acknowledged, and her song stuck to her mandible, stored away. Polygon’s head jerked many times for her eye to connect to the stranger’s, and felt relief as brightness flashed through, briefly, to deliver seconds of what she remembered.
Someone else passed by and beamed at her. Food in their hands, not for anyone else but themselves. Their motives laid hidden.
Angled up, a rushed flock rustled the leaves of a nearby tree. It was loud, desperate; they probably had somewhere else to be. She wondered if her remembered figure had somewhere else to be, too, but gave it up for whatever reason. Like her.
When Polygon’s head jerked back to make sure the latter still sat still, her distractions proved her inability to hold on. Walked away, no words but a strange compression of the lungs, and left her to look elsewhere for connection.
To be side by side
is not always parallel
Point.
It’s hard to tell this close,
whether lines approach
Point.
Spectating gives a mineness to something that isn’t yours.
Closed doors, cold air
Fresh coffee, stale from yesterday’s leftovers first
Cold benches and dewy pants seats
Clasped hands, hooked arms
Passing glances, flinching from perception
Spills and trips and gaits
rolls and taps
The pull to look away surpasses the stay of gaze
The ache for presence pushes back
The minute gaps in time where
Happenings slip
The sidewalks are streams
but the bridge is a portal
On it, the bustling below and around slow
Passing time is exchanged for lulling time.
One passes countless a day
Point.
Countless pass one a day
Point.
Memory is fickle
It slips for the Ones
even if you make a conscious effort to remember
Yet, it finds space for the Countless to become Ones
Memory is Life
Memory is Death
Memory is Time
Memory is to capture, perhaps to still
In the lulls in time, Memory is Active
To get lost in a head
or to commit more to it
is not always a conscious choice
is not always separate in process
to See, to Perceive
There’s a power in holding attention
with or without demand.
A solitary bird flutters from beside {me}
She flaps about in a quiet park.
If the early bird gets the worm, what does the early human get?
Time? Can you eat that?
Well, you certainly can eat with more time.
Say the early human gets time in exchange for time.
Say the time is redeemed before the momentum
Before accumulation
A barista knows the order by heart
named
nameless
A runner passes every day
a nod
a nod
A friend shares a path
by {my} side
again
Riptide: The calm before the momentum rips you out of place.
Say the early human redeems one end of time’s bargain
Like a supermarket rush
laughs
going with a purpose and coming out with more
A quick pace picks up
again
Point
Point
Point
Point
Point
Flutter
Two points make a line
Three points make a triangle
How many points makes a connection between people
{I am approaching}
How many points gives a connection a pull
a gravity
It’s hard to tell this close
{if we should coincide}
To be side by side is not always parallel.
Spectating
A lot of days passed before Polygon realized she was the one who left for the holidays. Unwillingly, perhaps, but she didn’t remember. The winds. All the brightness around her felt unfamiliar as soon as the longing for home set in, and it made her think about how she felt so out of place, in every sense. She missed her bamboo branches, the salty moisture of mangrove forests, the perpetual dew. Upon the realization, a sharp pull towards the warmer south, she tried to spread her wings despite the stabbing pain and leaped off the edge of the bench. Only to last a few seconds above ground. It looked like she just jumped down, barely stretching the scaled night ocean cape that rippled over her faded coal body. Down there, frustrated, she attempted to take off once again, and again, to no avail, to unintentionally engage in a strange ritual that no one would ever correspond. Blurry spots like marigold petals flew by, confused by her antics, and Polygon would try to communicate if she could. And wanted to. But the petals were smaller than her, faster and much more impatient, looked like they had somewhere else to be.
Someone tossed a dried insect at her, a tall figure of bright fire-like tuft, like the crimson sunbirds that hover from interest. Polygon forgot everything else and approached the insect through cautious hops, and snatched it fast with her beak.
The figure, sunbird, sat on the bench and took out a plane with the blankness of a cloud. Many things came out of her bag. Some kind of resins that mimicked hues seen everywhere here, that of the morning sky, the prickly grass, tall zinnias, and depth of ponds. Polygon stared. As the stranger set everything up and dragged the park scenery into the blank cloud, slowly, through the feathered tip of a stick.
Sunbird seemed to find the action pleasing, for the brightest of expressions set her apart from every other misunderstood, every now and then.
Polygon waddled around, to pass time, until Sunbird gathered all the things and walked away. After a few moments that felt too long, another figure approached. Cherry blossom friend again, though now faded away into honeycomb.
"Ah, who cares? No one's listening."
She found it strange. The figure continued to make a song unrecognizable to her, incessantly at times, and it sounded like each one diverged from the rest. Like it wasn't even work of a memory, virtuosic in receptivity. Is it memory? Then again, Polygon remembered her own songs and their purpose, and resolved to believe memory wasn't enough of a concept to describe what drove the need for sound making. Her head jerked a few times as she inspected her cherry blossom friend, looking for the right angle, while the latter moved her grippers as if her song depended on it.
"She told me she wanted to leave and I want to stay and I don't know where we're going. Last weekend I came over to her apartment and we had the nicest evening with wine and some… cheap takeout. I don't want to lose that, but… Decisions. Compromise. Okay.”
A pause. Considerations.
“‘Cause it was all Bora. She brought me into this mess through stupid jokes and now the jokes are real and I can’t deal with them… I promised myself, To keep distance, from the Beginning, because I had No time for this but I guess that was just me trying to deflect but, what am I even saying? How dumb is it to reconsider your whole future because you found someone worth risking all your plans for? Probably pretty dumb.”
Another pause. Polygon sensed some kind of distress. It puzzled her.
“Pretty dumb.”
Someone on a canoe, leisurely rowing across the pond.
A sigh.
Someone on their afternoon run, lungs constricting between throbs and goals.
The park charmed today. It looked the same as every other spring day, but a little brighter. Her cherry blossom friend jolted suddenly, almost as fast as Polygon’s head snaps, and rushed away without emitting any more sounds. It looked a lot like desperation from having somewhere else to be. Polygon wondered if she would see her friend again soon. And her friend’s companion. She missed them both. Seeing them. In distanced familiarity.