I am a regular. I went to the florist last Tuesday, and there they were. These plump and luscious stalks of white roses in two or three huge vases. During my heyday, Chinese New Year used to be an important celebration as new energy were welcomed and office get-togethers were organised, so that people who don't like each other would get along. What ? It is true, is it not ? I saw all of it and quite organically, chose to stay quiet.
I've had a special relationship with silence ever since I was a child. No imaginary friends existed for me. To be frank, it was only when I entered my formative adolescence that the requirement of an imaginary friend seemed pressing, and as a matter of fact, necessary. There hadn't been a certain someone I could have put my entire trust in and a large majority, I believe, would point that out to be, my problem.
My problems were clear to me. It was a gradual ascension of growth, often uncomfortable but essentially crucial, only because I cared less about playing my cards right or labouring my efforts into developing a personality. I saw it of course, I learnt most definitely, and yet I chose to stay quiet.
There is this Mary Oliver poem titled The Swan that caught my attention as I mulled over my mid-twenties. I lucidly buried myself with reading and making art because these were the best tools to keep an often disorientated mind to stay on the course, this is no mystery. Oliver's poem begins with,
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air –
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
The florist told me that these roses were pre-ordered, when I had asked her if I could photograph them. She hurriedly permitted, almost as if I need not had to enquire. I am now beginning to believe that every florist in town, has become my personal friend. According to her, a loyal customer is apparently planning to give out each stalk away, some time right before Chinese New Year and hearing that tickled my fancy. My innate interest for random acts of niceties and the compensation it offers me for my lack of trust, found its home in the subjectivity of love.
White roses are said to be a portrayal of innocence and youthfulness, given that its charming structure is apt to usher fortune and romantic love. Culturally, it might have different connotations. Otherwise, it is just me I suppose, since I tend to perfer, an abstract view point rather than a chaoctic this and that.
For all that cynicism that surrounded my mid to late-twenties, pertaining my inability to fully trust an individual or an assembly in half or half-full attendance, may I reiterate that true love is hardly person(s) – but instead, our capacity to celebrate love as a subject-matter. Whether or not the chi comes or the chi goes. You know, so what if I am not getting along with the chap in finance? Am I bothered or is he bothered, and if someone really does, then that is evenly cool. When it is time to lou sang, everything of the yesteryear should ideally be tossed and eaten, afterwards.
I suspect there's this absurd believe that happiness is paramount and everything, yet I can't help but to think of such happiness as an act of whitewashing to upkeep tolerance, which is a moral conduct and I am all in for that. I just fail to believe that happiness is the entirety when there are a host of other great attributes to celebrate along with. For instance, maturation or if we were to go with my favourite, that would be elegance with sprinkles of quirk, freedom and a tinge of madness.
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
– Mary Oliver's ‘The Swan’
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