acollectionofcontemplations

[acollectionofcontemplations]

The Old Astronomer to His Pupil

by Sarah Williams

Reach me down my Tycho Brahe,—I would know him when we meet, When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet; He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how We are working to completion, working on from then till now.

Pray, remember, that I leave you all my theory complete, Lacking only certain data, for your adding as is meet; And remember, men will scorn it, ’tis original and true, And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learnt the worth of scorn; You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn; What, for us, are all distractions of men’s fellowship and smiles? What, for us, the goddess Pleasure, with her meretricious wiles?

You may tell that German college that their honour comes too late. But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate; Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight; You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night. I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known. You “have none but me,” you murmur, and I “leave you quite alone”?

Well then, kiss me,—since my mother left her blessing on my brow, There has been a something wanting in my nature until now; I can dimly comprehend it,—that I might have been more kind, Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I “have never failed in kindness”? No, we lived too high for strife,— Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life; But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you, To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true; And remember, “Patience, Patience,” is the watchword of a sage, Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sworn, like Tycho Brahe, that a greater man may reap; But if none should do my reaping, ’twill disturb me in my sleep. So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name; See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak; Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak: It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,— God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.

[acollectionofcontemplations]

When you grow up your heart dies

With the passing of what seems like the most boring and uneventful summer of my life, I catch myself reaching for my old playlist more often just for the sake of feeling something.

I stumbled upon GUNSHIP freshman year of university at a freshers party. To give you an example of how much their music resonated with me, I was in the middle of raising my glass to a game of Ring of Fire, blindly drunk as my friends screamed in my ear when I caught Tech Noir playing (barely audible) in the background. There was something so... desperately sad yet triumphantly grand about the song. Since then, GUNSHIP came out with a new album: Dark All Day, a nostalgic love letter to everything 1980s and sci-fi alla��synthwave.

The entire album orbits an apocalyptic theme with lyrics that speak volumes to me. The music is sexy, sometimes animalistic, hopeful and dooming all at once. Perfect for late-night drives, perfect for singing along to, and maybe even perfect for fucking to (if that's your thing). Did you know Kat Von D does music as well? I digress. Being in what seems like an apocalypse of sorts right now, I find myself clinging to the message GUNSHIP conveys through their album for hope.

"When you grow up your heart dies."

Originally from The Breakfast Club, the quote, along with other mid to late 90s pop culture references, was excerpted in the song. Strung together, they created a mantra for listeners. The song sends a message of hope, fearlessness and love, which is important to hold onto when being emotionally/physically alone and unmotivated can make you feel like drowning. If you are reading this and life seems hard right now, know that you are not alone - that, just like you, I too struggle to stay positive. A lot has changed this year while simultaneously feeling like nothing has changed at all.

"Just remember when you grow up your heart dies."

Have you ever noticed how toddlers trust so easily and dive headfirst into literally everything? The innocence we are born with slowly withers away as we learn more and more about the world we live in. The darkness that lurks in every corner - from personal failures to catastrophic wars - makes us hesitate and tread lightly as we navigate through life. Unless a quantum time-travelling-age-rewinding machine is invented, I'm sorry to break it to you but we're only going to get older and older. No matter what you've been through in life or how old you are, there is always still heart and innocence inside you. So take the present, and make the most out of it.

"Live life to the full because you never know what's around the corner. So let's take a part of the world and make it our own."

Get out there, force yourself to be comfortable, force yourself to trust more, force yourself to do the things you wouldn't normally do. Go for a run! Go to a museum! Go learn archery! It's now or never. I urge you to step out of your comfort zone, as I am pushing myself to do the same, and learn something new about yourself you never would have guessed existed. Do it with a friend, do it with a stranger or do it alone. I don't care. If you feel like you are rotting away in your home under a blanket of depression and hopelessness, it's because you are. We are fragile creatures. Just like a flower needs sun and water, we need the vast expanse of wonder this world has to offer. Beauty is in every corner, light is in every corner, you just need to learn how to look for it. Promise me you won’t let your heart die.

"It's just a bad day, not a bad life"

"Always fear regret more than failure"

"Expect nothing and appreciate everything"

Live long and prosper <3

[acollectionofcontemplations]

Dicing my own onions

When you come face to face with the end of a relationship - whether it be a temporary or permanent one - your heart doesn't really get the memo as immediately as your brain. This asynchronization can cause you to choke on your words (or actions) as you realise what you're about to say (or do) isn't something you can any longer.

"I'm at a party right now, -" and I miss you.

"Goodnight, -" I love you.

My favourite dish to cook is spaghetti bolognese. I love it because it's what my Asian mother was best at cooking, in terms of western dishes. Over the years of living alone, I have improved upon my mother's recipe, making it my own by adding or removing ingredients. One thing that hasn't changed in my recipe is the number of onions I have to dice. I hate dicing onions. Not only do my eyes burn, but I also make a mess in the kitchen because my cutting board is so fucking small.

I should buy a bigger cutting board.

Enter my boyfriend. He loves cooking just as much as I do (even though I insist on wear the apron in the relationship) and is always willing the help out. I leave all the tasks that piss me off to him, and that includes dicing the onions. He's a trooper. I can tell he doesn't enjoy dicing the onions any more than I do, but he does it anyway because he loves me. And isn't that what love is? To sacrifice one's own comfort for the comfort of those they love?

It became a thing. No matter what we cooked, if the recipe called for onions, he would prep the onions.

I made bolognese tonight for the first time in a while. As I set the onions on the kitchen counter, I realised I was alone and had to dice the onions on my own. It was like getting hit by the "Feelings Express" freight train. The fact that not just this one time but probably the next 100 times I cook bolognese, I'm going to have to dice the onions on my own.

I'm not saying you can't appreciate something in the moment, I'm just saying that appreciation is typically magnified by half a dozen magnitudes when you're looking back on the moment under a spotlight of truth. I realise now more than ever the significance of his action. The same action that comes in multiple shapes and forms from the people that love you most in life - whether that be someone dicing your onions for you to save you the irritation and tears, or someone force-feeding you gallons of water after a night of heavy drinking.

How can you expect other people to _____ you when you can't _____ yourself? Fill in the blanks. It is just as crucial to be able to face the trials and tribulations of life on your own as it is to face them with someone by your side. Perhaps even more crucial. What I'm trying to get at is individual growth and independence is something we all have to learn the hard way. Without it, we'll all be stuck in our back braces waddling for the rest of our lives, never getting our Run, Forest, Run! moment.

So for now, I guess I'll just continue to dice my own onions. 

[acollectionofcontemplations]

The invisible hand

Her heart is made of blood and feathers. She climbs a mountain built of passion and light, pushing higher and higher until she reaches it’s summit.

An invisible hand leads her to the edge. Distracted by her euphoria, she has no time to react before the hand pulls her over the brink and she begins her descend.

She falls like it’s her millionth time. No panic, no cry for help. And just like every other time, she lies at the base of the mountain, staring helplessly upward, seeking warmth from the sun sitting on the other side of that overshadowing peak. Her heart begins the long process of piecing her mind back together.

Body and soul reborn in innocence, she gets back up and walks again to the base of that mountain made of passion and light and begins climbing again.

(written in 2019)

[acollectionofcontemplations]

Lovely

You make me lovely, and it’s so lovely to be lovely to the one I love.…

[acollectionofcontemplations]

Memories That You Call Home

They say “home is where the heart is”. My heart was born and raised at the Hampton's, and when my family lost everything and were forced to move out half way across the state, it didn't come with me. If home is where the heart is, then my home is the three-story house at the end of Arcadia drive.

With most of our belongings moved into the Brooklyn flat, Arcadia is quiet and empty. Mom tells us we’re only staying downtown temporarily until dad finds his bearings again, but I know better than to keep my hopes up. They’ve already listed the house for sale; it’s only a matter of time before someone else falls in love with the place and moves in. I wouldn't blame them if they did, it’s beautiful. I keep telling myself I just need time to adjust, but even the simplest details of living in that place - like not being able to hear the ice-cream truck drive by every Sunday afternoon - breaks my heart.

Looking out the window of the train, I zoom past landscapes at 80 miles per hour on my way back to Arcadia - the rising sun casting an orange glow on the forest and open space. I told myself before leaving today that if I could just see the house again, really take it all in; I’d be able to tuck it in my pocket and bring it back with me.

The driveway leading to the house is long. I wanted to savor every step I took walking up the hill, but the sound of gravel crunching beneath my feet ends all too soon as I happen upon the grand entrance to the Sinclair estate. My heart is roaring. The heavy mahogany door lets me in with much ease, a mutual understanding that this visit will be our little secret.

Echoes of my footsteps fill the empty space as I walk through the grand reception, trying to take in every delicate. I remember sitting in my favorite recliner in front of the faux fireplace in the separate glass dome overlooking the beach. The snow globe was a sanctuary, granting me privacy from the music and not-so-quiet murmurs coming from the parties my parents use to throw for every possible occasion. The smell of brewed coffee and champagne linger in the air. My lips quirk as I recall the time I burned the turkey last Thanksgiving evening, the fire alarm going off, drenching all of us in our dinner seats. Ditching the formalities, the whole family sat cross-legged and spent the holiday getting pizza stains on the monopoly board.

The paintings and pictures lean against the couch not yet packed up. I flick through the framed artwork one by one until I find a portrait of the whole family. Dad stands in the back, an immobile pillar of strength, his eyes gleaming with pride. Strands of silver peak through his mass of brown hair. His hand squeezes the shoulder of my eldest sibling Greyson, handsome as ever in his black suit and tie, looking into the camera with that infamous grin. “At least you don’t need money to be a pain in my ass, big bro.” I roll my eyes. Mom stands on dad’s other side, her blond curls full and silky, resting one hand on his chest - the diamond on her ring finger a technicolor prism. I stare at the doe-eyed girl sitting in front of father. I was once that girl, but she’s been left behind in this empty shell of a house. Two identical twins sit on either side of portrait me, their legs dangle in mid-air crossed at the ankle, not long enough to touch the floor yet. That was the Sinclairs; a perfect family with a perfect life living in their perfect house.

Moving into the library, I walk over to my undisturbed bookshelves proudly displaying the abundance of books I have collected over the years. There isn’t enough room in the flat back in Brooklyn to hold all my collection, so they stay here for now. As I brush my fingers gently over the spine of each book, I can’t help but smile at the memories of this room. The hours I spent arranging and rearranging books - in chromatic order, then alphabetical, then back to chromatic... It’s heartbreaking knowing they will be plucked off their shelves and stuffed into cardboard boxes sooner or later. 

My bedroom is on the third floor facing the vast ocean just a few yards away. It’s the smallest and most intimate out of all the bedrooms in the house - just big enough to fit a bed, closet, bureau, and of course more book shelves. Now with everything moved out the walls feel distant - light patches on the plush carpet and nails sticking out from the beige wall the only indication I was ever here.

I open the French doors and step onto the balcony to get some fresh air. Clasping my hands together, I lean my arms on the railing and look down. The pool is now empty, but I remember how it use to glow at night like a turquoise gem. The deck chairs that were spread out evenly along the edge of the pool now lay stacked in a pile against the wall of the garage, providing shelter for spiders and dust bunnies. Lush green hedges line the garden separating the green lawn from the asphalt road that leads to the city. The fountain planted in the middle of the flower beds remains broken just as it has been for the past ten years ago. Rainwater collected in the tiers keep afloat the red and yellow leaves falling from the trees, each landing leaf causing a light ripple of water which drips off the edge.  

The little ones, Jamie and Jezalia, always used to hide behind the trimmed bushes and spy to see if the birds and squirrels bathing in the fountain would do anything miraculous to prove that everything in those princess movies I watched with them were real. They were perfect little angels, always up to mischief and always getting away with it. Arcadia is going to miss the sight of their bouncing blond pigtails and simultaneous clicks of their shoes as they descended the stairs with as much grace seven-year-olds could possess.

Back in my room I sling my purse across my shoulder and climb out the window, making my way down the fire escape a foot at a time until I land on the wood that lines the perimeter of the house. I slip my feet one at a time out of my wedges and stumble the last few steps before my bare feet sinks into the liquid sand. I keep walking towards the shore until I’m met with the cold of the water, the cuts from my shoes on my heel sting as the waves lap against my ankle. The wind caresses my arms, blowing wisps of brown hair across my lips, wrapping me in the scent of the ocean. I stand there as time stops, squinting at the blinding sun, shoes dangling from one hand.

I breathe in.

An eternity passes.

I breathe out.

The waves crash and time hurls me forward.

I twist around and look at the magnificent house. A memory box full of good and bad recollections, a reminder of what we once were.

The whole way home, as I watched the buildings blur, I couldn’t help but feel like every mile farther away from Arcadia was one more mile I am separated from my heart - the heavy thumping of it this morning now no more than a faint pitter-patter.

Back in Brooklyn, I climb breathlessly to the 6th floor only to be greeted by a dimly lit hallway. Walking straight down to the end, I let out a defeated sigh as I face the door. My keys jingle as I stick it into the key hole. Turning the lock, I give the door two kicks and a hard tug before it finally gives way. Tears well in my eyes. I notice the smell of coffee and champagne at the entry and something flutters inside me as the twin’s laughter and dad’s grumble vertebrates throughout the entire flat. I pad barefoot down the corridor to the living room and rub my tears away at the sight of my family sitting on the carpet, the same grease stained monopoly board laid out in front of them.

Mom beckons with one hand, and with the other pats the empty space next to her. “Honey, we've missed you! We’ve only just started, and Jezalia insisted we save you the dog token since it’s your favourite. Come join us now that you’re finally home.”

Indeed. With my family sitting all together – Greyson sandwiched between mom and dad, Jamie on dad’s lap and Jezalia making her way onto mine – I am surprised to find it suddenly hard to believe home is anywhere, but here.

written in 2015. Revised.