Autumn Sonnet

If I can let you go as trees let go
Their leaves, so casually, one by one;
If I can come to know what they do know,
That fall is the release, the consummation,
Then fear of time and the uncertain fruit
Would not distemper the great lucid skies
This strangest autumn, mellow and acute.
If I can take the dark with open eyes
And call it seasonal, not harsh or strange
(for love itself may need a time of sleep)
And, treelike, stand unmoved before the change,
Lose what I lose to keep what I can keep,
The strong root still alive under the snow,
Love will endure – if I can let you go.

- May Sarton

It may not have any particular reason to resonate in my life at the moment, but it's still a very lovely poem. I especially love the phrase "and, treelike, stand unmoved before the change, lose what I lose to keep what I can keep".

Over the years, I've grown to dread traveling and going to airports. Saying goodbye to the people closest to you, trying feebly to preserve mental images of them, and knowing all too well that for the next few months of your life, you have to carry the hopes of those you leave behind, while having only yourself to rely on. I’m not complaining because this is what I had signed up for, and independence is for the most part, liberating. Just that even after three years, the feeling of leaving a part of yourself behind, is as difficult as it was the first time, and every time following that. Then there's also the feeling of being trapped on a place, where the air is so still it’s almost like being caught immobile between time. Waiting to board the plane, waiting for the plane to land and waiting for your luggage are now done so reflexively there's no real need for conscious thought. So the whole journey is just spent locked in a mental struggle for patience, while trying to swim against the torrent of bad thoughts that inevitably invade your mind. The more frustrated I get, the more unpleasant my thoughts become. “Why are these people so slow?” “How useless can a person’s job be?” My thoughts sometimes take things on with a more venomous edge when I’m too tired and frustrated to restrain them, which leaves me even more drained and disgusted with myself. I’m trying to be less grudging, but I’m also very glad I'm staying put for the next few months.

So here’s a thrilling update on my life so far: I’m back in Canberra, it’s the first week of school, and I’m already on my second pot of tea today. I’ve also decided to learn Indonesian this semester, which I’m looking forward to. It would be nice to able to say something other than “Saya lapar” (I am hungry.)

I’ve been in an oddly voracious reading phase these days as well, as if my mind is trying to make up for the lack of thinking during the hectic days back home. I’ve just finished Kafka’s The Castle, which I have to admit, strange and illogical as it is, is a good read. Bureaucracy is not usually a theme I bother much with, but it was created very well. I still can’t say I’m a fan of Kafka, but his writing had me emotionally involved enough to feel cheated at the absence of a conclusion.
I’ve also read Celine’s Journey to the End of the Night, which is basically a war story, translated from French. I’ll admit it was my set text last year (which I didn’t bother reading because it was not assessed), so finally getting around to it was rather satisfying. The book itself though, was… a little underwhelming. It may have partly been because of my natural dislike of weak narrators (this antihero was too cowardly, too horny and too weak, albeit honest), and the synopsis at the back of the book built up expectations of “urgent and explosive language” (which is true if they were referring to the amount of expletives), the “literary symphony of violence and cruelty” (if by symphony they mean a slightly organized mess). It was a good book, refreshing from the somewhat cloudy plot of The Castle, but no, I wouldn’t recommend it.
Another book I read a while back was To Know Where I’m Coming From by a local author Johann S. Lee. Now this one, this one I loved. Mostly it dealt with the issues of sexual and emotional fidelity, as well as the challenges of being a gay man in Singapore and London, so I can’t say I have much prior perspective on these subjects. But at its core, it’s about a man losing his support, re-learning his roots, finding love. His writing style is scarily similar to mine (but in a much, much better league of course). Honestly, I don’t think a book like this has much chance of going on a nytimes bestseller list, but it was moving and heartfelt, which is more than you could hope for in many books.
Right now I’m almost finished with Charles Dicken’s Hard Times, which so far might be my favourite book out of this lot (maybe I am still biased towards classics). It’s not a book that can be breezed through half-heartedly though; there are so many subtle depictions of people that are too wonderful not to pause and re-read in order to fully appreciate.

That's it for now. Have a lovely week!