electric dreams
A small poem I wrote during NaPoWriMo.
Flashing signals of electric pulses create : Seed of mothers cooking, Taste of birdsong and half remembered sights. Smell of late-night bedtime stories.
Evergrowing roots search for connection, for coherence in the chaos of signals. Lights turn on. The world appears. Lights turn off. The world blurs into reverie.
Meanwhile, chemical signals transmute into electrons and back, and forth and back. Almost touching branching arms, Reminding confused atoms how to kiss.
Suspended in fluid darkness is a pattern of loves crackling, crackling with electric symphonies. In gardens of interlinked dendritic hands, you dream of soft summer nights
Drawing of a Purkinje cell by Santiago Ramón y Cajal. Calling neurons “the mysterious butterflies of the soul…whose beating of wings may one day reveal to us the secrets of the mind
sunlight
Sunlight comes quietly, as if hesitant to wake the sleeping room. It finds the edges, touches softly the curve of the wooden chair, the corner of the table, tracing gently across an open book as though reading carefully the words left behind.
You follow it outside as it silently makes it way across the just-waking city, taking its time to impart its presence on every single leaf, every rushing denizen, every nook in the ancient marbled buildings. Giving equally to all under its attention.
There is a kind of seeing that happens, only when we surrender the heavy architecture of our planning, our constant looking ahead.
The sunlight has been trying to tell you this for years now, sliding between curtains you thought were closed, finding the smallest opening to enter.
What have you missed in your determined forward motion? The way your child’s face changes when truly listened to, the subtle shift of seasons in a tree you pass each day, the stories held in the hands of those who have loved you longest.
You have walked past this doorway a thousand times, unseeing, until today when some angle of light reminds you, this is utterly and entirely new and moving
And then, the resilient weed in the corner of the street, unnoticed and abandoned, suddenly bursts into flames; echoing in a million different shades of green. The buildings which we think of as static and fixed, are set aflame and revealed as alive, whispering centuries of accumulated stories
The faces of the passerby’s take on a radiance, as if the penetrating photons unveil the unspoken joys and tragedies we all carry.
This is how we are healed it intimates, not in great revelations, but in small surrenders to attention.
The silence of the sunlight only urges you to notice, how it travels across the floor of your life, making visible, what you’ve learned not to see.
Vienna 2025
I didn’t know what to expect from Vienna. I had a week in the city attending a work conference, and beyond knowing it was the capital of Austria, and that ‘Before Sunrise’ took place there (I downloaded the movie and have yet to watch it), I came in with fresh eyes.
Now at the end of the week, the whole trip sped by. The greeks have two words for time ; Kronos and Kairos. Kronos being chronological time - that which is captured by the clock and calendar. Kairos being sacred time - everything that is beyond the clock, the timeless. Moments where the very notion of time falls away.
As I sit in the cathedral listening to the tolling bells (pay attention they say), I exist in Kairos. Or better said, the self and all its petty concerns don’t exist there, it’s simply reality.
I think back to my trip to Japan and see the similarities and differences. They both force you to pay attention but in different ways. The Japanese aesthetic is one of minimalism, an empty room with a tatami mat and vase allows you to bring your entire being to the vase.
In Vienna, beauty is through intricacy and detail. Every nook of a building is laden with design, and the closer you look, the countless of hours of craftsmanship reveal themselves to you. Attention is focused through detail.
Being in the city forces me to slow down. Although I’m perpetually distracted by my phone, I resolve to switch it to do not disturb for most of the trip, and instead take out my paper notebook and kindle. I read ‘Writing down the bones’ - a book that blends together writing and Zen practice. In slowing down and writing by hand, you look more carefully at the passing thoughts. In speaking with a Roshi, he tells the author ‘Why don’t you make writing your practice?”
Pico Iyer says it’s only through stillness and silence, can we make any sense of our experience. Writing is a way to dissect through your clattered mind and solidify passing thoughts in ink. Most of what I write in the notebook touches on the same themes ; how to pay attention, how to live a good life, who to become and how to see. Spilling the internal experience onto the page is the practice, and in the act you transform yourself.
I write in cafe’s, often at night. I wish more cities had a late night cafe culture I think. The fading light outside casts the sky into a deep blue, contrasting the marble cream buildings. The city reveals hidden dimensions of itself under the night sky, where what was once a bustling city during the day, transforms into a quiet romantic conversation. It feels more personal at night.
Writing by hand, my thoughts and sentences become more elaborate and meandering. I raise questions but rarely reach any answers. Whilst typing, I race to the point, wanting to bundle every ‘takeaway’‘ into easy to read listicles. I note all my favourite authors write their first draft by hand.
I think about how we capture reality; videos, photos, writing, stories. I love watching vlogs and videos, but they often take the nuance away. Photos introduce a little more nuance, a singular moment upto your interpretation. But writing I think has the most, it’s about the internal, invisible and unseen state. Everything that cannot be captured by the camera.
I walk through the city in silence, looking. As the sun sets, I stumble upon a lone opera singer in the Park. A mother and daughter walk by, and the child gazes up in wonder, captured by the lilting melodies. ‘Alertness is the hidden discipline of familiarity’.
Pilgrimage is a word that comes to mind. Travel being less about the destination, but instead as a vehicle to be transformed.
Paul Graham has an essay where he says that every city whispers a secret message to you. For me, Vienna says : pay attention, it is good to be surrounded by beautiful things.