‘Between the Black and White’: F minor

“Between the Black and the White” explores completely different moods and emotions in day by day life. It’s organized into completely different keys that set the tone for every particular piece. It tries to seize the microscopic tales of life and zoom in to look at each element.

A white automobile slows at my door. I watch as he hops down from the automobile and gently opens the automobile door for me, handing me a bunch of black roses. “Comfortable Lantern Pageant,” he softly sings.

A way of anxious happiness envelops me as I climb into the entrance seat. Sitting beside him, I look exterior the window. It’s foggy but the colours are vivid, vivid sufficient for me to be absolutely absorbed within the bountifulness of nature: the weird-shaped bushes, the big cows on the farmlands, the countless horizons of the bay. Lastly I lose focus as all the colours enclose into dots of shaded purple, yellow and blue, merging and overlapping to type a beam of white void mild, wrapped up within the hazy, vapory sight.

Curtains of raindrops swirl on the automobile’s windshield. The windscreen wiper mechanically cuts out the rain streams that rushes downwards, meandering and trickling — a continuing rat-race between a clear-murky imaginative and prescient. The Monetian farmland alongside the freeway magnificently shows the dialog between mild and shadow as if they’re the important topics of the image. He’s drag racing the automobile, striving to throw behind each tree, bridge and lamppost in our sight, endeavoring to get nearer to each droplet solely to speed up, move and lose it. 

A pointy slam on the brakes, 80 to zero miles per hour. My physique jerks ahead, nearly hitting the entrance of the automobile. Shocked, I flip and take a look at him. 

“Sorry. Hate this climate. Can’t see.” He factors out.

“It’s okay.” I reply half-heartedly, looking the window and on the misty foil of mom nature. I’m wondering what number of issues are disguised by this silvery grey with marks of ages. 

Is it okay? Is it actually? Does readability of sight matter that a lot when you’ll be able to really feel the rhythm of each raindrop articulating Debussy’s prelude, the sound of the adjoining automobiles, the vibration of the heartbeats… It tickles me with a creeping burst of pleasure, the vintage type of feeling that poured over me as a child every time I used to be about to open a New Yr’s current. I understand how a lot I take pleasure in blurriness. I take pleasure in randomness, uncertainty, arbitrariness, ambiguity. Why are we as human beings so hasty to outline, classify and conclude when the world is meant to arouse, splash and really feel…

Lastly we arrive on the Buddhist temple. He clumsily holds up the clear umbrella, rain droplets dancing upon it. I grip his hand and assist him to regulate its place. I’ve all the time believed that holding the umbrella is an artwork; it’s a fixed battle in opposition to the stormy winds and needle-like raindrops that requires delicate management. In truth, any type of safety requires that. Shall I put my belief in a rusty umbrella?

I maintain his left arm as we fastidiously step into the temple. The scent of fine fortune chokes me; petrichor blends intricately with the burning incense. Smoke, mist, fog, mud. “And to mud you shall return.” 

Curious raindrops discover the lenses of my eyeglasses, magnifying the blurriness of trying forward. All I can see are twisted pictures: a fastidiously layered wood roof, a bundle of grotesque rhododendron bushes, a stable rocky stairway, a curve of lanterns sparingly dangled on a white string. Clouds are squeezed and stretched into indecipherable shapes just like the particles of a bomb being dropped on the facilities, changing into ever extra imposing and threatening. Every little thing is distorted and but extra genuine as I really feel each tip of my cell itching, ready. All evolves right into a brisk breeze of breath. 

From a desk on the proper aspect, we decide up three sticks of yellowish-white incense. I shakily maintain my three feather-light incense sticks and light-weight them. Solemnly and slowly, we stroll in the direction of the center of the sq. temple and kneel. The Buddha is as colossal as ever, penetrating me along with her insightful eyes. 

I shut my eyes. A thousand ideas rush by way of my thoughts. “Time is the longest distance between two locations.” “Maybe between two hearts.” What might I want for? The incense begins dipping, ashes start falling down. What would he want for? Love gusts up inside me as I slowly open my eyes to look at him and immediately shut them once more. 

White turns into black, because the carbon pervades the white incense. I replicate on that delicate mild within the nook of his eyes. It’s too fierce for me to understand; too vivid that it dazzles and hurts. Or possibly it’s merely that I don’t want to comprehend its scattering colours. Why do colours matter if all of them finally flip right into a single beam of void whiteness, solely to bleach the blood streaks within the eyes? 

As we stroll out of the temple, the F minor chord of the temple’s bell strikes in my head. Daylight leaks from the blue sky, glowing, heating and burning. Flowers glow, blossom, wither into the mud.

I don’t need something that’s not mine, Buddha.