Flash Non-Fiction Writing Teach-Out Exercise: Reflecting on #GoldStrike | Dec 2021

During the strike, I found the campus teeming with life. I stood at the crossroads of a daunting invitation and a compelling enthusiasm as the picket line grew strong with words, music, and power. As someone who has not experienced a strike before, I did not know how to react. Hilariously, I am still doubtful of the validity of my response. There were always whispers of solidarity around me, but that was all they could be. Whispers. You supported someone with a hand on their shoulder, or with a hopeful glance in their direction. Yet, there is such inspiration in all that unsettles us. There is such strength. It lives not in the visibility or audibility of the action, but in the emotions, the drive, the confidentiality and endurance of it all. I like to believe we will take this invitation, as daunting as it may be, and turn those whispers into a speech. Or a song. Or a legacy.

The university can be a place where walls are broken down. Where dreams surpass the boundaries of an institution. Where potential is measured not by material but by possibilities. Where access is not inhibited by quantifiable possessions. Where rights are upheld not merely by concept but by action. Where catchy slogans are more than just marketing copies. Where people are not commodities. Where community is prioritised beyond performance. The university can be a place, but it can also be more than that.

in perpetuum

whence all the winds are silent,

and all the rain are fallen,

and all we hear are the songs of sirens:

so oft! I think of you —

You had hoped that, by this time, you would have everything sorted out.

The train would arrive at its stop and you would step into the most beautiful, variegated landscape life had to offer. The clouds would whisk into a comforting blend as the sun’s rays danced upon rich verdure. Hills were abound, as were flowers. Then, from the corner of your eyes, you would see a charming little cottage resting atop the highlands. It would sing of fresh, warm bread.

And there would be music.

You wanted to believe that, if there were a time and place for everything, then everything would have its own time and place. You wanted to believe that there exists an extraordinary serenity – a solace so pure and gratifying that it was free of anguish, misery and torment.

Yet, life’s greatest rewards did not come without trial. She had her own method of distillation. She eliminated those who did not prove themselves worthy to bask in her sunlight. She threw at you one expectation after the other, and those who failed her test were the ones who let her challenges overwhelm them.

She sees you.

You fought. You did. You climbed over much of the obstructions in your way. There had been many a trough of despair but you escaped nonetheless. You have the lacerations to prove it.

She sees you.

She sees your body.

She sees your soul.

And you bleed.

And you burn.

And you swallow the noise of the world.

O, detachment in the air today:

’tis calling for me!

like oasis on the Sahara

I am entwined —

And there would be music.

originally published: 7 Mar 2019

green monster

a browning rose;

a sitting horse;

shallow waters

and shades of grey –

O, halcyon! Great twilight, ascend

now! reveal the balmy veil – Aegis of dawn!

If we see Dante, nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,

it would be, merely,

a r e f l e | ɔ ƚ i o n of

what would have been.

I have grown unsure of my own self, strangely

yet the tightening of the red string of fate, (our fate?)

I feel – infallibly. impeccably.

Gaze upon her gait – I admire

your voice, a song, the whispers of nymphs.

’tis playing field, en٨inɘyardɘd thus –

You were enough.

beep beep beep

b e e p b e e p b e e p

beep beep beep

there you lay –

i hear the silent marble walls scream

O, pretty shade of red,

my dear – I fear me, too rightfully.

they do spoil their little darling.

how coruscant, scintillating as aurora, you are

picture of perfection. sight for sore eyes.

no more. none of this; no time for gewgaw.

all bagatelle.

i have awaken from solecism and culpability.

dulce, grandeur, ángelos –

by your side, i place a browning rose

there you lay, by a sitting horse

to the north, shallow waters painted grey –

i will place you on a keel.

i will wear your skin.

they will call your name.

O, halcyon.

originally published: 4 May 2017