Seasons Greetings 08

And so it is that we find ourselves once again near that junction where today meets tomorrow, and yesterday marks the difference of a year (this is all assuming that one follows the Gregorian calendar). It is customary about this time of year for people to gather around and swap stories; be it a story about a humble birth, the miracle of an oil container, heritage of one's people or even a random anecdote. The very act of sharing a story draws us closer to whom we share it with. It is a continuation of a memory, a legacy, a heritage, a tradition and a culture. The miracle resides not only in how a story unites us, but how it also enriches us. Every one has a different story to tell, and ways to interpret it, and each listener walks away taking something different from the next.

So, it is in this spirit that I pray each of you will have the chance to gather around loved ones near a blazing fire, over a hearty meal, copious wine and swap stories during this holiday season. May you all have the chance to experience the joys, the laughter and the warmth of reliving wonderful memories. May your lives be made richer for with each story shared, another's memory becomes yours too. May the coming year be filled with wonderful anecdotes worth regaling with gusto for years to come. May your personal story continue to grow so that it is worthy to be woven into the rich tapestry of humanity that exists above the realms of the written word, beyond the confinement of a generation.

Finally, be easily amuse, not to the point of ignoranc, but such that life is a never ending source of amusement.

Sincerely,

Andy

The Grind

Do you remember that time we sat at the Grind and just talked for hours? I don’t remember exactly what it was that we talked about, it seemed like we brushed upon every subject possible. I just recall it being a great afternoon; and I miss it. The thing is, we don’t seem to talk anymore. Oh, occasionally I would get a poke from you on facebook, or a third party would mention your name in passing; but that’s about it. It’s like the moment we left that campus, our lives have taken on totally different courses, you went your way, and I went mine. The earth maybe round and we may be walking in totally opposite directions, but our paths are destined not to crisscross ever again. I honestly don’t know how I feel about that. You see, I keep imagining that there is this parallel universe where we will meet again, and pick up where we left off. There is always that lingering question which I doubt I will get the chance to ask you, or we the opportunity to explore the answer together. 

So it is that I continue with my life, and you yours. I hope somewhere; somehow you are still curious as I remember you to be of the world around you. I hope that when the hurly burly of the day has left you be, that you may just think of me just as I you. I know I have changed quite a bit since that day, perhaps in that parallel universe, you will find an Andy who is actually bolder and wiser. Perhaps, in that universe, we will spend more afternoons watching sunsets in silence.

Myopia

I developed myopia and astigmatism early in my childhood. While it is not severely debilitating at the time, it does compromise my reflexes significantly. Especially in a nation of flying hockey pucks and soaring snowballs, to have minimized dodging ability can be quite stinging at times.

Yet, being myopic also provided me with a unique perspective of the world around me. Well, to be precise, two perspectives - one with clear contours, and one that is blurry and all mushed together. So much so that my inner world has also taken on these characteristics. At times, I can perceive matter with clarity, honing onto the minute details. Other times, the world would merged into a collage and everything is blurred together. The striking differences that once distinguish the issues would be reduced to nothingness, and contradictions resolved.

I do not know if it is this "gift" of myopia that has trained me earlier on to be at once an observer and participant of the life that goes on about me. Or perhaps it is astigmatism that has taught me that while people can be physically ugly when thrown into sharp contrast, the moment I take off my judgmental glasses, they will become haloed in a wondrous light. I don't know which world I prefer more, the one that allows me to see more clearly, or the one that allows me to enjoy the fuzzy warmth of unfocused and diverged light.

Regardless, these two worlds co-exists within me. At any given moment, I can choose to transit between the two, simply by taking off and putting on my glasses. I suppose I am envious of those who has perfect 20/20 vision, but at the same time, I am glad I can see things in entirely different light. For those of you who has no trouble seeing clearly, maybe you should join me sometimes, and see the world cross eyed. It will definitely give you a new outlook on the world around you.

Hello-Goodbye

Do you remember that time we sat at the Grind and just talked for hours? I don’t remember exactly what it was that we talked about, it seemed like we brushed upon every subject possible. I just recall it being a great afternoon; and I miss it. The thing is, we don’t seem to talk anymore. Oh, occasionally I would get a poke from you on facebook, or a third party would mention your name in passing; but that’s about it. It’s like the moment we left that campus, our lives have taken on totally different courses, you went your way, and I went mine. The earth maybe round and we may be walking in totally opposite directions, but our paths are destined not to crisscross ever again. I honestly don’t know how I feel about that. You see, I keep imagining that there is this parallel universe where we will meet again, and pick up where we left off. There is always that lingering question which I doubt I will get the chance to ask you, or we the opportunity to explore the answer together.

So it is that I continue with my life, and you yours. I hope somewhere; somehow you are still curious as I remember you to be of the world around you. I hope that when the hurly burly of the day has left you be, that you may just think of me just as I you. I know I have changed quite a bit since that day, perhaps in that parallel universe, you will find an Andy who is actually bolder and wiser. Perhaps, in that universe, we will spend more afternoons watching sunsets in silence.

Autumn

Pet by petal, the chrysanthemums shrivel.
Drop by drop, the streams slow down to a trickle.
The red leaves fall, the still pond ripples.
Here I sit, just me and my shadow.
Dreamy, 
Nostalgic, 
Quixotic.

The birds are flying south, their calls a distant echo.
Wine and food I have prepared, but alone I sit at the table. 
The floor is cold, silence reigns the house.
And so I remain, quiet as a mouse.
Pensive,
Yearning,
Hopeful.

Fall and Autumn

Have I ever told you how much I love autumn… yes, yes, I probably have, every single bloody year. I can’t help myself; I am drawn to the fall colors like a moth to light. It is beautiful, especially early in the morning or late in the afternoon as the sunlight sashay between the trees, cascading upon fallen leaves like light through stain glass windows.

There is zest, no overbearing heat, dreary humidity or biting cold. Everything is just right, balanced. The leaves, oh they are great; how I love to watch them fall, dawdling, lazily swishing about. I know where it is heading, I think they do too, but they are in no hurry, just floating as if exploring, prolonging the journey, enjoying every last moment. Sometimes I wish I live a life of a leaf; blossoming upon the highest branches, aspiring to greater heights, ever urging the tree towards light and better growth, contributing through photosynthesis. Then when my time has come, I become a brilliant red and orange, admired by many before I began my journey back to the earth where I eventually become another source of nutrient.

I think a leaf knows what it means to be have a meaningful life. A life that may seem idled to an observer. A life that may seem stationary, same view each day perhaps, maybe a little bit taller than the month before, but ultimately stable. Yet what great service it provides for the tree which it sits upon, and the ecosystem about it.

My Name is Shibboleth

I remember reading somewhere that most people are particularly endeared to their names, so one would do well to learn the proper way of intoning them if one wishes for quick way to people's hearts. If that is true, then my parents have made the way to my heart a rather challenging one. In their diabolically genius ways, my parents have given me a shibboleth of a name. For my Chinese name, they chose a character that is quite obscured, so much so that without proper introduction, most people are bound to get it wrong. Those rare folks who succeed on their first try are often the intellectuals, people of my parents' hearts, whom my parents want me to associate with. I remember as a child, whenever I am being introduced, it is always followed by a brief lesson in etymology. Even before I was cognizant of what my name actually means, I would say my name and regurgitate the origins of my name without being asked. 

To make matters worst, that obscured character is often mistaken for another character that phonetically means "bruised ego/ embarrassment" in Chinese. I remember dreading awards ceremony just as much as I dread a trip to the principal's office simply because I hate having my name being mispronounced in front of everybody. I have tried on occasion to be defiant, refusing to answer to a wrongly enunciated version of my name. It always end up with me looking retarded because everyone knew it was me they were calling, and they would wonder why I am not responding, do I not know my own name? Should I be even awarded? If I have done something bad, then that "bruised ego" pronunciation comes mighty handy for teachers to further rub it in before all to see. Correcting them only makes matters worst. 

Then, we move to Canada... things got even more interesting, because now, not only is my name difficult to pronounce correctly in my native tongue, it is even more so in English. I became known as the Hoisin Sauce Boy. To remedy the situation, my parents decided to give me an easy to remember English name... like Andy. Don't get me wrong, I love Andy, I grew into it. Yet, unbeknownst to me, some famous Asian actor/singer also goes by that name. Now, to add to my arsenal or explanations, I need to tell people "no, I am not related to him, and I can't do half the things he does". Great ego booster there as disappointed crowd walks away shaking their heads muttering "He's not the one". 

What is more... Andy rhymes with a lot of things, and when you are in elementary school, that rhyming technique to remembering name is not just a helpful tool, but a decisive way for others to make fun of you. Especially if they realized that girls are called Andy/Andi too... and out comes the Panty Andi jokes... Still I like my name, its my name, I have grown into it. But a lot of elderly folks are not satisfied with Andy. To them, I will always be Andrew, or Charlie... Introductions often goes like this "Andy, that's short for Andrew, right?" Once established, I will forever be Andrew, no matter how I find the name to be a bit too stiff for my liking. Why Charlie? I don't know, one guy said I looked like a Charlie, another said Charlie is just the name they call people of my color... Nice!

So what have I learned from all this... I don't really care about what people call me. I have decided that so long as they and I know they are referring to me, I will answer to any pet name they gave me. So don't be surprised if you see me replying to Ping Pong or some other Ding Dong name. Because apparently two Wongs do make a White.

Existence

There are moments when I feel truly drained; when all my efforts seem in vain, and despite being relatively young in body, I feel as if I have lived many more times in failure than my actual years. My soul betrays me in these moments, willing me to succumb to my demons. I began to doubt my purpose, and questioned my existence. Cynicism sets in like mercury; seeping through every crevice, poisoning thoughts, and massacring dreams. Though I may appear youthful, my inside withers away like a blade of palm in the midst of a barren desert. Like brittled bone ready to turn to dust at the merest breeze, a negative comment, however slight, threatens to disintegrate my being until I feel as if I am no more.

Yet, it is in these very trying times, when darkness hovers by, that I realize that what was once black is in fact my shadow wield by the light that flickers from deep inside. I am a charcoal, was black, now covered in gray, yet still I glow. Even though I may be dimming, I set those around me ablaze, and by virtue keep my flame alive. Is this what life is about, that once in a while, we must realize that we are not all born pure white, but are instead black as night. That from black comes gray, and eventually gray becomes white... white that contains all the spectrum of colors. White that is dust in the wind, at once substance and yet not.

Existence is vanity, in the end, we aim to become fine white powder, scattered across the plains, one in being with all things, flowing where the wind blows.

On Love

When do you know if you are ready for love? How do you know if it is a match made in heaven? Is it as they say something instantaneous and salient? Your heart beats faster, your palm starts sweating, you get tongue tied? Or could it be something that is more subtle and was in front of you the whole time? That special friend whom you confide to, whose image intrudes your thoughts regularly, and whose presence you sought whenever you feel alone?

How can you tell? Does it make you feel alive, more aware, more attentive to each and every little moments because you don't want to miss a thing; because you want to share it with that someone. Do you then walk as if upon clouds? Do you indeed grin stupidly at the mere notion of that person? Do you sigh uncontrollably, and dive into deep melancholy when they are away?

How do you know? How is requited love requited? Does it began with unrequited love until serendipity steps in and plays a hand? Or does fortune truly favors the bold, and you reach out confidently to pluck the rose that is imbedded amongst the thorns? Is it a want or a need whenever your heart leaps? Is it illogical, or can it be rational? Can romance blossom when the brain is in control? Can the heart be free, can one plus one makes one?

Where is the tipping point? Do you test the waters first? Or should you just dive in? How does one go about living; functioning when he or she is incomplete? Or can one whole be complete in oneself and not yearn for its half? There is love, and then there is romance, one does not necessary beget the other and yet they dance a sensual tango round and round.

Nostalgia

I find myself as a spectre drifting aimlessly down memory lane. Little spells of random nostalgia, reliving events that once carried much meaning my life. Funny how nostalgia works, it filters out much of the unpleasantness of the past, and present it in a more desirable light. I am not saying my past was that bad, after all it was memorable. Yet, I cannot help but feel bittersweet as the scenes unfold themselves before my mind’s eyes. These were happy memories of incidences that can never be again. One time occurrences forever embedded in my being to preserve me, to keep me motivated towards my tomorrows in hopes that I may find something similar if not better. Still, I find myself missing these experiences dearly. The places I have been, the familiar faces of people whom I have become intimate with, these are what shaped me. Yet, time has placed distance between me and these very things that have defined me over the years. In nostalgia I revisit them, while being painfully aware that they can never be again.

I have at one time promised that I will not let go, that I will not forget, and yet my reveries revealed to me that there is much that I have chosen to forgotten. I have suppressed much, and have definitely lost touch with many whom my heart still holds dear to, I hope they too remember me with fondness in my absence. There were many firsts, many of which felt at the time to be bungled attempts at best, but now in retrospect weren’t that bad at all. I realize as I peruse the ruffled pages of my past that I have matured over the years in ways not imagined before. I owe my present existence to the many people who have defined it, enriched it, and spurred it onwards. Many of these people I may never get the chance to speak to again, but if ever I can get the chance to, or should they somehow come across this, THANK YOU!

My life has meaning simply because my past allows me the courage to move on, my present to endure with integrity, and the future to live with hope. I can look myself in the mirror each day and smile because I saw reflected a composite of all those who have made each day worthwhile. I may have lost touch with a lot of you, but your presence and significance still lingers on. I may perhaps dwell in nostalgia, but I can only do so because you have all made it possible. My past is worth remembering because it is a bridge forged to carry me to the present, and I am forever grateful to those who have worked hard to make it as secured as can be.

A Little On What I Do As An Audiometric Tech

About a little of what I do day to day. Basically I test people's hearing.

First I check in people's ear to make sure their ears look fine. Then I jam this probe thingy into their tight little ear canals, blow some air, and play some loud beeps to test the involuntary reflexes of their middle ear. Afterwards, I throw them into this claustrophobic inducing sound booth where I proceed to administer the hearing test. The sound booth has all the comfort of an electrocution room. There is a chair, a lot of wires and a Jeapordy clicker. A patient of mine once jokingly commented that he is afraid he would receive a shock for the incorrect/ nil response. If only he knew, if only... bless his heart, it must have been quite a jolt for him when I "accidentally" turn on the speakers a bit too loud... sound, after all, is a form of energy very much like electricity.

It begins with speech recognition which, believe it or not, has all the hallmarks of repeating back the order to the attendant through the drive thru speakers. I use probe words like hot dog, pancake, and ice cream over and over again, until the sound of the patient's stomach's grumbling is louder than my voice. To make it worst, my voice gets softer and softer until the patient can barely hear me. If this was indeed happening in real life, either the person would be throwing a fit at me for not enunciating, articulating and projecting correctly; or be completely disturbed by the fact that I am whispering to them. Either scenario, I would most likely end up beaten to a pulp. Instead, in the sound booth, I have complete control of them. I make them crave hearing my voice, their necks craning at insane angles trying to capture every little thing I utter. In the beginning, there was the word, and I spoke those words... muwahahaha.

Next, we move on to beeps. Here, the patient are presented with tone emitted at different frequencies at varying intensities until I can find their thresholds. Often times, patients end up feeling like they are hallucinating as the beeps they hear tends to be softer than the sound of blood pulsating through the veins in their ears.So paranoid they would become; every breath they take, every rustle of their clothing, every heartbeat could literally mean the difference between life and deaf. Why beeps you may ask, well, I am not quite sure yet, but I think for me it works perfectly to drown out the curses coming from me and/or the patient as we struggle to negotiate their thresholds. Some thresholds are quite elusive, as loudness is quite subjective. A person's perception of what they hear is all relative, and finding that exact perception takes a lot of relating back and forth. Hence, the repeated beeping.

When we are done beeping at each other, we have words again, sometimes a paragraph or two, but mostly words. This part is called word recognition, and it is often quite amusing to hear back what the patient thought I have said. I have captured quite a few Freudian slips... and let's just said some of the probe words are not all that innocent sounding either; like the words ditch, nag, whole... definitely got some confused stares when I had patients repeat those words back to me.

Finally, we move on to what we call bone conduction. Here, we have clinically proven that the saying "I can't get anything pass that thick skull of yours" is false. In fact, we have discovered when all else fails, a patient with a thick skull may actually hear better if we transmit the sound directly through the skull. Something about more particles in the bone medium for the conduction of sound than through air alone. Anyway, its pretty dandy to see the bone conduction at work.

Of course, I am over simplifying everything here. There is much science behind many of the techniques I used to test hearing - for instance what I am really doing when I am looking into patient's ear (I have been told if i stare hard enough, I can either see through to the other side, or China- my country of origin).

So, there you have it, I hear deaf people.

Behold My Face

Not too long ago, I came across a photo that looked like it could have come out of the National Geographic's Special Edition on the Mars Explorer. It showed a reddish landscape void of life - barren and filled with craters. If you looked closely enough, you would see traces of where the essence of life once flowed freely but now sucked dry and decayed. It was not a very promising photo, one may say it was very fitting for the issue of the lonely planet.

Yet, this was not a photo torn from an issue of the National Geographic, or for that matter The Geology Annals. No, this was a blow up picture of my face. Indeed, I was horrified to discovered that the contours that I had mistaken earlier for valleys and folds of a once lushed planet is in fact the outlines of my facial structures. That volcano in the background is actually one of my nostrils, and the craters in the surrounding environs are really the scars of a puberty gone terribly terribly wrong.

Ah, what agony, what despair it is to behold this heinous face of mine. So depraved, not even aliens would inhabit it. This is where uni-cellular organism came to die. It is a desert high in pH and rich in fossil fuels from failed cultures of bacteria. This is my face... and my oh miy, what a face it is. At last, I understand why I seemingly have the Medusa effect on others. What I mistaken for due reverence is actually disgust and mixed marvel at the planet Mars that seems to tread among mankind. I have inherited a countenance that could smoothen out sand paper.

Sensing my distress, a group of Andy-friendly persons formed a Blue Ribbon Committee to explore options on what can be done to alleviate the blemish region. After much reconnaissance, the committee discovered that what appears to be a barren wasteland is in fact a breeding ground for the inflammatory insurgents of Acne cells. These splinter cells have laid dormant over the years, accumulating the means to actually turn my face into a Weapon of Mass Destruction (WMD). Concerned that a future break out would crippled the region, making it susceptible to further erosion, the committee of Andy Friendly Persons (AFPs) called for a decisive preemptive strike on designated high threat regions. Operation FreeAcne was officially given the green light, and profiles of selected targets were drawn up.

Invasive facial products were quickly assembled, and deployed to the region on active duty. (The first time I heard the term Product, my mind immediately wanders to the many advertisements which populated my spam box. Luckily, the AFPs were quick to lift me from ground zero, and showed me the miracle that is Facial Products). In is decided that if we were to win this war on Acne, we must take the battle to them on their own turf.

The first part of Operation FreeAcne commenced with the carpet bombing of inflicted regions with Deep Cleansing Pellets (DCPs). These DCPs have the ability to penetrate deep into the foxholes of Darkhead warriors, flush them out and subsequently pulverize them. For the first few weeks, the Darkheads were pinned down by the heavy artillery of DCPs. Elite squads of Moisturizing Units (MU) were then deployed to systematically engage and destroy all aggressive Darkheads and Hormonal Insurgents (HIs). Night and day, with brutal efficiency, the MUs clashed head on with the HIs congregating in the area. Soon, much of the insurgencies were stemmed out, and the choke hold that the HIs once enjoyed over the inflicted area was broken

Once the region was stabilized, a team of Re-Vitalizing Specialists were sent in. They first steam-roller through the rabble, clearing it of layers of dead debris. Then, vital nutrients and moisture were air dropped into the region, providing relieve to the region that had suffered from drought and famine under the Acne insurgent's rule. Irrigation systems were implanted, and a temporary coalition of Vitamins was set up to help the region become self sufficient again. It remains to be seen how effective the treatment was, but as of now, it can be said that much of the wasteland has been reclaimed and are now showing signs of life again. AFPs will revisit the region in a couple of months to gauge the improvements made, meanwhile, the three core branches of Facial Product (Deep Cleansing, Moisturizing, and Revitalizing) continues to work hard in building attractions to the area again.

Innuendos

The sun swooped down and claimed another day. Yes, it swooped down. One minute it was perched up on the weather vane like a prized cock, the next (ok, so its more like 480 minutes later) it swooped down and another day is gone. A little premature one may say, but when a day is spent, it is spent, and we will have to wait for the sun to rise again. Needless to say, many of us nine-to-fivers are a little sore by this. 

It is like this every day, the sun perks up early from the east and droops to the west; casting long shadows upon the cubby holes where we brood. Each day, we tried vainly to lengthen the hours, but always it ends the same, the sun goes down quicker than projected, swift as a kite. Everything is thrown subsequently into pitch blackness. On some nights, when we are lucky, the moon would comfort us by mooning us (its voluptuous hiney); but usually it just taunts us, revealing only half a cheek. Sometimes nothing at all, just a hint that it is still there beyond the silky evening. 

The sun and moon, an alluring couple who never consummates, leaving in their wake many days unsatisfied. I got to tell you, it blows. It sucks how each day goes by unfulfilled. But I suppose it is better to be alive than to be dead, because living is orgasmic, dead not so much.

Attic of soul

From the attic of my being, I withdrew my locked chest. Stored therein emotions and observations that I could not savor at the time of their occurrences lest I be distracted further. Articles of distress, items that caused me grief, these and many more I found, locked away. Now, liken to the perusing the life of a deceased projected upon the screen from reels upon reels of faded memories, I saw myself in different lights. I recall incidences that I had buried, memories that I have casted aside until a later date. Was I immature then, or was it just more willing to feel than I am now? There I am, always a younger turbulent version of me, suppressing feelings that were raging and ravaging within me. Seeking control as I have always done, I had locked these memories away until I deem it proper to unleash them in the privacy of my soul's basement. There they work themselves, tumbling, toiling, professing, expressing until they are spent. Then, and only then, when only facts remain, and emotions detached do I pick them up, embrace their truth and shelf them in the library of my experiences for future references' sake.

Mes amis sont la lumière des étoiles

Walking back from my car last night, I happened to glance up at the night sky above me. A simple act of tilting my head, but suddenly, I found myself overhwelmed with a sense of nostalgia. There was a time when I turned to the stars nightly; relying on their presence for a sense of tranquilty. They were my companions through the restless nights- familar constellations painted upon the deep blue canvas like photos of old friends in an album. No matter how sparse they may seem, the act of conencting them always bring me a sense of serenity. If I can connect the far stretching dots spread across the heavens, then so may I be united with loved ones scattered across the earth like dandelion seeds in the wind. 

Yet, I must admit, it has been a while since I last gazed up and converse with the stars. Similarly, it felt like it has been too long since I reach out and be in the company of my friends. I know I have dove into a new project like a determined captain sailing out to sea. Yet, given all my charts and navigation skills, I realize it is towards the stars I must look for direction. I need the wisdom of the stars, and the counsel of my scattered friends. I need to connect with them, for only then will I realize my place, and know where I should be heading next. My stars and my friends are one. Heaven and earth are not so far apart after all.

My Heart and I

I conversed at length with my heart this night, it reminded me of things I have forgotten, and revealed to me things I have neglected. It tells me of its yearning for home, a sense of belonging. It showed me images of my past, of familiar faces that I sorely missed seeing from day to day. It recalled the many fond memories that I have, experiences that it had stored to keep me warm time and time again. It spoke of the sorrows that it had felt, and of the fear that constantly hounds it. Yet, it regale the many moments of elation, when I with it soared to new heights and conquered new horizons through sheer hope alone. My heart begs me to remember that it does not beat for beating sake, but that it pumps because it is the well of my being brimming with passion. It is not just a lump, but very much alive, and perhaps more alive than I gave it credit at times. My mind, it may know of things, but in the end it is my heart, and my heart alone that sensed the way intuitively and truly. My heart asks me to trust it, to get to know it, only then will I learn it will not betray me. It is fickle at times, but only because it knows not what I desire of it. My heart and I, we need to get better acquainted, for while it is part of me and I it, we are still separate entities at times, and perhaps that is not wise.

Hi, I am Linus

I remember a simpler time, a time when the four corners of my blue blanket constitutes all the security I need from the uncertain world around me. At night when monsters lurk in the shadows, I only need to hide under the covers and I know I am protected. When I am afraid and in need of courage, I only need to drape on my blanket, and suddenly I morphed into a caped superhero with unlimited might. Of course, those moments don't often end in glorious victories as the "cape" never quite became the parachute I imagine it to be, nor does it ever serve as a safety net. But that blanket was the world to me, mainly because it was a constant source of comfort- embracing me, empowering me. It was my tent where I can camp out and read all night if I want. It was my magic carpet when my mind needed a conduit to a world unexplored. It became a mystical maze for my fingers, its threads woven into labyrinths of patterns that if I close my eyes I may just get lost in. Such a wonderful blanket it was, all blue and soft, it was my unchanging sky on a cloudy day, beneath it I am draped in a cotton field under clear skies.