Category: ** WORDPLAY **

Piano keys. Blacks, whites, minors and majors.

I do not know what to do with them. They all look the same to me, but I know each key produces a unique sound, a sound that I know corresponds to some note in some piece of sheet music.

A sheet music. There is one sitting in front of me. But the notes, the rests, the bars, and the time signatures all appear to me to be just an undecipherable jumble of lines and code. How I wish I could decrypt everything written there and just translate everything into beautiful, beautiful music.

I try to hit a key. Dongk. Blech. What a horrible, horrible sound. I try to hit another. Dungk. That’s even worse. Dongk-dungk-ungk-langk-tengk-mongk. Jungk. That last key just about summarizes my whole attempt at music making. Junk.

The keys are blurry and my eyes can no longer make out the piece of paper that they term as a sheet music. Music? How could anyone make music from such a cryptic thing?

A tear falls. I wipe it away.

But then another one escapes my eyes, and soon there is a cascade of them falling down my cheeks. If I’m not careful, they will soak, seep through, and possibly destroy the fragile piano keys.

Let them destroy it. I don’t care. I will cry my heart out and my frustration away.

“Child? Are you okay?”

I can hear the voice of my Father. I do not answer. I don’t want him to know how incredibly frustrated I am right now.

“Child? Would you like to tell me what’s the matter?”

He is persistent. I pretend that I do not hear him still.

“Child, I’d like to help you out, if that’s alright with you.”

His voice is soft and patient. And right now, it is just a simple whisper, but I can hear him clearly. He has already sat down beside me and now he is looking at me intently.

“I’d like to help you out, dearest.”

Carefully, he starts playing a beautiful melody. My tears begin to subside and I steal a glance at him and his fingers which are gracefully dancing over the blacks and whites of the piano keys.

“It’s simple really, my dear.”

He takes both of my hands and places them over his. He starts playing again. With my hands on top of his, he plays a sweet, sweet melody. My fingers dance along with his and I feel like I’m playing the melody too.

As the melody is played out, he starts to sing as well. “Tears in your eyes, questions in your mind – how many times do I have to tell you? That I am for you, I know what you’re going through? Know that I’ll never leave you nor forsake you. I’m with you, I’ll see you through.”

I know that song. “And together we will soar high above every storm… my wings shall hold you, my strength, sustain you… my love shall carry you through… and we will soar…”

The music continues to play. He and I continue to sing. The blacks and whites of the piano no longer seem so hateful. And I can now see the sheet music clearly. I realize that the song that we are singing is the one written on that piece of paper.

The music gently fades away and makes room for another.

My Father looks at me, smiles gently, and says, “We’ll do this together, my child.”

We’ll do this together.

And with my fingers still over his, we play some more.

Pineapple. Bits of sweet corn. Slices of apple, condensed milk and Nestle’s all purpose cream. Mix them together and you get a creamy and delightful fruit salad.

I sit, staring at the bowl of fruit salad and silently deliberate whether I should take a spoonful or not. Yes… no… yes… no. I pause. I poke at the salad and find my spoon being filled by the mixture of fruit and dairy. I lift the spoon to my mouth and pause. I start to think it over once again in my mind.

For one thing, it’s only 9:00 am. Nutritionists say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Since breakfast is the most important meal of the day, one must eat a good and healthy breakfast to ensure that one has sufficient energy to get through the day. Still… A hearty bowl of fruit salad does not seem like a good choice for a healthy breakfast.

Oh sure. I could argue that it’s fruit. Fruit is healthy. Fruit is good for the body. There’s nothing wrong with eating fruit for breakfast.

But what about the dairy?

Oh sure again. I could argue that it’s dairy. Dairy is healthy. Dairy is good for the body. There’s nothing wrong with taking in dairy. After all, dairy contains calcium. Calcium is good.

But please. I’m just fooling myself. Fruit salad is a desert. And, even with its sweet and creamy goodness, a bowl of fruit salad would never substitute a good and hearty breakfast. Give me a bowl of rice. Give me a plateful of eggs and ham. No – hold the eggs and ham. Give me a plate of red eggs and tomatoes. Throw in a glass of milk with that.

I sigh. I’m still holding my spoonful but I return its contents to the bowl in front of me. Fruit salad is good. Fruit salad is healthy. And I should believe that that bowl of fruit salad is delicious in all its creamy goodness. But I choose to save it for later. Maybe I’ll have it after lunch instead.

So I stand up, head over to the fridge, and decide to cook for myself a decent meal.

Hold the fruit salad. I’ll have it later.

* * *

What’s with the fruit salad? Well, I’m speaking metamorphically here and I’m not talking about an actual bowl of fruit salad. Or maybe I am. Who knows?

But for those who have read A Page is Turned and got the message behind it – well, I believe that you had to do a lot of reading between the lines – because that blog was not all as it seemed to be. And the same is true for this blog. It may be about the fruit salad found in our freezer or it may not be about that fruit salad.

Well, just try to read between the lines. Because holding the fruit salad may not be all about food and good nutrition.

(Another play with words. It’s much easier to express myself this way nowadays. LOL)

Anger. Hurt. Bitterness. Joy. Peace. Surrender. The artist stares at the canvas in from of him, unsure of what emotion he wants his painting to convey. The colors in his palette seem to suggest that he should let out dismal negative emotions, yet something in the artist’s heart tells him that he should express otherwise.

Minors. Majors. Sustains and Augmented 7ths. The musician sighs as she gently strums her guitar. She is
uncertain. She has a melody in mind, even words that would probably go well with that melody, but the song might sound too sad, too melodramatic. She’s content with the melody. But the verses – even the chorus – they seem too heartbroken. Deep inside, she wants the song to somehow convey a message of
hope, a message of love and joy, but every time that she would open her mouth, the only words that would come out are words of loneliness and extreme heartache.

Tension. Suspense. Light and easy reading. The writer is trapped. In front of him is a gigantic writer’s block. He is lost for words. Scratch that. He has a dictionary full of words waiting to be let out but he still can’t decide on the theme for his story. He’s tired of sad endings, but on the other hand, he can’t seem to
get himself to write a story that would end up happily. He’s too depressed for that. But a voice tells him that he should attempt to write one with a happy ending. But how? How, when the words running through his mind are “sorrow”, “melancholy”, “misery”, and “discontent”?

An artist, a musician, and a writer. All faced with a common dilemma. To go with what the situation tells
them to do or to go with what their heart tells them to do? Going along with the situation is easy… but following their hearts…? It would be a painful process. How on earth would the artist paint a picture full of joy when his palette contains colors which are anything but joyful? How can a musician create a song of hope when all that she can feel is hopelessness? And how can a writer write a happy story when the only words that he could muster up are words of discontent? How?

The artist has decided. It won’t be easy, but he gathers all his creative juices, puts his imagination at work and starts painting. He smiles as he sees the colors slowly blending in with each other. He paints painstakingly, making sure that the resulting picture will be one so full of joy, one so full of peace, one so full of happiness. He steps back and admires his work. He has done it.

The musician lets out a breath of determination. Surely there must be a fragment of joy hidden deep within her broken heart? She searches the deepest part of her soul, of her spirit and begins to sing. Slowly, her words blend in with the melody and a love song – a song of hope – begins to take shape. She continues, strumming her guitar with a renewed heart, and glows with life upon the completion of the song. She is more than satisfied.

The writer stands up and smashes his writer’s block. He goes back to words he has learned long ago, words like “bliss”, “good cheer”, “happiness”, and “content”. Slowly, his story begins to take shape. Slowly, his characters find themselves in a moving and inspiring plot. The writer rereads his finished draft and makes a few corrections. But his lips are curling up as his eyes run through the page. He has broken through.

The artist, the musician, and the writer have all been able to do it. If these people were able to do it, so can we. So can we.

Written at: ICS C-117

There is a book that is sitting in front of me. It is turned to a page, a portion stained with tears, covered
with doodles, and littered with a muddled mess of handwritings. The pages before that are not so different. The preceding pages contain sunny entries about love, new life and experiences with the Lord, dreams, hopes, and aspirations as well as dark entries about loneliness, insecurities, hurts, pains, and seasons of molting. Still, though the subjects may vary, the distinct jumble of tears, doodles, and messy handwritings stand out as a noticeable pattern.

I have stared at that page for quite a long time now. Yes, I have gone back to the pages before that page, relieved them and recollected the memories that have given birth to those entries… but as for that page… I have never seemed to get past that one page.

Don’t think that I haven’t tried getting past that page. I’ve tried turning the pages but somehow the wind kept blowing me back to that page. Or else the page would suddenly become stuck, as if it had decided by itself that it was the end of the book.

But I am determined. Right now, as I sit in front of that book, I am determined to turn the page – for good. If I have to burn that page as well as the pages before that – I would. Just so that I could finally move on to the rest of the story.

It’s harder than I imagined. I feel as if turning the page would mean that the past years of my life had been a waste. But I know that that is not the case. I would simply learn from those pages but be careful not to go back to the pattern that was inthose pages.

I take a deep breath, still slightly unprepared to see what the pages after that might contain. I reach out
to the book and turn the page – for good.

I am surprised as I see the new page in front of me being filled up slowly by a more mature handwriting. The handwriting seems pained at first, but it is no longer childish. Though there is a slight mark of tension, it is no longer girlish, but is womanly and becoming.

The doodles are gone. The tears? Some litter them along the way but I am assured that they are tears of a more mature woman. And the handwriting? The handwriting is now more together, as if the person writing has just gotten her life back.

The page has finally been turned. It’s a huge relief, though it is truly painful. But now, the rest of the pages are ahead of me and I am excited to see the contents of the rest of the book. I am happy and at peace. The page has been turned.

Written at: ICS C-117