dawn, day, dusk
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dawn, day, dusk

Dusk: grass on the other hillside

So we are going to Switzerland. So I am going with Ujeza to stay with her cousin, which means for free, which in my opinion is the second best condition for travel. The first is when you feel — or, rather, are overtaken by, because you never really have control over this wild rampant thing, you always are in passive voice — an urge, a surge, to go, leave, run, down a new and uncertain hill. Because, as comfortable as the grass in Hasenheide Park or Friedrichschain or Treptower is (pick your favorite in Berlin), the grass is truly greener on the other side sometimes.

The decision of whether to go to Zurich or not had loomed in my brain for a few days. Then, one night, I asked Ujeza to telegram me her bus ticket from Paris to Zurich, and after another couple of hours, I booked the same bus. “I love how impulsive I am,” I telegrammed her.

In my short history of travels, I’ve discovered that, once I feel the tiniest tinge of longing for the grass on that other side, I should get up and move over without any delay. Because if I don’t, I will end up trying to put each blade of grass of either side on either side of a scale, compute intricate mathematics, maybe get calculus involved, quantum physics if I really need it, in order to arrive at an accurate and rational answer as to which patch of grass is better and whether I should go or stay.

But the problem with this problem-solving is, rational is not the nature of the matter at all. It wasn’t even a problem to begin with. It was an answer. To move to the other side or not, to travel and adventure or not, is never a decision for the mind to make. It’s a decision that my heart has already made, and my butt is ready to follow at any rate. The mind really just needs to get out of the way. And every time I am standing on the train that’s just starting to run towards the other hillside, I’m always glad that my mind did get out of the way.




This is a collection of short stories—micro-memoirs—for grapefruits, shoulders, volleyballs, Eurasian coots, grassy hills, monsters under the bed, laughters, and the like that lie in life’s riverbed. I crouch, look, pick them up, and spin them into language for you, my readers.

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An artist in, of, for, at life. My very life is my performance art. I write short and sweet (and savory) stories and poems in this grand performance ( •◡•) ♪

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