The Garden Of Withering Lights: The Blooming of the Fading Flower by Santana te Ohaere
The Garden Of Withering Lights: The Blooming of the Fading Flower
In the heart of a secluded valley, where the earth seemed to breathe in rhythm with the mountains that loomed like ancient sentinels, there lay a village so distant that it felt as if it had slipped out of the grasp of time itself. Surrounded by dense forests, whispering brooks, and an ever-present veil of mist, the village was an island of tranquility, where the clock’s ticking was a distant memory and the sun only seemed to rise when it was ready, casting a soft golden hue over the endless fields of marigolds that stretched toward the horizon.
Among the villagers, there was a boy named Silas. To the untrained eye, he appeared as ordinary as the mist-clad landscape he called home. A slender figure, with wild, chestnut hair that fell in tangled waves across his forehead, and eyes the color of forgotten emeralds—vivid yet soft, as though they had seen far more than his youth would suggest. His skin was pale from hours spent in the quiet corners of his garden, where the golden sun had little chance to touch him. Silas wore simple clothing, faded by the sun and threadbare at the edges—long tunics and worn boots that spoke of long days spent in the pursuit of something far more precious than the fleeting moments of childhood. Yet, it was not his appearance that set him apart; it was the way he saw the world.
The villagers had long given him a title that both honored and mystified him: the Painter of Flowers. To them, it was a name that explained the strange, ethereal aura that seemed to cling to him. From the moment he could walk, Silas had a peculiar relationship with the world of nature around him.
He lived in a garden that was unlike any other—a place whispered about by travelers who journeyed through the bamboo forests that bordered the valley. In his sanctuary, the very air shimmered with the glow of impossible blooms.
Yet, it was the lilies that truly captivated the soul. They were not like any lilies known to the outside world. Their petals were a delicate shade of silver, and they never bloomed for anyone but Silas himself. He tended to them as if they were sacred, a bond forged between him and the earth that no one could comprehend.
But of all the wonders that filled his garden, there was one flower that eclipsed them all—a flower unlike any other, one whose beauty defied the very laws of nature. Her name was Aurelia.
In her presence, Silas felt both complete and empty, as if the very essence of his being was bound to her in some unspeakable way. Some said that Aurelia was a flower born of Silas's heart, a reflection of his longing, his dreams, and the silent ache that dwelled deep within him. But Silas knew the truth—Aurelia was both a gift and a curse, a creation of a mind that saw the world not with the eyes, but with the soul.
The bloom Silas first met Aurelia on a day when the earth was still cloaked in winter’s lingering touch, and spring’s breath had only just begun to whisper through the icy remnants. The snow, reluctant to retreat, clung to the shadows of the trees, melting in slow, delicate drips that echoed in the stillness of the early morning. The world was in that rare moment between seasons, suspended in a hush where everything seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Silas, at sixteen, had already come to know the rhythm of nature’s subtle shifts. He had spent years tending his garden, watching the plants awaken and wither, finding a strange kind of peace in the predictable dance of life and death.
But that morning, as he knelt beside a clump of freshly budding crocuses, something unexpected happened. She appeared at the edge of the riverbank.
Aurelia was not from the village. There was no mistaking it. The way she moved, barefoot, with the earth and river stones pressing into the soles of her feet, made it clear that she did not belong to this quiet valley. Her skin was pale, kissed by the early spring sunlight, and her hair—dark and wild like a cascade of midnight—fell around her shoulders in loose waves that seemed to catch the light as she moved. She did not walk, she glided, as though her presence was as natural as the wind itself. Her eyes—clear, sharp, and intense—held a storm within them, the kind of storm that promises a sudden downpour yet keeps its secrets close.
She said nothing at first. She did not need to. When Silas looked up from his work, she was already standing at the edge of his garden, gazing at it as though she were staring at something forgotten, something lost to time. “I’ve never seen flowers like these,” she murmured, her voice soft and distant, like the wind that moves through a half-remembered dream. She crouched down, her fingers lightly brushing the golden petals of a marigold, which glowed with a fire all its own, as though lit from within. “They’re not real.”
Silas blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His heart skipped, but his words came with ease, as if he had been waiting to say them all along.
“They’re as real as you,” he replied, his voice steady, unpretentious. He did not mean to sound poetic—he was not a poet—but the truth of it was simple, so simple that it was almost childlike in its honesty.
Aurelia turned her gaze to him, and for a moment, the space between them seemed to pulse with something unsaid. Then, without a word, she smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile that spoke of happiness, nor of joy. It was the smile of someone who had long forgotten what it was to smile and had just remembered how, like the return of a song once sung in another life. It was the beginning of something, Silas knew. A soft turning of the earth, a new season about to bloom.
From that moment on, Aurelia came every day.
She arrived at different times, sometimes early in the morning, when the dew still clung to the grass, or in the late afternoon, when the sunlight slanted across the valley in gold and amber rays. She would wander through the garden, touching this flower and that, her hands trailing over the petals as though she was learning them like a language, and each time she found something new, she would ask him a question. Questions that were simple, but also deep—questions that spoke of a mind curious and unafraid of the unknown.
“Do flowers feel pain when they wilt?” she asked one day, her brow furrowed as she traced the edges of a drooping petunia.
Silas, who had never really thought about it, paused. His hands, always dusty and earth-streaked, stopped digging for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Maybe they do. But I think they let go of it... when they’re ready.”
Another time, she asked, “Why do some petals curl inward before they die?”
This question lingered with him, more than the others. It made him think in ways he hadn’t before. He sat beneath the shade of a nearby willow, the roots of the tree intertwining with the earth as if it were part of the land’s very soul. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and fresh grass.
“I think,” he began, his voice quieter now, “they curl to protect themselves. Like they know they’re reaching the end, so they gather what they can, hold it close, before they let go.”
And so, day after day, Aurelia came, and Silas, who had never cared for words, began to find himself gathering them like seeds. He collected them in the silence between them, in the spaces where they sat beneath the weeping willow, where they spoke of things both fleeting and eternal.
As the seasons passed, Aurelia became something more than just a visitor. She became his muse, the spark that ignited something deep within him. Silas began to craft, to create, in a way he had never done before. Inspired by her presence, he planted a flower in her likeness—a delicate, fragile bloom with petals as white as freshly fallen snow, and tinged at the edges with the softest purple, the color of twilight bruises. He named it *The Aurelia Bloom,* and placed it at the center of the garden, where the light would fall upon it in the early mornings and late evenings, casting long shadows beneath the branches of the trees.
But despite his care, despite his attention, despite the love he poured into it, the flower refused to bloom.
Days turned into weeks, and still, nothing. The Aurelia Bloom remained a closed bud, its petals tightly furled, as though locked away by some unseen force. Silas, with all his understanding of nature, could not fathom why. He tried everything he knew: water, sunlight, the right soil, the right whispers. But the flower remained stubbornly unyielding.
Perhaps, Silas thought, the flower could not bloom for him. Perhaps it needed more than just care—it needed something deeper, something he was still learning to understand.
In the heart of a secluded valley, where the earth seemed to breathe in rhythm with the mountains that loomed like ancient sentinels, there lay a village so distant that it felt as if it had slipped out of the grasp of time itself. Surrounded by dense forests, whispering brooks, and an ever-present veil of mist, the village was an island of tranquility, where the clock’s ticking was a distant memory and the sun only seemed to rise when it was ready, casting a soft golden hue over the endless fields of marigolds that stretched toward the horizon.
Among the villagers, there was a boy named Silas. To the untrained eye, he appeared as ordinary as the mist-clad landscape he called home. A slender figure, with wild, chestnut hair that fell in tangled waves across his forehead, and eyes the color of forgotten emeralds—vivid yet soft, as though they had seen far more than his youth would suggest. His skin was pale from hours spent in the quiet corners of his garden, where the golden sun had little chance to touch him. Silas wore simple clothing, faded by the sun and threadbare at the edges—long tunics and worn boots that spoke of long days spent in the pursuit of something far more precious than the fleeting moments of childhood. Yet, it was not his appearance that set him apart; it was the way he saw the world.
The villagers had long given him a title that both honored and mystified him: the Painter of Flowers. To them, it was a name that explained the strange, ethereal aura that seemed to cling to him. From the moment he could walk, Silas had a peculiar relationship with the world of nature around him.
He lived in a garden that was unlike any other—a place whispered about by travelers who journeyed through the bamboo forests that bordered the valley. In his sanctuary, the very air shimmered with the glow of impossible blooms.
Yet, it was the lilies that truly captivated the soul. They were not like any lilies known to the outside world. Their petals were a delicate shade of silver, and they never bloomed for anyone but Silas himself. He tended to them as if they were sacred, a bond forged between him and the earth that no one could comprehend.
But of all the wonders that filled his garden, there was one flower that eclipsed them all—a flower unlike any other, one whose beauty defied the very laws of nature. Her name was Aurelia.
In her presence, Silas felt both complete and empty, as if the very essence of his being was bound to her in some unspeakable way. Some said that Aurelia was a flower born of Silas's heart, a reflection of his longing, his dreams, and the silent ache that dwelled deep within him. But Silas knew the truth—Aurelia was both a gift and a curse, a creation of a mind that saw the world not with the eyes, but with the soul.
The bloom Silas first met Aurelia on a day when the earth was still cloaked in winter’s lingering touch, and spring’s breath had only just begun to whisper through the icy remnants. The snow, reluctant to retreat, clung to the shadows of the trees, melting in slow, delicate drips that echoed in the stillness of the early morning. The world was in that rare moment between seasons, suspended in a hush where everything seemed to hold its breath, waiting. Silas, at sixteen, had already come to know the rhythm of nature’s subtle shifts. He had spent years tending his garden, watching the plants awaken and wither, finding a strange kind of peace in the predictable dance of life and death.
But that morning, as he knelt beside a clump of freshly budding crocuses, something unexpected happened. She appeared at the edge of the riverbank.
Aurelia was not from the village. There was no mistaking it. The way she moved, barefoot, with the earth and river stones pressing into the soles of her feet, made it clear that she did not belong to this quiet valley. Her skin was pale, kissed by the early spring sunlight, and her hair—dark and wild like a cascade of midnight—fell around her shoulders in loose waves that seemed to catch the light as she moved. She did not walk, she glided, as though her presence was as natural as the wind itself. Her eyes—clear, sharp, and intense—held a storm within them, the kind of storm that promises a sudden downpour yet keeps its secrets close.
She said nothing at first. She did not need to. When Silas looked up from his work, she was already standing at the edge of his garden, gazing at it as though she were staring at something forgotten, something lost to time. “I’ve never seen flowers like these,” she murmured, her voice soft and distant, like the wind that moves through a half-remembered dream. She crouched down, her fingers lightly brushing the golden petals of a marigold, which glowed with a fire all its own, as though lit from within. “They’re not real.”
Silas blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His heart skipped, but his words came with ease, as if he had been waiting to say them all along.
“They’re as real as you,” he replied, his voice steady, unpretentious. He did not mean to sound poetic—he was not a poet—but the truth of it was simple, so simple that it was almost childlike in its honesty.
Aurelia turned her gaze to him, and for a moment, the space between them seemed to pulse with something unsaid. Then, without a word, she smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile that spoke of happiness, nor of joy. It was the smile of someone who had long forgotten what it was to smile and had just remembered how, like the return of a song once sung in another life. It was the beginning of something, Silas knew. A soft turning of the earth, a new season about to bloom.
From that moment on, Aurelia came every day.
She arrived at different times, sometimes early in the morning, when the dew still clung to the grass, or in the late afternoon, when the sunlight slanted across the valley in gold and amber rays. She would wander through the garden, touching this flower and that, her hands trailing over the petals as though she was learning them like a language, and each time she found something new, she would ask him a question. Questions that were simple, but also deep—questions that spoke of a mind curious and unafraid of the unknown.
“Do flowers feel pain when they wilt?” she asked one day, her brow furrowed as she traced the edges of a drooping petunia.
Silas, who had never really thought about it, paused. His hands, always dusty and earth-streaked, stopped digging for a moment.
“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Maybe they do. But I think they let go of it... when they’re ready.”
Another time, she asked, “Why do some petals curl inward before they die?”
This question lingered with him, more than the others. It made him think in ways he hadn’t before. He sat beneath the shade of a nearby willow, the roots of the tree intertwining with the earth as if it were part of the land’s very soul. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and fresh grass.
“I think,” he began, his voice quieter now, “they curl to protect themselves. Like they know they’re reaching the end, so they gather what they can, hold it close, before they let go.”
And so, day after day, Aurelia came, and Silas, who had never cared for words, began to find himself gathering them like seeds. He collected them in the silence between them, in the spaces where they sat beneath the weeping willow, where they spoke of things both fleeting and eternal.
As the seasons passed, Aurelia became something more than just a visitor. She became his muse, the spark that ignited something deep within him. Silas began to craft, to create, in a way he had never done before. Inspired by her presence, he planted a flower in her likeness—a delicate, fragile bloom with petals as white as freshly fallen snow, and tinged at the edges with the softest purple, the color of twilight bruises. He named it *The Aurelia Bloom,* and placed it at the center of the garden, where the light would fall upon it in the early mornings and late evenings, casting long shadows beneath the branches of the trees.
But despite his care, despite his attention, despite the love he poured into it, the flower refused to bloom.
Days turned into weeks, and still, nothing. The Aurelia Bloom remained a closed bud, its petals tightly furled, as though locked away by some unseen force. Silas, with all his understanding of nature, could not fathom why. He tried everything he knew: water, sunlight, the right soil, the right whispers. But the flower remained stubbornly unyielding.
Perhaps, Silas thought, the flower could not bloom for him. Perhaps it needed more than just care—it needed something deeper, something he was still learning to understand.
The Dance of dawn and dusk by Thea Remata
They are sisters, born of the same heavenly womb, and yet in temper and soul, they could not be more opposite.
The sunrise comes as the child fearfully rounds the corner of the night, hesitant and hopeful. She is creeping over the horizon with rose-gold fingers and murmuring promises to the world that is still asleep. Her light is kindly, a tender sigh of possibility that turns dewdrops to diamonds and birds in their dreams to singing. She is burdened with potential, full of all the moments that are not. When she is around, the air is crisp and clean, electric with beginnings.
Her elder sister, Sunset, dashes across the sky with the self-esteem of one who has seen it all. She comes, bright and amber, unashamed and brave, and writes the clouds with the tales she has heard during the day. While the Sunrise whispers, Sunsets speak boldly. She blazes wild and high, a triumph of everything that has been done, of everything that has been endured. Her candle is honey-warmed, filled with memories and contentment. She doesn't give promises, but offers a sense of peace, the great sigh after a lengthy talk with life.
Between these two sisters there is the vastness of day, which they both paint at the two ends of. Sunrise puts down the first timid strokes of possibility, her palette is made up of pastels and dreams. She paints the profile of what could be, but she leaves the rest to the world to complete. Her work is never finished, never at the horizon of imagination, but always straining to something just beyond the horizon.
Sunset comes with her strong, determined lines, and paints over the day, which has gathered up story upon story, with broad strokes of crimson and gold. She completes the gaps that her younger sister had not left and creates potential in memory, dream in experience. Where the Sunrise used to paint questions, Sunsets answered with deep satisfaction of completion.
The sunrise smells of freshly brewed coffee being made and bread baking, of garden gates being opened and the bells of school about to ring. She embodies the suspended breath before the first word of a love letter, the pause before going on stage, the moment when anything can occur.
As the sunset approaches, it brings with it the scent of dinner in progress and the soft glow of candles being lit, the sound of books being closed, and doors being gently shut. She represents the final chord of a symphony, the closing page of a well-loved story, the contented sigh of a job well done.
The sisters nearly get together, at times, when dawn stretches long into morning, or dusk lingers deep into night. During these golden moments, they share the skies as two dancers who meet in a never ending waltz. Even shy, timid Sunrise takes a bit of her sister's bravery. The usually self-assured and self-confident Sunset recalls the soft doubt of childhood. It is the most enchanted time, when the world stands still and time itself stops to see a moment of their passing kiss.
The seasons switch their costumes never their essence. During winter, Sunrise comes in silver and frost and her light passes through the ice crystals that are suspended as crystal chandeliers of nature. She is more reluctant at that, like she is not sure that the world is ready to wake up after its long sleep. Winter sunset is a moment of flashing fire, a glimpse of appalling loveliness where the long night takes its sway.
Spring comes with Sunrise covered in apple blossoms and fresh green grass and her light plays with the new energy of rebirth. She arrives earlier every day and is more confident, as though the world reacts to her soft touch. The sunset of spring is slow and warm, and colours the sky with the tender hues of cherry blossoms and fresh leaves, lingering longer and longer every evening as though unwilling to part with this awakening world.
Both sisters are aware of their roles in this timeless play. Sunrise dances, but there is no audience to applaud her, except for early joggers, insomniacs, the bakers, and the dedicated workers who guard the boundary between night and day. She dances with people who are courageous enough to face the unknown future.
Sunset has a larger arena; her audience is intentional, here to see her final curtain call. Lovers link hands on a bench, cameramen focus their lenses, and children stop whatever they are playing to stare. She dances to those willing to forget, to leave the day behind in the past.
However, the two sisters know that they are not powerful because of their different solo acts, but because of their unending conversation. They are the parenthesis of living, the commas of the day. There would be no setting on which the drama of life can be played without the soft beginning of Sunrise. Without the beautiful ending of Sunset, there would be no repose, no looking back, no calm whereby to enjoy what has been achieved.
and in their appearing and disappearing they will show us the rhythm of life itself--that every beginning must have its ending, every question must some day find its answer, every breath in must be followed by a breath out. They are reminding us that beauty is a succession of moments, not a constant condition, and every single moment is valuable because it will not be there forever.
Both the sisters have the same magic, the magic of making time stand still, of making us remember that we are little creatures under the great canvas of the sky, and to reach something ancient and immortal in our hurried hearts. Two dialogues intervene in the days: the one speaks of what could have been; the other, of what is well done.
In combination, they stress the statement that beauty is a need but not a luxury, which can be realized only within comparatively short periods when the world still breathes and colorful events rush down the sky like paint on the canvas.. It is not an accident, but a daily gift wrapped in light, freely given to anyone who will look up from their petty worries and behold the great wheel of the world turning.
Children are taught to tell time through watching them. The little children rise with Sunrise, and their clocks are set by her kind awakening. They roll out of their beds when the walls of the nursery are covered by golden light, and they are ready to discover a new world that is new every morning. Sunrise adores these little onlookers of her everyday miracle-their amazement is her own feeling of possibility. She sees them learning about darkness and light and she does not need to say anything to them because it is a lesson that every day is a new page in the book of their lives.
The aging people tend to like the company of Sunset. They are sitting on their porches and park benches with their gnarled hands resting in their laps and they stare at her as she paints the sky with the wisdom of years. They know her language of departures and finals, they have witnessed thousands of her acts. Their eyes reflect to her her own tales--love and its loss, dreams and their renunciation, the sad happiness of a life well spent. These are her most loyal audience, these memory keepers who understand the worth of a fine departure.
Both sisters have always attracted artists, although in a different way. The poets are inspired, and they wake up before the sunrise to hear her first words in the morning and transform them into poems where they talk about hope and the new beginnings. She is the inspiration of the hopefuls, the dreamers who live by second chances and new beginnings. She shines over white canvases and white pages, assuring that this day could be the one when everything will be transformed.
The sunset is calling to the painters who pursue her with brushes and palettes over the landscapes in an attempt to depict her momentary glory. She is less stingy with her colours, less reticent at being observed, and she is ready to be photographed by those who would preserve her beauty. Her portraits fill the museums all over the world, proving the fact that people strive to preserve her golden moments a bit longer.
The two sisters have seen the whole history of human civilization unraveling under their gaze. They have witnessed the inauguration of fires in caves, crops in fields and cities out of earth. They saw human beings discover how to make use of their light, to clock time using their movements, to orient themselves using their positions in the sky. All great love stories have started with the blessing of one sister and the farewell of the other one.
In the gap between their occurrences wars have been fought and won. Empires have come and gone within the same time that one empire transfers the torch to another. But they are fixed, they are not altered by the vicissitudes of human events. They are the mute observers of our happiness and woe, the loyal caretakers of our every-day routines, the unchanging things in the ever-changing world.
In an era of digitalisation, when screens are brighter than stars and the synthetic light is overpowering their delicate magic, both sisters strive to remind us of their existence. The sunrise is competing with alarm clocks and morning news, and it is chatting her old promises to a world that does not know how to listen anymore. Sunset struggles with the ugly fluorescent light of offices and shopping malls to colour the sky with even more spectacular colours to penetrate our digital distraction.
Dawn and dusk, the in-breath and out-breath of each day, the question and answer of time itself, forever perform their ancient dance upon the stage of the sky.
They are sisters, born of the same heavenly womb, and yet in temper and soul, they could not be more opposite.
The sunrise comes as the child fearfully rounds the corner of the night, hesitant and hopeful. She is creeping over the horizon with rose-gold fingers and murmuring promises to the world that is still asleep. Her light is kindly, a tender sigh of possibility that turns dewdrops to diamonds and birds in their dreams to singing. She is burdened with potential, full of all the moments that are not. When she is around, the air is crisp and clean, electric with beginnings.
Her elder sister, Sunset, dashes across the sky with the self-esteem of one who has seen it all. She comes, bright and amber, unashamed and brave, and writes the clouds with the tales she has heard during the day. While the Sunrise whispers, Sunsets speak boldly. She blazes wild and high, a triumph of everything that has been done, of everything that has been endured. Her candle is honey-warmed, filled with memories and contentment. She doesn't give promises, but offers a sense of peace, the great sigh after a lengthy talk with life.
Between these two sisters there is the vastness of day, which they both paint at the two ends of. Sunrise puts down the first timid strokes of possibility, her palette is made up of pastels and dreams. She paints the profile of what could be, but she leaves the rest to the world to complete. Her work is never finished, never at the horizon of imagination, but always straining to something just beyond the horizon.
Sunset comes with her strong, determined lines, and paints over the day, which has gathered up story upon story, with broad strokes of crimson and gold. She completes the gaps that her younger sister had not left and creates potential in memory, dream in experience. Where the Sunrise used to paint questions, Sunsets answered with deep satisfaction of completion.
The sunrise smells of freshly brewed coffee being made and bread baking, of garden gates being opened and the bells of school about to ring. She embodies the suspended breath before the first word of a love letter, the pause before going on stage, the moment when anything can occur.
As the sunset approaches, it brings with it the scent of dinner in progress and the soft glow of candles being lit, the sound of books being closed, and doors being gently shut. She represents the final chord of a symphony, the closing page of a well-loved story, the contented sigh of a job well done.
The sisters nearly get together, at times, when dawn stretches long into morning, or dusk lingers deep into night. During these golden moments, they share the skies as two dancers who meet in a never ending waltz. Even shy, timid Sunrise takes a bit of her sister's bravery. The usually self-assured and self-confident Sunset recalls the soft doubt of childhood. It is the most enchanted time, when the world stands still and time itself stops to see a moment of their passing kiss.
The seasons switch their costumes never their essence. During winter, Sunrise comes in silver and frost and her light passes through the ice crystals that are suspended as crystal chandeliers of nature. She is more reluctant at that, like she is not sure that the world is ready to wake up after its long sleep. Winter sunset is a moment of flashing fire, a glimpse of appalling loveliness where the long night takes its sway.
Spring comes with Sunrise covered in apple blossoms and fresh green grass and her light plays with the new energy of rebirth. She arrives earlier every day and is more confident, as though the world reacts to her soft touch. The sunset of spring is slow and warm, and colours the sky with the tender hues of cherry blossoms and fresh leaves, lingering longer and longer every evening as though unwilling to part with this awakening world.
Both sisters are aware of their roles in this timeless play. Sunrise dances, but there is no audience to applaud her, except for early joggers, insomniacs, the bakers, and the dedicated workers who guard the boundary between night and day. She dances with people who are courageous enough to face the unknown future.
Sunset has a larger arena; her audience is intentional, here to see her final curtain call. Lovers link hands on a bench, cameramen focus their lenses, and children stop whatever they are playing to stare. She dances to those willing to forget, to leave the day behind in the past.
However, the two sisters know that they are not powerful because of their different solo acts, but because of their unending conversation. They are the parenthesis of living, the commas of the day. There would be no setting on which the drama of life can be played without the soft beginning of Sunrise. Without the beautiful ending of Sunset, there would be no repose, no looking back, no calm whereby to enjoy what has been achieved.
and in their appearing and disappearing they will show us the rhythm of life itself--that every beginning must have its ending, every question must some day find its answer, every breath in must be followed by a breath out. They are reminding us that beauty is a succession of moments, not a constant condition, and every single moment is valuable because it will not be there forever.
Both the sisters have the same magic, the magic of making time stand still, of making us remember that we are little creatures under the great canvas of the sky, and to reach something ancient and immortal in our hurried hearts. Two dialogues intervene in the days: the one speaks of what could have been; the other, of what is well done.
In combination, they stress the statement that beauty is a need but not a luxury, which can be realized only within comparatively short periods when the world still breathes and colorful events rush down the sky like paint on the canvas.. It is not an accident, but a daily gift wrapped in light, freely given to anyone who will look up from their petty worries and behold the great wheel of the world turning.
Children are taught to tell time through watching them. The little children rise with Sunrise, and their clocks are set by her kind awakening. They roll out of their beds when the walls of the nursery are covered by golden light, and they are ready to discover a new world that is new every morning. Sunrise adores these little onlookers of her everyday miracle-their amazement is her own feeling of possibility. She sees them learning about darkness and light and she does not need to say anything to them because it is a lesson that every day is a new page in the book of their lives.
The aging people tend to like the company of Sunset. They are sitting on their porches and park benches with their gnarled hands resting in their laps and they stare at her as she paints the sky with the wisdom of years. They know her language of departures and finals, they have witnessed thousands of her acts. Their eyes reflect to her her own tales--love and its loss, dreams and their renunciation, the sad happiness of a life well spent. These are her most loyal audience, these memory keepers who understand the worth of a fine departure.
Both sisters have always attracted artists, although in a different way. The poets are inspired, and they wake up before the sunrise to hear her first words in the morning and transform them into poems where they talk about hope and the new beginnings. She is the inspiration of the hopefuls, the dreamers who live by second chances and new beginnings. She shines over white canvases and white pages, assuring that this day could be the one when everything will be transformed.
The sunset is calling to the painters who pursue her with brushes and palettes over the landscapes in an attempt to depict her momentary glory. She is less stingy with her colours, less reticent at being observed, and she is ready to be photographed by those who would preserve her beauty. Her portraits fill the museums all over the world, proving the fact that people strive to preserve her golden moments a bit longer.
The two sisters have seen the whole history of human civilization unraveling under their gaze. They have witnessed the inauguration of fires in caves, crops in fields and cities out of earth. They saw human beings discover how to make use of their light, to clock time using their movements, to orient themselves using their positions in the sky. All great love stories have started with the blessing of one sister and the farewell of the other one.
In the gap between their occurrences wars have been fought and won. Empires have come and gone within the same time that one empire transfers the torch to another. But they are fixed, they are not altered by the vicissitudes of human events. They are the mute observers of our happiness and woe, the loyal caretakers of our every-day routines, the unchanging things in the ever-changing world.
In an era of digitalisation, when screens are brighter than stars and the synthetic light is overpowering their delicate magic, both sisters strive to remind us of their existence. The sunrise is competing with alarm clocks and morning news, and it is chatting her old promises to a world that does not know how to listen anymore. Sunset struggles with the ugly fluorescent light of offices and shopping malls to colour the sky with even more spectacular colours to penetrate our digital distraction.
Dawn and dusk, the in-breath and out-breath of each day, the question and answer of time itself, forever perform their ancient dance upon the stage of the sky.
There’s A Right Way by richard james
Graham woke up at six because he hadn’t yet adjusted to being on holiday. The air was still cool, so he went out to the courtyard and started work. He gave the chest of drawers a thick coat of paintstripper, then left that to work while he had breakfast with Trish. An hour or so later, he scraped the top coat of paint off, then applied another coat of stripper. He could scrape this one off in the evening when there would still be plenty of light, but the heat of the day would be over.
As he put the second coat on, Sharon from the top flat walked past and had a look. “You’re wasting your time,” she said. “Those drawers are ugly.” Then she continued on her trip to Three Guys.
Bob’s advice was a bit more helpful than Sharon’s. “That paper’s leaving scratches. They’ll show through the varnish later on. You should be using number 80. What have you got there?” Graham hadn’t thought about the sandpaper. He unrolled it from around the wooden block. “Says here it’s number 60.”
“You want 80 to make a really nice job. You can get some when you go shopping. You’ll need more stripper anyway, and that knife’s too narrow. I’ll come with you. They know me at the paint shop and they’ll give you a discount.”
It didn’t work out like that. Bob’s mate wasn’t working that week, and Graham had to pay full price. That was OK, because he wanted to get the whole job done during the holiday. He would have to stop work for two days to spend Christmas with his family, then Boxing Day with Trish’s crowd. He’d like to just get on with it, but you always had to accommodate people this time of year. He put the drawers in the garage where the neighbours couldn’t see them.
Two days later Graham did more sanding, this time with a machine that vibrated and jumped, sending fine sprays of pink dust up his nose. He blew it all out on a handkerchief, which later dried out as stiff as a board. Even though the machine saved Graham a couple of hours, Bob’s brother Barney reckoned it was a crime to use an orbital sander on such a nice piece of timber. “Once it makes those little round marks, you’ll never get rid of them,” he said.
Next morning was Graham’s third serious day on the job. Barney suggested that since Bob was away doing a cash job, he himself should go with Graham to buy the tools he would need next - varnish, a natural bristle paintbrush, and more thinners. Again, it was promised that Graham would get a discount.
Graham wasn’t holding his breath. Nevertheless, he did get a discount, along with more free advice, and very much more varnish than he needed. “Look,” the guy behind the counter said to Barney, “The four-litre can is sixty bucks, and the one-litre can is forty five. You’d be mad to buy the small can.”
“Sure,” said Barney. “Everybody knows that.” Neither of them looked at Graham.
“I really only need a litre,” Graham said. His shoulder muscles were tensing up.
“Yeah, but you heard the numbers,” said the guy behind the counter, still talking to Barney. Both of them were acting out the fiction that the materials were for Barney, since he was the one with the discount card.
“Yeah,” said Barney, finally turning to Graham. “Don’t rip yourself off.” And that was that. Graham would have liked to keep the extra money, rather than spend it on varnish he didn't need. But he felt he couldn’t put his foot down and refuse the bigger can, without being rude to Barney. For a second or two he was tempted. But the others seemed to know what they were talking about.
Very soon, Graham wished he had made more of a fuss, because Barney and the counterman made the same bulk-buying decision about thinners, several different-sized brushes, and precut sheets for the sander. In the end Graham could have decorated a fair-sized house with everything he got. He spent much more money than he had planned, even with the discount.
“Well,” said Barney, “If you have too much left over, I’ll buy it off you next time I’m doing a job.” Graham couldn’t remember the last time anyone had hired Barney.
“And by the way, I’ve noticed you using 80-grit paper on that job. That timber’s rimu. Got a nice tight grain. You could probably afford to use something a bit rougher, like 60. Take the paint off quicker, and it won’t mess the job up. You can use finer paper later on.”
Graham went home and told Trish he’d already spent more than they planned.
Bob’s other brother Rod came to have a cup of tea with their Mum, who also lived on the other side of the courtyard. Rod stopped by and gave Graham some advice. This was a different kind of problem, because Rod knew what he was talking about. Rod was a genuine tradesman who had his papers. He did all his work above board, paid tax and everything. So when Rod suggested Graham ought to wax the chest of drawers rather than use polyurethane, Graham had to listen. He thought hard for several seconds before he said no, we’re going to put potplants on top of it, and I’ve already bought four litres of polyurethane anyway. Rod raised an eyebrow.
Rod shared Barney’s reservations about the sanding machine, which he agreed wasn’t really right for a classy piece of timber like that. Maybe for the first sanding, but definitely not between the first, second and third coats of varnish. And three coats is the minimum for something like this. You’re on holiday. You’ve got time, you might as well do it right.
Somehow Graham got the preparation done, then put on the first coat of varnish. Sharon stood by and helped him. “There’s a run." She pointed with a trembling finger. "You’ve missed a bit. Shit, you’re not very good.” Graham ran the brush over the offending drip, smoothing it out.
Then Sharon told him how she sprained her ankle over Christmas. Her life was a misery now, because she’d sprained the other one six months before. The old sprain wasn’t yet quite strong enough to carry her weight while the latest one healed, and her ten-year-old son was no help at all.
Overnight the first coat of varnish dried in the garage, and next morning Graham sanded it by hand, ready for the second coat. Bob dropped by and told him to use finer paper this time, so as not to completely strip the first coat.
Graham didn’t argue. He put the sanding block down and went inside to get his bike helmet, so he could go and buy 100-grit paper. The nearby family-run paint and handyman’s shop was closed until New Year. Graham had to turn round and cycle to Balmoral, where the big chain store was open. The man behind the counter greeted him as an old friend, but did not give him discount.
Back at the block of flats Graham went inside and drank some water. Trish asked him why he had been so long. He explained, then went back out into the hot late-morning sun.
Halfway through the second coat, Barney told him not to varnish in direct sunlight. If varnish dries too quickly it crazes, giving a rough finish much like old pottery. So Graham shifted the job into one of the carports, then shifted it back out when Barney had to move his car.
Two-year-old Damir sat and watched, playing with Graham’s sharp-edged tools and making inarticulate noises. When Graham went inside, he had to leave his tools in the garage so Damir couldn’t hurt himself or mess the job up. Damir’s parents were nowhere to be seen. Graham guessed they wouldn’t mind if Damir cut himself or drank turpentine. He did not feel flattered by their trust.
For the next few days, the procession of advisors continued. Bob advised him not to use a new brush, because it threw too many hairs. Rod advised him to wipe with a tack cloth between coats, to eliminate sanding dust that would mar the finish. Barney told him to use a roller instead of a brush, and thin the varnish with a little turps after every coat. As the varnish got thinner each time, this would emphasise the grain of the timber. And so on. Sensible advice and stupid, advice from people he’d never met before, advice when he wasn’t even home.
It was just like the time he’d made a hammer in metalwork at school, years ago. He hoped his Dad would be impressed, so he took the hammer home and showed it to him. Dad pointed out every flaw or error in the job. He blamed the metalwork teacher for some of it, but mostly Graham. “Jesus, what a piece of shit,” was his final word, as he scowled at the deformed implement. Graham said nothing, and next day changed out of metalwork and into woodwork instead.
After five days of on-again-off-again work, Graham took the advice that Sharon had given him right at the beginning. The chest of drawers was ugly, and the fumes were giving him a headache. He picked up one of the drawers, swung it as high as he could, and smashed it down hard on the concrete. Then he jumped on it with both feet. This was very satisfying, so he smashed another drawer. He finished both drawers off with a claw hammer, making sure no single piece of wood was joined to any other.
Once the first two drawers were ruined, Graham was on a roll. He attacked the main framework of the chest. Now he was committed to destroying the entire thing, there were no more decisions to make. He smiled at the thought of the neighbours, who were no doubt watching him. Rod would be telling Barney that Graham should use an axe instead of a claw hammer.
Let them come and say it to his face. He’d give them what for. Graham tilted his head to one side as he considered where to hit next, to most efficiently destroy the carcass.