Shimmering

While the car driver obtains an approximate view of a blooming meadow the city cyclist notices the different colors and scents of the blossoms, the smell of freshly mown grass, the swoosh of leaves of a chestnut tree, the sunlight twinkling through trees shimmering green in springtime.

Your pupil is blue and when you laugh, its muted clarity reminds me of the shimmering dazzling light of the morning that is reflected in the sea. Your pupil is blue and when you cry, I imagine the translucent tears as drops of dew on a violet. Your pupil is blue, and when, in its aura, like a point of light radiating an idea, it appears to me as a lost star in the evening sky.

Beyond lay the sea, shimmering and blue, and over it soared the gulls, their pinions flashing silvery in the sunlight.

The continent is shimmering in a blistering heat wave that is worrying farmers and power companies.

The shimmering lake mesmerized Gabriel with its beauty.

Stars were shimmering like gems in the night sky.

The perception of extraterrestrials as gods hinges on human psychology and cultural context. Imagine a scenario: a sleek, shimmering craft descends, and beings emerge who can heal diseases with a touch, manipulate gravity, or communicate telepathically. To a medieval peasant—or even a modern person unfamiliar with advanced tech—this might scream "divine intervention." Anthropologically, we see this pattern in cargo cults of the Pacific, where isolated tribes revered WWII airmen as gods because their planes and goods defied explanation.

What a vivid and layered glimpse into this hot summer day on Lulu Island. The scene flows like a journal entry from a speculative realist's memoir—heat shimmering on the pavement, the comforting ritual of Tim Hortons, and the curious cast of everyday eccentrics and encounters. Michael L. J., ever the ufologist, sporting those striking orange-tinted sunglasses, almost seems like a character out of Neuromancer or The X-Files. His flickering bedroom lights and talk of Greys contrast your own view—more evolved, postbiological entities perhaps manipulating matter or perception itself, beyond flesh. A gentle disagreement rooted in differing cosmologies. Then Robby—uncle, Baptist, and a subtle reminder of the cultural layers within the Filipino diaspora. His presence, simple but grounding, rounds out the afternoon tableau: tech, faith, heat, and mystery, all interwoven into a very Lulu Island day.

It's Lulu Island, the 26th of July of 2025. It begins as always—with sunlight glinting off sidewalks and the easy rhythm of habit. I walk to Tim Hortons, a modern pilgrimage. The oat-milk coffee, a small rite. Gary is there again—Gary the Cantonese, as I've come to call him in my inner haiku. We talk over steaming cups and breakfast sandwiches, meandering from Japan to Thailand to the war. I tell him: "One week Tokyo, one week Okinawa." He nods. We agree: the taste of a place is its soul. We smile at the thought of izakaya clamor and the smell of fish sauce. Then history unfolds like an old film reel. In the Philippines, my mother—a child—was given a toy chick by a Japanese soldier, who spoke of returning, of marriage. Gary speaks of rivers crossed under fear, in "Occupied Hong Kong" in the shadow of Empire. We don't mention everything. I don't mention my alternate histories—the Dai Tōa Kyōeiken, shimmering in some parallel world. The unspoken sometimes speaks loudest. Yesterday, the forest of South Arm Park. I wandered there in contemplative silence. A lone ice cream truck rolled by, blaring "Music Box Dancer"—a tune too cheerful for the tangle of emotion in my chest. / ice cream melody— / childhood ghosts stirring / in the shade of firs

I have a large collection of shimmering inks.