There's no knowing what goes on in other hearts.
And no telling what goes on in mine.
The tired patience that creeps up under the ribs,
The mellow that cools the burn of anger in the mind,
The faith that eases tension from the neck, the shoulders.
There's no telling what happens in the heart.
August 02, 2011
August 01, 2011
Down to the last bite
It's 3:47 am.
On the plate in front of me: a piece of vegan polish sausage, about a cubic inch; five chic peas, with the skin of one additional chic pea, and about a quarter teaspoon of watery chic pea sludge that tastes of garlic and salt; the last two centimetres squared, or so, of a piece of buttered whole wheat toast.
This is a significant improvement from yesterday's suhoor.
I'm anxious about the time, as Fajr draws near.
Fighting against myself and my painfully slow eating.
Fighting against the thought that maybe I don't need these last bites to make it through the day.
Fighting against the anxiety of needing to hydrate and stave off heat.
Later in the day I will fight myself again.
I am almost always fighting something these days.
Almost always angry.
Other times I will find respite.
The familiar discipline,
the restraint against impulse,
it will quiet me.
I will grow gardens of patience.
Vines will climb up my anger.
New growth will push out of my soul.
Nerves full of anger will set loose singing blades of grass.
I wrap the last bite of sausage, with three fingers, with toast.
I scoop the chic peas up with a fork, poking the sludge onto my fork with a cautious finger.
I will take bites out of my anger, one at a time, every day, for a month,
until there's nothing left to eat.
On the plate in front of me: a piece of vegan polish sausage, about a cubic inch; five chic peas, with the skin of one additional chic pea, and about a quarter teaspoon of watery chic pea sludge that tastes of garlic and salt; the last two centimetres squared, or so, of a piece of buttered whole wheat toast.
This is a significant improvement from yesterday's suhoor.
I'm anxious about the time, as Fajr draws near.
Fighting against myself and my painfully slow eating.
Fighting against the thought that maybe I don't need these last bites to make it through the day.
Fighting against the anxiety of needing to hydrate and stave off heat.
Later in the day I will fight myself again.
I am almost always fighting something these days.
Almost always angry.
Other times I will find respite.
The familiar discipline,
the restraint against impulse,
it will quiet me.
I will grow gardens of patience.
Vines will climb up my anger.
New growth will push out of my soul.
Nerves full of anger will set loose singing blades of grass.
I wrap the last bite of sausage, with three fingers, with toast.
I scoop the chic peas up with a fork, poking the sludge onto my fork with a cautious finger.
I will take bites out of my anger, one at a time, every day, for a month,
until there's nothing left to eat.
Things someone really ought to tell you about Ramadan (Part 1)
Pretty much everyone who knows me beyond a casual hello knows that I'm muslim, and that I fast during Ramadan. Those who know me a bit more intimately know that Ramadan is a big deal to me this year.
For reasons of health and spirituality, there was a time when I was a teenager when I was the only person in my household who was able to fast during Ramadan. My dad would sometimes get up to keep me company during sehri, and we often had family iftar time, but it was mostly a solitary game. I felt a deep sense of responsibility, fasting in hopes that my actions would turn out some benefits for my parents health, my brother's well-being. The last time that this was the case, the last Ramadan I spent at home, was in 2001, not long after 9/11.
After I left home, Ramadan became increasingly a challenge in my life. Removed from the everyday of my family's life, I had to find new motivation. It's not as though I loved or cared for my family any less. Being alone, or rather a lone muslim, and not having people around who recognize what you're doing, means you have to be much more committed. Suddenly I found that if I was going to live up to the many observances of Ramadan, I would have to do it for myself. This is a hard thing to do when you're 17 and you don't love yourself.
Ramadans 2002-2006, the Ottawa years, were awkward, and sometimes bleak. There are some amusing anecdotes (creative methods of trying to get up for sehri and fajr without disturbing the roommate I shared one tiny room with in my first year of undergrad) and some sad (fasting fewer and fewer days because of isolation, depression, and health problems). These years were peppered with a few bright spots, when I would have iftar at the home of old family friends, or manage to make the 10 hour trip home to spend Eid with my family.
I should note that my isolation in these years was both imposed and self-afflicted. There was no real community of muslims in my residence in first year. I tried to pretend I was brave, and went to a few MSA events, but mostly found myself alienated by what felt like hyper-virtuous, normalizing, mainstream muslims at the time. It was too much a reminder of the uncomfortable years of islamic sunday school, where I felt preached at by an imam whose social views and relationship to allah did not reflect my own, and where pre-teen peer pressure was more morally influential than the teachings of the qur'an. I chose to stay away from other muslims because I didn't trust them. I didn't trust the awe and surprise of people learning for the first time that I, a girl, was studying and living away from home, and amongst non-muslims. I didn't trust the pressure to change the way I related to allah and islam. I'm not proud of it, and I still grapple with these issues now. As a young adult, I let these things drive me away from the ummah.
For reasons of health and spirituality, there was a time when I was a teenager when I was the only person in my household who was able to fast during Ramadan. My dad would sometimes get up to keep me company during sehri, and we often had family iftar time, but it was mostly a solitary game. I felt a deep sense of responsibility, fasting in hopes that my actions would turn out some benefits for my parents health, my brother's well-being. The last time that this was the case, the last Ramadan I spent at home, was in 2001, not long after 9/11.
After I left home, Ramadan became increasingly a challenge in my life. Removed from the everyday of my family's life, I had to find new motivation. It's not as though I loved or cared for my family any less. Being alone, or rather a lone muslim, and not having people around who recognize what you're doing, means you have to be much more committed. Suddenly I found that if I was going to live up to the many observances of Ramadan, I would have to do it for myself. This is a hard thing to do when you're 17 and you don't love yourself.
Ramadans 2002-2006, the Ottawa years, were awkward, and sometimes bleak. There are some amusing anecdotes (creative methods of trying to get up for sehri and fajr without disturbing the roommate I shared one tiny room with in my first year of undergrad) and some sad (fasting fewer and fewer days because of isolation, depression, and health problems). These years were peppered with a few bright spots, when I would have iftar at the home of old family friends, or manage to make the 10 hour trip home to spend Eid with my family.
I should note that my isolation in these years was both imposed and self-afflicted. There was no real community of muslims in my residence in first year. I tried to pretend I was brave, and went to a few MSA events, but mostly found myself alienated by what felt like hyper-virtuous, normalizing, mainstream muslims at the time. It was too much a reminder of the uncomfortable years of islamic sunday school, where I felt preached at by an imam whose social views and relationship to allah did not reflect my own, and where pre-teen peer pressure was more morally influential than the teachings of the qur'an. I chose to stay away from other muslims because I didn't trust them. I didn't trust the awe and surprise of people learning for the first time that I, a girl, was studying and living away from home, and amongst non-muslims. I didn't trust the pressure to change the way I related to allah and islam. I'm not proud of it, and I still grapple with these issues now. As a young adult, I let these things drive me away from the ummah.
June 18, 2011
The men in my life have made me wish I didn't have a body
The men in my life have made me wish I didn't have a body.
The partner who took the bags of groceries out of my hands, because he was the man, despite my telling him I could carry them myself, so that my muscles shrank and my strength decayed.
The brother who would think it was okay for any man to stare at a woman's body if it were the type he thought a woman should be confident about, because he likes to stare at women's bodies too, and can't fault others for doing what he does, even if they are doing it to his sister, who doesn't want them to.
The friend who would fetishize my breasts, but who would not hold my body.
The father who treats his wife and sister with derision for the weight they have gained over the years, and asks me why I have gained a few inches, but doesn't think that this will make me feel worthless.
The partner who would use my body in ways I asked him not to, but would not help me through great physical pain when I begged him to.
The brother and cousin who tell me that if I were to keep my eyes lowered as a bride - a common custom that is supposed to convey modesty, but is also problematically gendered and normative - they would be be ashamed of me.
The friend who cherishes the way I make him laugh, the thoughts and understandings we can share, but who would never let me rest my head against his chest, or my hand over his heart.
The partner who would expect affection when it suited him, but who would not touch me when it didn't.
The colleague who would kiss me for helping him meet his idol, but not for being mine.
The uncle who would make sexual jokes that depict women as being valuable only for their sexual capacity, in the company of the family, and would not stop when we would tell him it wasn't funny.
The men in my life, they do not love me in a way that is kind to my body. They may love the person they think I am. They may love the wit and intelligence, the strength and the humour they see in me, but they do not love my flesh. The men in my life ignore the nerves and emotions tangled up in my body. I wish I didn't have one.
The partner who took the bags of groceries out of my hands, because he was the man, despite my telling him I could carry them myself, so that my muscles shrank and my strength decayed.
The brother who would think it was okay for any man to stare at a woman's body if it were the type he thought a woman should be confident about, because he likes to stare at women's bodies too, and can't fault others for doing what he does, even if they are doing it to his sister, who doesn't want them to.
The friend who would fetishize my breasts, but who would not hold my body.
The father who treats his wife and sister with derision for the weight they have gained over the years, and asks me why I have gained a few inches, but doesn't think that this will make me feel worthless.
The partner who would use my body in ways I asked him not to, but would not help me through great physical pain when I begged him to.
The brother and cousin who tell me that if I were to keep my eyes lowered as a bride - a common custom that is supposed to convey modesty, but is also problematically gendered and normative - they would be be ashamed of me.
The friend who cherishes the way I make him laugh, the thoughts and understandings we can share, but who would never let me rest my head against his chest, or my hand over his heart.
The partner who would expect affection when it suited him, but who would not touch me when it didn't.
The colleague who would kiss me for helping him meet his idol, but not for being mine.
The uncle who would make sexual jokes that depict women as being valuable only for their sexual capacity, in the company of the family, and would not stop when we would tell him it wasn't funny.
The men in my life, they do not love me in a way that is kind to my body. They may love the person they think I am. They may love the wit and intelligence, the strength and the humour they see in me, but they do not love my flesh. The men in my life ignore the nerves and emotions tangled up in my body. I wish I didn't have one.
March 25, 2009
These are my minutes
In the course of 15 minutes, you'd like to tell the world your story.
There's nothing arbitrary about these 15 minutes. They're all you have until you have to move on to a new life. Like the 15 minutes in a cab on the way to your lawyer's office, where you will sign the divorce papers your wife wants you to sign three months after confessing to you the affair she's carried on with a college TA, met long before your courtship began.
It's a pity, though, that these are the only 15 minutes you have, because these are my 15 minutes, not yours. In fact, those 3 minutes that just passed? They were my minutes. As well as the one I just spent in silence. In the remaining 11 minutes I will give the world a piece of myself. You sit here and languish.
I have memories that are disembodied. Lives lived long, long ago. The feeling of calves pulling tendons pulling ankles lifting soles from foam. Foam lifting from cement. Ribs and arms encased in thin layers of cotton, too cool for the early spring weather, eyes tilted up, neck craning. It's a memory I relive too often. A memory that reminds me of distance.
7 minutes. A confession: 7 and 5 is my favourite combination of numbers. 5, a precious increment, a tenuous age, an incising number of letters. Enough to encase a life, to convey a lifetime's sentiment. An infinite sort of number. And 7, of little consequence. But intriguing for its oddity, for its excessiveness. And together, so worthless. Such a trope. So overdone. A number I've little taste for.
I've got less and less time on my side, but still an ample supply. The trouble with time is that you may never know it's there, that there are vast seas of it ahead of you, and yet you will waste it like copper or water, left running, tossed carelessly into a city bin at the corner on your way to school. 2 minutes left.
This is not what I had intended it to be, but perhaps it will be, one day. In any case, the stakes are being set. A toe-dragged line in the gravel. A juice box and a cap in the grass. This is where I will make fortunes out of nothing. This is where I will begin again my life.
There's nothing arbitrary about these 15 minutes. They're all you have until you have to move on to a new life. Like the 15 minutes in a cab on the way to your lawyer's office, where you will sign the divorce papers your wife wants you to sign three months after confessing to you the affair she's carried on with a college TA, met long before your courtship began.
It's a pity, though, that these are the only 15 minutes you have, because these are my 15 minutes, not yours. In fact, those 3 minutes that just passed? They were my minutes. As well as the one I just spent in silence. In the remaining 11 minutes I will give the world a piece of myself. You sit here and languish.
I have memories that are disembodied. Lives lived long, long ago. The feeling of calves pulling tendons pulling ankles lifting soles from foam. Foam lifting from cement. Ribs and arms encased in thin layers of cotton, too cool for the early spring weather, eyes tilted up, neck craning. It's a memory I relive too often. A memory that reminds me of distance.
7 minutes. A confession: 7 and 5 is my favourite combination of numbers. 5, a precious increment, a tenuous age, an incising number of letters. Enough to encase a life, to convey a lifetime's sentiment. An infinite sort of number. And 7, of little consequence. But intriguing for its oddity, for its excessiveness. And together, so worthless. Such a trope. So overdone. A number I've little taste for.
I've got less and less time on my side, but still an ample supply. The trouble with time is that you may never know it's there, that there are vast seas of it ahead of you, and yet you will waste it like copper or water, left running, tossed carelessly into a city bin at the corner on your way to school. 2 minutes left.
This is not what I had intended it to be, but perhaps it will be, one day. In any case, the stakes are being set. A toe-dragged line in the gravel. A juice box and a cap in the grass. This is where I will make fortunes out of nothing. This is where I will begin again my life.
February 15, 2009
Today Is not a Day Worth Comemmorating
Today is February 15th, and that is how I'll always remember it. A day after February 14th, a day before the 16th. Nothing in between.
There are many things I could say. Many things I could share. But I would tell them to the wind, and the wind would carry them away. There is nothing to stop the ebb of me on a day such as today. Nothing happens on this day.
There is a puddle of me spilling over itself on the floor. I'm a melting, lapping mess. I'm a pile of death and dust. Once this all was life.
I'll never forget what I held. I'll never forget the smell, the feeling, the colour. I'll never forget unfurling it, open, and letting the water carry it away. But that did not happen today. That was another day. And today, I have nothing to remember.
There are many things I could say. Many things I could share. But I would tell them to the wind, and the wind would carry them away. There is nothing to stop the ebb of me on a day such as today. Nothing happens on this day.
There is a puddle of me spilling over itself on the floor. I'm a melting, lapping mess. I'm a pile of death and dust. Once this all was life.
I'll never forget what I held. I'll never forget the smell, the feeling, the colour. I'll never forget unfurling it, open, and letting the water carry it away. But that did not happen today. That was another day. And today, I have nothing to remember.
January 13, 2009
And Now, It's Tuesday
You left me on a Sunday night. A week and two days later, I realized that for the first time in over two years, I broke a Sunday ritual of loneliness.
Every Sunday morning, for longer than I can remember, I have navigated my way over to PostSecret to share in the sadness and happiness of others. This morning, frightened by a fleeting moment of isolation, I made my way back there.
As I made the brief journey, I realized that never, in the past week or so, had it occurred to me to seek this desperate moment of human connection. The weekly ritual I've relied on to make it through so many weeks past is gone. Somehow, with you, I'd always felt just as alone as I didn't think I was. Now that you're gone, I'm free.
Now that you're gone, I know I'll never have to settle for being alone.
Every Sunday morning, for longer than I can remember, I have navigated my way over to PostSecret to share in the sadness and happiness of others. This morning, frightened by a fleeting moment of isolation, I made my way back there.
As I made the brief journey, I realized that never, in the past week or so, had it occurred to me to seek this desperate moment of human connection. The weekly ritual I've relied on to make it through so many weeks past is gone. Somehow, with you, I'd always felt just as alone as I didn't think I was. Now that you're gone, I'm free.
Now that you're gone, I know I'll never have to settle for being alone.
January 10, 2009
We Two
We two,
We run at different speeds.
We thought
We were not alone.
We two,
We were never there.
You were always here,
And I...
We two,
We never found that place.
We never were so bright,
We never were so golden.
We two.
I was.
You weren't.
We run at different speeds.
We thought
We were not alone.
We two,
We were never there.
You were always here,
And I...
We two,
We never found that place.
We never were so bright,
We never were so golden.
We two.
I was.
You weren't.
January 09, 2009
The Sarah Malik Revival
Note: Just a little something I'm working on, in honour of being newly unburdened.
I'm back, bitches. I know you missed me.
The world has lifted its grey gauze from my eyes. Colours are brighter, they move, they have life. Lines and water move through my mind. Images like images, shot on a film reel. The feeling, the passion, my fingers, they wander.
The world has me shaken, it's loosened, it's cotton, and now I am filled with the sound. The music, it fills me. It comes up to my brain, it crests at my crown. It comes down through my throat and into my heart. It makes my eyes swell, so they live, so they cry.
I can breathe. I remember. I smell the sweet air. I taste the sweet salt and I breathe til I'm bare.
I am released. Thank God, I am relieved. I was in prison. I was imprisoned, and I had commit no crime.
I have freedom. I have love, and am free.
I'm back, bitches. I know you missed me.
The world has lifted its grey gauze from my eyes. Colours are brighter, they move, they have life. Lines and water move through my mind. Images like images, shot on a film reel. The feeling, the passion, my fingers, they wander.
The world has me shaken, it's loosened, it's cotton, and now I am filled with the sound. The music, it fills me. It comes up to my brain, it crests at my crown. It comes down through my throat and into my heart. It makes my eyes swell, so they live, so they cry.
I can breathe. I remember. I smell the sweet air. I taste the sweet salt and I breathe til I'm bare.
I am released. Thank God, I am relieved. I was in prison. I was imprisoned, and I had commit no crime.
I have freedom. I have love, and am free.
July 22, 2008
Understimulate Me.
I've got the urge. That restless-fingered, half-lidded, soft and heavy kind of urge. I want to create something.
I've been itching here. Building up ideas. Building up desires. Biding my time.
It's now or never, world. Use me up, please. Take what I've got to give you. Once this is gone, there will be nothing left for a long time.
I'm hindered. I feel your bindings, they hold me back. I'd like to see you on the move. I'd like to see you put me in a cage, set me loose. Give me gold and diamonds, show me your poverty.
Mostly I want a wide open space. Somewhere I can spread my arms out wide. Something I can get up close too. Somewhere I can feel my wrists work. Somewhere my body will be free.
I want the colours. The red of a light. The ocher of a night sky. Green tar sands and the smooth, sapphire curves of your skin.
What are you doing, leaving me alone? I'm wasting away, and you're just letting me go.
I've been itching here. Building up ideas. Building up desires. Biding my time.
It's now or never, world. Use me up, please. Take what I've got to give you. Once this is gone, there will be nothing left for a long time.
I'm hindered. I feel your bindings, they hold me back. I'd like to see you on the move. I'd like to see you put me in a cage, set me loose. Give me gold and diamonds, show me your poverty.
Mostly I want a wide open space. Somewhere I can spread my arms out wide. Something I can get up close too. Somewhere I can feel my wrists work. Somewhere my body will be free.
I want the colours. The red of a light. The ocher of a night sky. Green tar sands and the smooth, sapphire curves of your skin.
What are you doing, leaving me alone? I'm wasting away, and you're just letting me go.
July 03, 2008
Here I Stand (Shot 1)
I walk this beat everyday. I keep my eyes on the horizon and my chin cocked low. As my soles hit the pavement I feel the shock of my shoulders fighting back against the momentum of being free.
They keep me grounded, my head, my neck, my shoulders, my eyes. I keep it going, keep the thoughts moving. I think because it keeps me alive. But I swear, I think these thoughts are killing me.
There's only so much a body can take, I think. THe smoke and the smog, eventually it will fill your lungs and nostrils 'til you're breathing grey dust. That sun will bake the youth right out of you and the carcinogens right into you. Your eyes are stained with cataracts of too much pain, too much grey, dead concrete. But for now, you're coming back. You're always coming back for more.
The way the rain flows these days, you wouldn't think she's got anything to worry about. She's all angles and strides, lean and slope. But she keeps going to keep the world from catching up with her.
They keep me grounded, my head, my neck, my shoulders, my eyes. I keep it going, keep the thoughts moving. I think because it keeps me alive. But I swear, I think these thoughts are killing me.
There's only so much a body can take, I think. THe smoke and the smog, eventually it will fill your lungs and nostrils 'til you're breathing grey dust. That sun will bake the youth right out of you and the carcinogens right into you. Your eyes are stained with cataracts of too much pain, too much grey, dead concrete. But for now, you're coming back. You're always coming back for more.
The way the rain flows these days, you wouldn't think she's got anything to worry about. She's all angles and strides, lean and slope. But she keeps going to keep the world from catching up with her.
May 16, 2008
Things that are Real
- The noises Sean makes when he snores
- The curls of Sean's hair that I find when he's not here
- Butter
- The vibrance of wet red paint
- The sweetness of Rooh Afza
- Dark chocolate
- Soap bubbles
- The ten letters of my name
- Blood
- The scent of magnolias and cherry blossoms
- Sand
March 15, 2008
Lines
Sometimes you look for signs. For an indication. Other times you just know. There's no denying it. And at other times still, at other times you don't know what you don't know.
This is not one of those times. You asked if she was okay and see said yes. She didn't mean no, but she also wasn't okay. You wanted to help, but you didn't want to pry.
She's a hard kind of person to get a hold of. Most people don't know half of a story like hers. Most people wouldn't know where to start or where to end. But you know better. You know that a story like hers has no beginning and no end.
When you take her to bed and undress her, you don't see any scars. Her body is pristine. Soft and white, her cool skin blazes against her long black hair. You see past all this, and she doesn't know that you know. You can see it in the way she clings to you. You're always surprised at the strength she hides in those thin arms. The way she flexes them, squeezing tight around you, holding on to resist the urge for flight. She never clutches, she wouldn't, but you know from the way she holds you, she's afraid of being torn away.
Over all these years, she's never been as happy as you want her to be, but you've learned to accept it. You've given up trying to learn all the things you'll never know. It's enough, now, to know the scars are there. She'll tell you what she can, show you the things she can make you understand, but there are hidden parts, scar tissue that will always remain.
When she smiles you see those faint hints of sadness, etched by time into the contours of her skin, the colours of her eyes. It's part of her architecture. She's happy, though, and she knows you know it. For all your wishes that she could let the old pain go, she tells you, it's just something she can't let go. It's there, it's a part of her, and she's happy enough, she says. She's happy enough that she doesn't need to let it go.
This is not one of those times. You asked if she was okay and see said yes. She didn't mean no, but she also wasn't okay. You wanted to help, but you didn't want to pry.
She's a hard kind of person to get a hold of. Most people don't know half of a story like hers. Most people wouldn't know where to start or where to end. But you know better. You know that a story like hers has no beginning and no end.
When you take her to bed and undress her, you don't see any scars. Her body is pristine. Soft and white, her cool skin blazes against her long black hair. You see past all this, and she doesn't know that you know. You can see it in the way she clings to you. You're always surprised at the strength she hides in those thin arms. The way she flexes them, squeezing tight around you, holding on to resist the urge for flight. She never clutches, she wouldn't, but you know from the way she holds you, she's afraid of being torn away.
Over all these years, she's never been as happy as you want her to be, but you've learned to accept it. You've given up trying to learn all the things you'll never know. It's enough, now, to know the scars are there. She'll tell you what she can, show you the things she can make you understand, but there are hidden parts, scar tissue that will always remain.
When she smiles you see those faint hints of sadness, etched by time into the contours of her skin, the colours of her eyes. It's part of her architecture. She's happy, though, and she knows you know it. For all your wishes that she could let the old pain go, she tells you, it's just something she can't let go. It's there, it's a part of her, and she's happy enough, she says. She's happy enough that she doesn't need to let it go.
February 29, 2008
Draw Lines, Write Days, Count Fish
If you were to throw a dart at a map, there is probably some telling where you'd end up. Depends on the map, depends on where you aim, depends on how far left or right you're standing. A lot less is left to chance than you might think.
Take a good physicist, your high school math teacher, and, say, a travel agent, and I doubt it would take them more then a few hours to piece together the likelihood that you'd find yourself in Kuala Lumpur.
But then, maybe you're already in Kuala Lumpur. It wouldn't surprise me. I'm sure they have a few good physicists there.
More importantly, you left your map on the wall in your travel agent's office. With a dart in it. This isn't the worst thing you could do, because it's not too hard to find maps...around. But your travel agent is a bit miffed because she shares her office with the office of the motel her parents run and the dart is starting to spook everyone's customers.
None of this really matters, though, because you've found your way to a nice little complex geared towards foreign travelers and the plaster walls inside your little straw bungalow are painted your favourite shade of aquamarine. Plus, there's some rustling outside, which you know is your girlfriend shaking the city's sand and dirt out of the sarong she was wearing earlier. She's not the love of your life, but she's a good sport and she'll let you nestle up to her, even in this sweltering heat.
By the way, the math teacher died of lung cancer with two devoted sons by his side, and the physicist you left behind in Kuala Lumpur when you decided to go to Thailand has started wondering, three years later, if you're ever going to send him that augury kit you said you would get him. Your math teacher was still a little pissed you never called to cancel before leaving for Kuala Lumpur, when he died.
But the sun is pretty hot, and you're on your sixth Singapori beer of the afternoon. Your girlfriend left you years ago when she realized you really would have let that scorpion have her if it meant saving your own ass, and you still keep that sarong she liked to wear in case she ever comes back.
You're lousy. You haven't shaved for days and your t-shirts are all yellowed and grayed from years of exposure to the sun, the dirt, and the sweat. The woman next to you on the plane keeps going on about how going to the Philippines had been a dream of hers ever since she was eleven and that foreign exchange student she used to call Timmy gave her a paper rose. She's obese, and sun burnt, and has awful curly blonde hair that reminds you of the lunch lady at your elementary school. You wish she would shut up, but when she giggles she kind of reminds you of your mom, who is going to be pissed when you show up on her doorstep after all these years abroad.
Take a good physicist, your high school math teacher, and, say, a travel agent, and I doubt it would take them more then a few hours to piece together the likelihood that you'd find yourself in Kuala Lumpur.
But then, maybe you're already in Kuala Lumpur. It wouldn't surprise me. I'm sure they have a few good physicists there.
More importantly, you left your map on the wall in your travel agent's office. With a dart in it. This isn't the worst thing you could do, because it's not too hard to find maps...around. But your travel agent is a bit miffed because she shares her office with the office of the motel her parents run and the dart is starting to spook everyone's customers.
None of this really matters, though, because you've found your way to a nice little complex geared towards foreign travelers and the plaster walls inside your little straw bungalow are painted your favourite shade of aquamarine. Plus, there's some rustling outside, which you know is your girlfriend shaking the city's sand and dirt out of the sarong she was wearing earlier. She's not the love of your life, but she's a good sport and she'll let you nestle up to her, even in this sweltering heat.
By the way, the math teacher died of lung cancer with two devoted sons by his side, and the physicist you left behind in Kuala Lumpur when you decided to go to Thailand has started wondering, three years later, if you're ever going to send him that augury kit you said you would get him. Your math teacher was still a little pissed you never called to cancel before leaving for Kuala Lumpur, when he died.
But the sun is pretty hot, and you're on your sixth Singapori beer of the afternoon. Your girlfriend left you years ago when she realized you really would have let that scorpion have her if it meant saving your own ass, and you still keep that sarong she liked to wear in case she ever comes back.
You're lousy. You haven't shaved for days and your t-shirts are all yellowed and grayed from years of exposure to the sun, the dirt, and the sweat. The woman next to you on the plane keeps going on about how going to the Philippines had been a dream of hers ever since she was eleven and that foreign exchange student she used to call Timmy gave her a paper rose. She's obese, and sun burnt, and has awful curly blonde hair that reminds you of the lunch lady at your elementary school. You wish she would shut up, but when she giggles she kind of reminds you of your mom, who is going to be pissed when you show up on her doorstep after all these years abroad.
February 18, 2008
False Idol
I've got a face full of doubt. I've got question marks where my eyes should be. I keep my eyes on the pavement, my head ducked down. I make myself invisible. This is not the man I meant to be.
I am a woman. I can't be defined on my own terms. Even to be more than just a girl, to be anything, I've got to find my masculinity.
I reside in an inner tension. I won't be resolved until I grow up. Become a man. I'm uncomfortable with my masculinity.
I'm ungendered. It falls away. I have no strength, no quality, I am nothing but enduring flesh. A weak sense of self will not do for me. I'm profound. I'm a picture of utility. I am rigour and insolvency.
I am a woman. I can't be defined on my own terms. Even to be more than just a girl, to be anything, I've got to find my masculinity.
I reside in an inner tension. I won't be resolved until I grow up. Become a man. I'm uncomfortable with my masculinity.
I'm ungendered. It falls away. I have no strength, no quality, I am nothing but enduring flesh. A weak sense of self will not do for me. I'm profound. I'm a picture of utility. I am rigour and insolvency.
February 02, 2008
A Song in Flight
I was here, and when I wasn't they told me you had gone. You're beautiful to me. I turn my hand, I see a memory. A strand of hair and the light on your cheek. I'm alive, everyday, and you're a beautiful memory. So distant, so far. But the sights and the sound, the air and the feeling, it all stays with me.
I'm amazed, how beautiful you've become. How life continues. How there's so much I don't know about you. So much I haven't shared in. I'll always have those memories, green, golden, white. I'll always see your face, and know that you are happy. If there's anything left I can give, that's all that I would wish for you.
Go on, go happily. Live your life, and let it be as far away from mine as the rivers and roads should take it. Find joy, find love, and tell me nothing of this. I cherish a simple hope that wherever you go, you will go with joy.
I'm amazed, how beautiful you've become. How life continues. How there's so much I don't know about you. So much I haven't shared in. I'll always have those memories, green, golden, white. I'll always see your face, and know that you are happy. If there's anything left I can give, that's all that I would wish for you.
Go on, go happily. Live your life, and let it be as far away from mine as the rivers and roads should take it. Find joy, find love, and tell me nothing of this. I cherish a simple hope that wherever you go, you will go with joy.
January 31, 2008
Borderlands
My life is a bit of a broken record. A crappy love song. The highs are high and the lows, so low.
I wish I had a crank. Drive it into the ribs and vertebrae at the base of my neck and wind it 'til all the vast expanse of feeling was bound up into one.
I want to make a coagulate mass of the sea that engulfs me. I want to feel regular. Normal. Stable.
I want to purge the haunting of pain from my heart, my wrists, my eyes. I want to tear away the long, thing, exacting fingers that clutch at my neck, my throat, at muscle and sinew, choking me, keeping me from breathing.
I want to win a losing fight. I want out into another life. I want to dive out of myself and into the deep, the dark clotted mire. I want to lay back into rivers of peace, soft, like waters, inching up along my cheeks and mouth. I want to be saturated.
I want a guide. I want to feel every measure of strength ebb from my body. I want rest. I want sleep.
I want it out, so far out. I want to push it out. I want it expelled. I want it out.
I wish I had a crank. Drive it into the ribs and vertebrae at the base of my neck and wind it 'til all the vast expanse of feeling was bound up into one.
I want to make a coagulate mass of the sea that engulfs me. I want to feel regular. Normal. Stable.
I want to purge the haunting of pain from my heart, my wrists, my eyes. I want to tear away the long, thing, exacting fingers that clutch at my neck, my throat, at muscle and sinew, choking me, keeping me from breathing.
I want to win a losing fight. I want out into another life. I want to dive out of myself and into the deep, the dark clotted mire. I want to lay back into rivers of peace, soft, like waters, inching up along my cheeks and mouth. I want to be saturated.
I want a guide. I want to feel every measure of strength ebb from my body. I want rest. I want sleep.
I want it out, so far out. I want to push it out. I want it expelled. I want it out.
January 17, 2008
Machiavelli... Crazy Person?
Premise 1: Knowing what a given thing is like does not liken one to the given thing.
Premise 2: Possessing certain traits does not mean that the external world or its constituent parts possess said traits.
Premise 3: A knowledge of how things have been in the past is of little consequence when imagining how things will be in the future.
You know how sometimes you stack several objects somewhat precariously, or try to lean a broom against a wall, and after letting go sort of hold your hands a few inches away, half worried the whole thing will tip, half trying to keep everything in place through the sheer force of the will power emanating from your splayed fingers?
It's hit and miss in physics. Your odds are even worse with people.
I think this is what I spend most of my time trying to do. Keeping it together. It would make much more sense to just try to stack myself neatly, with care, but the thing is, it's a shit metaphor. I'm not a pile of stuff.
It takes a lot longer to reorder your soul than it does to rearrange your closet.
This thing is going to take some time. I have to remember that. Probably a long time, with a lot of bad days, but not forever. Probably not a lifetime.
If there's one goal I can get behind, I think maybe it's dying happy. Which, of course, would mean not dying early. Which is maybe a sub-goal? Whatever it is, I can probably get behind it, too. Thus, my primary motivation in not killing myself is that it would directly impede dying happy. Way to go... rational choice!
Well, I can't damn well get it out of my system if I keep trying to hide it so other people won't worry about it, now can I?
Premise 2: Possessing certain traits does not mean that the external world or its constituent parts possess said traits.
Premise 3: A knowledge of how things have been in the past is of little consequence when imagining how things will be in the future.
You know how sometimes you stack several objects somewhat precariously, or try to lean a broom against a wall, and after letting go sort of hold your hands a few inches away, half worried the whole thing will tip, half trying to keep everything in place through the sheer force of the will power emanating from your splayed fingers?
It's hit and miss in physics. Your odds are even worse with people.
I think this is what I spend most of my time trying to do. Keeping it together. It would make much more sense to just try to stack myself neatly, with care, but the thing is, it's a shit metaphor. I'm not a pile of stuff.
It takes a lot longer to reorder your soul than it does to rearrange your closet.
This thing is going to take some time. I have to remember that. Probably a long time, with a lot of bad days, but not forever. Probably not a lifetime.
If there's one goal I can get behind, I think maybe it's dying happy. Which, of course, would mean not dying early. Which is maybe a sub-goal? Whatever it is, I can probably get behind it, too. Thus, my primary motivation in not killing myself is that it would directly impede dying happy. Way to go... rational choice!
Well, I can't damn well get it out of my system if I keep trying to hide it so other people won't worry about it, now can I?
January 15, 2008
Recycling
You take the old, you make it new.
In conflict, this is a bad thing. Relatively, even worse.
Try expressing something original. It would be the first time you said it, no? Enough with Freud, and put away the ballistic jelly. It's time for words.
I lost my voice. Who lost whose voice? I lost your voice. Try something original.
Try saying something new.
My head is full of other people's ideas. My lungs are filled with artificial air. I'm living on borrowed being. Try saying something new.
I don't want to keep going over the same thing. Ooover and oooVer, and ooovEr again. But how do you start fresh without throwing everything out? If I rebuild, I keep the bricks, or the mortar, or the plans, or something else. What if none of it's very good?
I want to say something new. So do it. So go.
So one, two... three, and go.
GO!
In conflict, this is a bad thing. Relatively, even worse.
Try expressing something original. It would be the first time you said it, no? Enough with Freud, and put away the ballistic jelly. It's time for words.
I lost my voice. Who lost whose voice? I lost your voice. Try something original.
Try saying something new.
My head is full of other people's ideas. My lungs are filled with artificial air. I'm living on borrowed being. Try saying something new.
I don't want to keep going over the same thing. Ooover and oooVer, and ooovEr again. But how do you start fresh without throwing everything out? If I rebuild, I keep the bricks, or the mortar, or the plans, or something else. What if none of it's very good?
I want to say something new. So do it. So go.
So one, two... three, and go.
GO!
January 07, 2008
1 lb.
"But why are you sad? I mean, you seem sad, and you weren't so before."
Hallie thinks I am sad. Hallie is correct.
Hallie kind of reminds me of a garden gnome. She's little, and her face is sort of squishy looking because of her deep crease-y wrinkles. She also wears delightful skirts.
And she thinks I'm sad.
I am. I am sad. And I'm tired. Most of the time, most minutes of the day, I'd rather give up.
I'm faltering. I really don't believe I'm going to make it all the way. It would be nice if someone believed me. Who says it's all going to be alright?
Hallie also has a lisp, and not the greatest manners.
Hallie thinks I am sad. Hallie is correct.
Hallie kind of reminds me of a garden gnome. She's little, and her face is sort of squishy looking because of her deep crease-y wrinkles. She also wears delightful skirts.
And she thinks I'm sad.
I am. I am sad. And I'm tired. Most of the time, most minutes of the day, I'd rather give up.
I'm faltering. I really don't believe I'm going to make it all the way. It would be nice if someone believed me. Who says it's all going to be alright?
Hallie also has a lisp, and not the greatest manners.
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