remnants of popcorn and sitcoms

When I am old, I will do handstands and cook with my feet.
All my children will call me by my moon name and swear allegiance to my wool socks.
Upon rows and rows of spices on hand painted racks will they learn their mothers magic stews and potions.
On tree top forts they will sing Shakespeare and dance Moliere,
They will write stories about the colour of their skin and their grandmothers voice,
As they remember the kindness that shone through her sorrows.


With sticky fingers they will grapple for toys,
Playing away hours and hours of imagination, putting it to the best use it will ever get.
They will remember these times when they are working machines,
When their minds are mined for precious stones, their eyes burnt away at gleaming screens,
Their love withering in the cold air of polite attitudes and insincere speech.


When they dissolve into shiny magazine dreams and magic box ideals,
When they forgo love for comfort and drink coffee picked by enslaved hands,
When shiny quarters and pretty clouds don't mean anything anymore,
When life is like that, they will remember their mother's warmth and her childlike spirit that she instilled in them, hoping they would never lose it.


But here it is, becoming a memory, a memory in days which end too fast and nights that are too long.
It rests somewhere, amid the cold, amid the lost journeys and the roads not taken;
It giggles and waits for a sunny afternoon in the grass, a dog licking at its toes and lemonade on a side table, 
sweating in the heat. 
---
Early 2011. A personal favourite. 



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Fold Me

Fold me backwards until I make sense-

there is no right, wrong, or reason for this.

We are only what we are

and have less choice in who

fold me until I find some truth.

Twist, turn, and bend the world- fold me until I can't take anymore.

Fold me again and again, until I understand,

Fold me until I do not see who I am.

-----

Circa 2007/8

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Childhood

Childhood, an old game I used to play.

Oh, we fought monsters and witches with merely sticks in our hands,

Playing outside until the sun shook colours all over the sky,

Running home before it was too late. 

I can still smell the fresh dew on the grass,

Walking to school, laughin’, talking fast.

A mile a minute in secrets and fun nothings,

Oh, my heart misses those small things.

We took for granted our time in the sun,

Happiness unquestioned, my dreams flowing, flowing free.

A woman now, I look back,

And childhood is the dream I dream.

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December 5th, 2011. Kabul.



Photographed by Massoud Hosaini, 05/12/11.



While many of us struggled to decide what t.v show to watch while consuming dinner, or felt overwhelmed by deadlines and expectations, a young girl screamed for the failure of the human race to protect her humanity. Though I hate to put words into her mouth, it's undeniable that this girl is in shock, in horror, in a moment of hell only some of us are ever put through. December 5, 2011, Kabul, Afghanistan. Monday. I'd just finished my monologue presentations the Friday prior. Two weeks left of class. Quite literally in my case. All my worries and fears at that time, about performing, about my skills and capabilities, my future, were all perfectly valid. I am no less worldy or compassionate for being so concerned about my own life. It's my responsibility to care about the struggles and concerns that structure my world. Nonetheless, how shockingly trivial it all is in comparison to the image above. A small pile of even smaller bodies, and whatever ideals of peace and togetheness that existed within those bodies, shattered. That's what I imagine it to be. But I'm just another priviledged Westerner projecting some vague semblances of humanity onto some atrocity, continents away. Sure, in a greater sense, we're all of the same race, the same heart, and all injustice affects everyone of us. In our day to day lives however, how much do even the most grotesque acts directly affect us? The world very literally keeps turning. Life stops for no one, belongs to no one, is here for all and every experience equally. It has no preferences, no biases. Life is here to be lived by all that care to breathe, grow, be touched by sunlight and one day, be held by death.

There's a little girl in a pink sweater drinking milk from a green Starbucks straw, a few tables away. Parents in tow, speaking a language I can't quite place. Dutch, maybe German. The girl is tiny. Her older sister comes to her, pink mittens attached to the sleeves of her jacket. I want desperately to create some bridge between the children in front of me and the children in the photo, but perhaps there just isn't one. These are completely different samples of humanity. Their realities are astonishingly different. Their trials incomparable, their tears shed for disappointments of staggeringly different proportions. Sure, our similarities across landscapes, whether geographical or culturally constructed, are remarkable, but our differences are what give our experiences shape and definition, and by virtue of this, some structures are easier to live in than others.

The children in front me, now gone home, will most likely never face such brutal cruelty laid bare in front of them. Those in the photograph, who are alive, will forever be marked by the barbaric slaughter they once witnessed, and perhaps, will continue to witness.

And that's just the way it is. Suffering distributed in a seemingly senseless, random pattern. Religious fanatics will argue otherwise, stating that the belief in a false god, or the inability to appease the right one, will cause well deserved waves of horror. Economists and poltical scientists will offer statistics and equations, historical imperatives and current societal phenomena, to account for the state of the world. Artists will strive to extrapolate meaning from the chaos. I cannot speak to what all the various other factions of people will do, think, or feel. I have a hunch that most will wince, or sigh, and move on. Those responses are fine. They're the most that, in many circumstances, can be done. I'm not advocating for apathy or for distancing ourselves from the suffering of others. I'm saying it's important to recognize the scope of human experience, and to attempt to reconcile the immense incomprehensibility of it all, the potential futility of it all, with the desire to improve in whatever small ways we can, the landscapes we inhabit.

--------------

First draft. I felt very compelled to write about this image, though as of now I'm not sure what I want the reader to take away, or rather what exactly I want to say. Perhaps I really shouldn't say anything at all, and let the brutality speak for itself.

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cannot

I cannot speak.
Years of silence and I am wiped out.
An angry man, a lonely woman, living in a box,
Bound by some form of love I cannot understand.
Please, stop shouting.
Please, stop forgetting that it hurts.
Pain is a fun, twisted game for a while,
But all the other players have quit, gone home and cleansed their dirty hands,
While you still flail in the mud.

I stand beside you, cold, shivering, splattered with your violent splay.
I try to speak but my mouth is too dry, my tongue shriveled and inert.
There are no words to tell you, how much I wish we could change.


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turn away

My mother speaks to me and I turn away,

Trying to not listen.

Your words all sound like tears to me,

All I can see is your silence, your presence shrouded by hardship, hardship that knows me well.

I cannot bear the memories of last night. Last week. The past eight years.

The dog whimpering in neglect. Your lonely breath his only companion.

Please, stop speaking. Stop speaking. Don’t make me remember that you are still here.

I wish you would go away, go away to a place where I can be sure of your happiness.

Instead, you sit in this house, letting harsh words make everything bitter.

You smile, insist that it tastes fine, that the spices are not stale.

But your food is flavourless, and chagrin seeps through your smiling lips.

I need to leave.

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take me home

Walking through the fog, the moist air, I feel as though sadness could take me back:

A long train of memories,

feelings,

connected to places where I knew love,

As if following the pain long enough will lead me back home.

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Cake

Nothing tastes good when eaten alone.
Tea is weak. Salt impotent. Cream is like water.
Cake isn't sweet anymore.
Just something that, once, was nice.


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hold me together

Something that will hold me together. Something.
Anything.

String to tie me up.
Stiches to close the wounds.

Bring the frayed edges together again, reweave my worn down garments,
Fill in the deep hollows,
Replace the stale sighs with fresh breath, the rancid love with new affection.
Clean faces to gaze on, no scars, no raging blemishes, no stinging acne.

A happy hand. A real smile. Teach me to live again.
----------------------------

How to be honest without being trite? To speak of sadness without self-pity. That's what I want.


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respected

Sun won't set until August.
I wanna live there. Sunlight pouring into my bedroom, all day, all night.
Plants growing green, warmth on my face, from something else than a blow.
He doesn't hit me but I feel deep bruises nonetheless.
If only your body punished me and not your words,
I could honour my own suffering.
----------------
This is by no means to say I wish to be physically abused, but rather that emotional abuse isn't taken as seriously, although it is still a form of violence.

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your legacy

You used to lay your head on my chest.
I'd kiss the top of your head, hoping to silence the stream of
worries pouring out your mouth,
to instead find the love that once eased my grumbling heart, so in need of sustenance.

But you ignorned me for the sound of your own voice.

And I ate your self-absorption, for fear of starving.

-----

slightly less messy than originally.


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do a lot of work.




Shared with me via facebook. Here's to a copious amount of blogging, to lessen the gap.



passed

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I could spent hours here
My mind needs wringing,
Soaked with juices of unrest and stale bordem
squeezing it out leaves a mess
A bad smell, blotted ideas and wrinkled bits of paper
Once wisdom, now unlegible.
My fingers soon grow tired
My eyes strain to stay open
But there is work to do,
And only minutes have passed.

drums

My eyes beat on drums made of promises
pound them into being heard
staring into drums I longed for your words to breathe
to live, to honour the beauty of their rhythm and shape.
I beat the drums but hear no music
Unskilled, amateur- I feel defeat.
worried I cannot bring promises to life merely with hope.


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cracked soil

My eyes charcol grey
fingers rich soil awaiting rain.

plants cannot grow in my cracked soil.

please, do not say you must go.

Woman inside quietly sings,

record player always humming the same tune, no words.

the walls look out but do not speak,

  and there is no friendliness to be earned in their presence.



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Spinning through space

I am ashamed, everything stands still.
Stillness is the quality of these days
Cars moving, sidewalks freshly laid down,
Drills outside my ears.
The world moves, rendering me a cripple.
In contrast, motion is senseless.
We are spinning through space,
Seeing no one, talking to no one.
A ball of dirt and water, heated by the sun.
Stillness envelopes me.
I cringe.


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Circle

Colourful and bright,
Childhood and the sunshine, playing together.
Wash after wash, colours start to fade.
Children grow and the sun withers into night.
Toys abandonned in the yard.
Strangers walk past, no one wondering what happened.


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Something beautiful

Something beautiful.

A dog chasing it's tail
My mothers eyes
My father making up lyrics to songs
Dan's maniacal laugh
George
Alina's soul
Encouragement from friends
Anita's crazy (crazy being a noun)
Pictures of Alex and I in Phillie
Love so strong it makes you cry
Knowing nothing lasts forever, so it's all gonna be fine.


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men of my life

the men of my life

have torn me down, stomped on me, loved me, laughed with me, beraded me, controlled me, nurtured me, created me, caressed me, held me, astonished me, pained me, defiled me, respected me, taught me, stained me, blamed me, ignored me, devoured me, worshipped me, gifted me, confined me, punished me, tickled me, desired me, read me, hated me, inspired me, lost me, rejected me, upset me, lifted me, valued me, fucked me, kissed me, forgot me, twisted me, adored me, acknowledged me, thanked me, enraged me, blessed me, left me, breathed me, drank me, fought me, drained me, revived me.
---------------------------------------------

Words for thought. That's all.


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Contortion.

My body, disfigured and stuck.
I am afraid to collapse on health's doorstep in such a state. My fingers warped and my arms burned. Hip twisted, legs joyless rods, useless for walking.
A sculpture, a monument to lovelessness.
Too afraid to crawl to release, to affection.
A broken mirror, the bits jab into my eyes. I bled.
I am relieved.
------------

Gruesome and brutal. Too far.  I need sleep.


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Let it Out.

Fear of calamity, monstrosity of inner animosity,
Perplexed vision-don't hurt, don't hurt me no more,
I say to the strange woman in the mirror.
Music fading out, fading out, burnt out, keep me out, don't hurt me no more.
Fear of rejection, dejection in my finger nails, staining my food, swallowing my poison-let it out, let the words out.
Peace out, sweat out, freak out,


I don't remember how it feels to win!


The stains in my brain from failure, Rorschach, Rorschach, what'd ya see, what'd ya see?! 


I see... I see...


I'm burning in the brine of my salty tears,
Can't swim no more-he's shouting again-
Let me out. Let me be my own woman, eating the fruits of her labour,


I'm bored of myself, borne of myself: my actions, thoughts, deeds, greeds- let it out, let it out. 


Tired of fighting, tired of being brave, of having to work so hard to keep each day from fallin' apart, each love from fallin' apart,


pressure pressure cooking me in my salty brine, write me a song to sing for all my time, all my faded memories and crooked smiles, let it out, let it out.
-----------


A very frantic, mostly unorganized, quasi-slam piece. Early in the works. Why only post things that are neat and tidy and finished? Here are my word-guts. They are smelly and a little unsanitary, but real.


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I Am From

I am from a edgy city with a bad rep: Surrey.

From angry teenagers with spikes in their faces and resilience in their tears.

I am from fire and ice, like my father’s temperament.

I am from the deep sorrow that narrates my mother’s journeys.

I am from the hearts and hands of the young men I loved,

From the laughter and dreams of the women I adore.

I am from the heat and blood of another oceans people;

From stories lost in translation and words I no longer understand.

I’m from places I’ve yearned to call home though the name never fit.

I am from breath,
            From the air that carries me through life, that gives me strength to laugh, to love, to weep for my aches.

From a grimy suburb with broken faces, where dreams were all I had,
To a big city with bountiful lights, where dreams are all I have.  

----------------
First assignment at George Brown, for Debra Joy's voice class. Based off a template, I am from _______, and _________, etc.

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old woman

I am an old woman who has seen the sun set more times that she would wish.
Loves come and go, none keep the promise of the first kiss.
Friends venture off to journey through places I dare not see.
Family is a foreign word, a fractured house, a bad memory.

My breath is hot, my bones are firm,
My skin is supple and my body yearns.
But I am seated here, humming songs of resignation.
I am tired of this place.
I long for home.
------------------

Sentimental and the rhyme scheme is very traditional. An acceptable first draft. I like the overall feel though.


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