2011-08-31
open the windows!
open the doors!
i need the curtains roaring!
i need the wind rushing through me!
i got up early. kissed mother on her cheek. she called me beautiful, she called me medusa. i jumped into the shower and drowned the snakes. there they laid on the bathtub floor. i dried off their tears. i put on a pretty black dress. i kissed father on the cheek, he pecked me back on the lips. he called me beautiful, he called me djinn. my hand in his hand, he said i love you; turning slowly around, i said i love you more. i made the table. i made the tea. i greeted the guests; i smiled and kiss-kissed them on the cheeks. i said: hello, so nice to see you. i didn't say: mother was just too tired to give birth to me.
p.s. yesyes, i am a high functioning, state of the art android. not to worry, the software glitches rarely.
open the doors!
i need the curtains roaring!
i need the wind rushing through me!
i got up early. kissed mother on her cheek. she called me beautiful, she called me medusa. i jumped into the shower and drowned the snakes. there they laid on the bathtub floor. i dried off their tears. i put on a pretty black dress. i kissed father on the cheek, he pecked me back on the lips. he called me beautiful, he called me djinn. my hand in his hand, he said i love you; turning slowly around, i said i love you more. i made the table. i made the tea. i greeted the guests; i smiled and kiss-kissed them on the cheeks. i said: hello, so nice to see you. i didn't say: mother was just too tired to give birth to me.
p.s. yesyes, i am a high functioning, state of the art android. not to worry, the software glitches rarely.
2011-08-29
back at my own desk...
i can try to avoid coming back to you, and it is easy when there is only me. so many different tables and corners to claim my own. but this is a living house, people come and people go; and thus i shall always be forced back into you.
back to you, back with you. i wrote all those post-its, that dent is my doing, you are mine. the dvds, the books, the origami boxes, the photos, the doodles, the poems. all there to compliment you. your hair, your make-up, your dangling earrings... the dreams, the madness, the silence. your torn leather jacket, your blood stains, your biker boots...
please, don't be pissed; right now, i just want to erase you...
i am tired; let me erase you.
i can try to avoid coming back to you, and it is easy when there is only me. so many different tables and corners to claim my own. but this is a living house, people come and people go; and thus i shall always be forced back into you.
back to you, back with you. i wrote all those post-its, that dent is my doing, you are mine. the dvds, the books, the origami boxes, the photos, the doodles, the poems. all there to compliment you. your hair, your make-up, your dangling earrings... the dreams, the madness, the silence. your torn leather jacket, your blood stains, your biker boots...
please, don't be pissed; right now, i just want to erase you...
i am tired; let me erase you.
2011-08-28
fragments
"hello, i love you, won't you tell me your name?"
"hello, i love you, let me jump in your game!"
his famous blue raincoat opened all sorts of doors last night. he wanted to skip stones between the bars, i wanted to look up at the parisienne moonlight.
i was talking in tongues, he was spitting riddles. he knew he was a reflection, but i kept getting confused.
"kissing is like riding a bicycle" he confessed, "you can't forget how to."
"i never had training wheels for kissing" i elaborated, "it's only natural i fall."
"that one looks kissable," he pointed out.
"not too eager, not too drunk.
and he has been checking you out.
he is obviously way below your league,
but it is wiser to start with small game.
will get you up to speed in no time."
"i stopped speeding years ago," i reminded him. "what's up with the hunting and racing talk? this is not a game i forgot to save. i am not going back a few levels just because i died. i can keep going. nobody but you can smell me rot."
he gave up pushing boys at my face. "i refuse to make zombies out of them you see. the ones that claw and pull and bite senselessly have all been torn by a ripper before." he wouldn't stop talking. "come now, pick one. make him feel like your creator just for one night. you can use my name, i know these days you don't like saying yours out loud. " he wanted me to fuck the numb away; i wanted him to shut the fuck up. it's hard to argue with a 20-year-old sex-deprived boy, even if he is actually you. so i tricked him. he was easy to trick. by the time we got home, we had everything we needed, rum and chocolate and a horror movie. he doesn't have nightmares, if you scare him enough before sleep. and chocolate makes him forget about boys in a jiffy.
"hello, i love you, let me jump in your game!"
his famous blue raincoat opened all sorts of doors last night. he wanted to skip stones between the bars, i wanted to look up at the parisienne moonlight.
i was talking in tongues, he was spitting riddles. he knew he was a reflection, but i kept getting confused.
"kissing is like riding a bicycle" he confessed, "you can't forget how to."
"i never had training wheels for kissing" i elaborated, "it's only natural i fall."
"that one looks kissable," he pointed out.
"not too eager, not too drunk.
and he has been checking you out.
he is obviously way below your league,
but it is wiser to start with small game.
will get you up to speed in no time."
"i stopped speeding years ago," i reminded him. "what's up with the hunting and racing talk? this is not a game i forgot to save. i am not going back a few levels just because i died. i can keep going. nobody but you can smell me rot."
he gave up pushing boys at my face. "i refuse to make zombies out of them you see. the ones that claw and pull and bite senselessly have all been torn by a ripper before." he wouldn't stop talking. "come now, pick one. make him feel like your creator just for one night. you can use my name, i know these days you don't like saying yours out loud. " he wanted me to fuck the numb away; i wanted him to shut the fuck up. it's hard to argue with a 20-year-old sex-deprived boy, even if he is actually you. so i tricked him. he was easy to trick. by the time we got home, we had everything we needed, rum and chocolate and a horror movie. he doesn't have nightmares, if you scare him enough before sleep. and chocolate makes him forget about boys in a jiffy.
2011-08-24
bedtime stories: acting
i remember, it was winter. i would go outside every once in a while to cool the sweats of dancing. lola would tell me to leave the jacket; she was tired of me reaching over her for the backpack, i remember. sickness didn't worry her, she was never the care giver, she only liked to be cared for.
i was standing outside, slightly trembling as i smoked through my pack. we could still smoke inside in those days. my t-shirt had several holes; not every one can dance and smoke at the same time. i cursed at lola under my breath, i needed my jacket. but you can't argue with her once she is drunk. i have a feeling she gets drunk to keep us all under her spell. he grabbed me from behind and planted a kiss on my cheek. i was big; he was bigger. i couldn't get away. i didn't really want to, mind you. i was cold, he was warm; and it took me only a glance at my waist to recognize him.
he turned me around, and lifted my chin. i could taste his kiss even before i saw his baby-blues. tall, blond and blue eyes; he was everything you were not. i never gave him my phone number. he had to find me in the bars. there are so many bars in this city, sometimes it took him months. he turned me around and lifted my chin. "bingo" he said, before he went in for my lips. “you smoke too much,” he said. “are you drunk?”, he asked. “let me take you home, you are shivering, it's almost dawn, you need to sleep, i will lay you down, and watch you dream...”
i wasn't done dancing, i wasn't done smoking, i wasn't done drinking. i wouldn't tell him i needed to be held that night, even his gaze would be enough. but i wouldn't tell him all that, all i could manage was "let me get you drunk." i grabbed his hand, i ignored his warmth, i didn't even stop for the kiss when he pulled me back into his arms. he was everything you were not, but he reminded me of you. maybe it was because he was living the life you so fiercely dreamt about.
i danced, sweat dropping from my face. i didn't even care he got himself wet every time he held me close. i was old, he was older. he laughed when i told him that. he thought him young, he saw me a child. but on every dawn we shared, right before he fell asleep on my chest, as he muttered the prayer "sleep with me," his eyes would tell mine "you are old, i am older." i danced, his gaze kept me warm and awake; no sweat shivers that night, no drunken sleep hiding behind the bottles. he was everything you were not, but he reminded me of you. i couldn't stay near him, but i couldn't let him leave. i could only let him hold me for so long, then i had to flee. but i didn't want him to be looking at anyone but me.
when he held me close, my face pressed against his chest, i could smell the theater on him. the scent pierced through the memories. you up on a stage, rehearsing, talking, practicing, exercising; me in the corner taking pictures, reading, laughing, listening, watching. you would jump down, run across, and plant me a forceful kiss. you were acting, you were always acting. you lived life as if it was a stage, you lived us as if we were a greek tragedy. acting was merely one of the ways you could be recognized, it wasn't your only dream. you dreamt about everything that could make a historical figure out of you. i couldn't convince you love was the only historical figure everyone recognized. when he held me close, i could smell the stage on him. he was an actor, something you never really became. you gave up on the theater too, like you gave up on us. he was an actor, and he was slightly famous. when he held me close, at those bars theater people go to, i could hear them whisper, what he did mattered, who he held was intriguing. my face pressed against his chest, his hands cupping my cheeks, his arms holding me from behind, it was the smell, it was the smell, that shook my knees. "stop resisting us" he would say, i wouldn't say "stop acting."
i went to one of his plays this year, he was brilliant. he was acting, and he was not. how blinded was i from memories, that i couldn’t see how genuine he was... when i stopped going to the bars; they say he didn’t stop looking for me. he would run into my friends, and look around for my face. i never gave him my phone number, so he wouldn’t ask it from anyone. i told you, i was old, he was older. it took me years to walk into a theater again. it took me years to love the stage again. i am still wary of actors, but i can at least recognize he was nothing like you. maybe it was because he was on stage every day, that he didn’t feel the need to act off it. maybe it was because he was older, or maybe he was just stable. he was everything you were not. even your acting was fake. you wanted so much; nothing was yours, nothing was enough.
i was standing outside, slightly trembling as i smoked through my pack. we could still smoke inside in those days. my t-shirt had several holes; not every one can dance and smoke at the same time. i cursed at lola under my breath, i needed my jacket. but you can't argue with her once she is drunk. i have a feeling she gets drunk to keep us all under her spell. he grabbed me from behind and planted a kiss on my cheek. i was big; he was bigger. i couldn't get away. i didn't really want to, mind you. i was cold, he was warm; and it took me only a glance at my waist to recognize him.
he turned me around, and lifted my chin. i could taste his kiss even before i saw his baby-blues. tall, blond and blue eyes; he was everything you were not. i never gave him my phone number. he had to find me in the bars. there are so many bars in this city, sometimes it took him months. he turned me around and lifted my chin. "bingo" he said, before he went in for my lips. “you smoke too much,” he said. “are you drunk?”, he asked. “let me take you home, you are shivering, it's almost dawn, you need to sleep, i will lay you down, and watch you dream...”
i wasn't done dancing, i wasn't done smoking, i wasn't done drinking. i wouldn't tell him i needed to be held that night, even his gaze would be enough. but i wouldn't tell him all that, all i could manage was "let me get you drunk." i grabbed his hand, i ignored his warmth, i didn't even stop for the kiss when he pulled me back into his arms. he was everything you were not, but he reminded me of you. maybe it was because he was living the life you so fiercely dreamt about.
i danced, sweat dropping from my face. i didn't even care he got himself wet every time he held me close. i was old, he was older. he laughed when i told him that. he thought him young, he saw me a child. but on every dawn we shared, right before he fell asleep on my chest, as he muttered the prayer "sleep with me," his eyes would tell mine "you are old, i am older." i danced, his gaze kept me warm and awake; no sweat shivers that night, no drunken sleep hiding behind the bottles. he was everything you were not, but he reminded me of you. i couldn't stay near him, but i couldn't let him leave. i could only let him hold me for so long, then i had to flee. but i didn't want him to be looking at anyone but me.
when he held me close, my face pressed against his chest, i could smell the theater on him. the scent pierced through the memories. you up on a stage, rehearsing, talking, practicing, exercising; me in the corner taking pictures, reading, laughing, listening, watching. you would jump down, run across, and plant me a forceful kiss. you were acting, you were always acting. you lived life as if it was a stage, you lived us as if we were a greek tragedy. acting was merely one of the ways you could be recognized, it wasn't your only dream. you dreamt about everything that could make a historical figure out of you. i couldn't convince you love was the only historical figure everyone recognized. when he held me close, i could smell the stage on him. he was an actor, something you never really became. you gave up on the theater too, like you gave up on us. he was an actor, and he was slightly famous. when he held me close, at those bars theater people go to, i could hear them whisper, what he did mattered, who he held was intriguing. my face pressed against his chest, his hands cupping my cheeks, his arms holding me from behind, it was the smell, it was the smell, that shook my knees. "stop resisting us" he would say, i wouldn't say "stop acting."
i went to one of his plays this year, he was brilliant. he was acting, and he was not. how blinded was i from memories, that i couldn’t see how genuine he was... when i stopped going to the bars; they say he didn’t stop looking for me. he would run into my friends, and look around for my face. i never gave him my phone number, so he wouldn’t ask it from anyone. i told you, i was old, he was older. it took me years to walk into a theater again. it took me years to love the stage again. i am still wary of actors, but i can at least recognize he was nothing like you. maybe it was because he was on stage every day, that he didn’t feel the need to act off it. maybe it was because he was older, or maybe he was just stable. he was everything you were not. even your acting was fake. you wanted so much; nothing was yours, nothing was enough.
i am here i am there
i am whoever you want me to be
a shell you can fill up and shake and empty
the dark and the booze are getting to my head
you are welcome to distract me
i am a pirate
the rum, the eye-patch, the limp
oh, i do hear the sirens calling
but they are not singing for me
my dick couldn't salute them for all it's worth
the bitches themselves sucked it dry
watch your step, cover your ears, hide your heart
they'll cut the song short if they think it's only me tonight
i am a biker
my ass tight in leather pants
my face, my hands, my boobs
they are the only parts lacking tattoos
no, you won't get to see the milky-whites
don't fret champ, you are not missing much
ask the guys, joy has the good titties
they like me for my snaky tongue
i'll let you see it if you deep pierce my heart
you can't touch my machine, but i can ride you tonight
i am a writer
a tidal mood, an aching head, pitch black eyes
writers are liars, my dear
don't listen to my cries
it is not you i love, i can't love what i can't read
you lack the book smell, your life lacks a heroine
i'll write you a fairy tale
i'll write you pretty pink dresses
i'll write me a loyal loving heart
you can keep them as long as you want
but i will be your knight only for tonight
i am a killer
i am a farmer
i am a student
i am not here
i am not there
i am a freezer
i am a door
i am a well
i am not here
i am not there
let's pretend my head is a ship
let's pretend my tounge is the rudder
you'd love to hear me speak
i am a thinker, i am a talker, i am a laugher
i can fool you, you'd love to be fooled
i am a man
i am a woman
i am not clean
i am not safe
i am not here
i am not there
a shell you can fill up and shake and empty
the dark and the booze are getting to my head
you are welcome to distract me
i am a pirate
the rum, the eye-patch, the limp
oh, i do hear the sirens calling
but they are not singing for me
my dick couldn't salute them for all it's worth
the bitches themselves sucked it dry
watch your step, cover your ears, hide your heart
they'll cut the song short if they think it's only me tonight
i am a biker
my ass tight in leather pants
my face, my hands, my boobs
they are the only parts lacking tattoos
no, you won't get to see the milky-whites
don't fret champ, you are not missing much
ask the guys, joy has the good titties
they like me for my snaky tongue
i'll let you see it if you deep pierce my heart
you can't touch my machine, but i can ride you tonight
i am a writer
a tidal mood, an aching head, pitch black eyes
writers are liars, my dear
don't listen to my cries
it is not you i love, i can't love what i can't read
you lack the book smell, your life lacks a heroine
i'll write you a fairy tale
i'll write you pretty pink dresses
i'll write me a loyal loving heart
you can keep them as long as you want
but i will be your knight only for tonight
i am a killer
i am a farmer
i am a student
i am not here
i am not there
i am a freezer
i am a door
i am a well
i am not here
i am not there
let's pretend my head is a ship
let's pretend my tounge is the rudder
you'd love to hear me speak
i am a thinker, i am a talker, i am a laugher
i can fool you, you'd love to be fooled
i am a man
i am a woman
i am not clean
i am not safe
i am not here
i am not there
2011-08-20
diaries of a stranger
it's complicated.
i always smiled condescendingly, whenever i heard that sentence about a romantic relationship. a few asked what that smile meant, and i replied with the talk of blacks and whites. you are either in one, or you are not, i said. not knowing should be hard on you, i continued. it should be eating away at your heart and soul. i wish you the strength to walk away; i wish you both the courage to make up your minds. with, poor baby, i ended my all-knowing monologues.
little did i know what the universe had in store for me. i had promised myself years ago, that i would never let a man through my thick walls, again. it was too dangerous, you see. i am a woman, and like most women, i, too, turn to jell-o and lose all sense when truly held. so i promised myself, i would never again become soft in a man's unknowing hands. that promise only grew hard and cold as days flew by. not a single person saw all of me. i made sure a part of me always remained behind doors. if i sensed anyone getting close, i fled without even a single glance over my determined shoulders.
little did i know.
little did i know i grew too confident behind my walls. i knew i could still feel, so what if he, who tried to remain close, didn't know the beginning of it. to give up was easy, and life was still beautiful without holding hands. i didn't fear kisses, for i never lost control. i didn't fear the warm smiles, for i never said more than i needed to. i didn't fear love, for i always slept alone. i had written my own rules, and by my own book i lived their lives. i didn't fear men, for it was me who got to rewrite them, and it was them who never got to read me.
it's complicated, i found myself saying, when he asked me if i had a boyfriend. and the condescending smile found its way to my lips way too quickly. it's complicated, i said, and more silly words that i never thought my tongue forming followed: i am not emotionally available if that's what you are asking. i am grateful he didn't ask more questions, i am in unknown territory, i wouldn't know how to answer them. i am not even sure how i got here; i don't remember when my fort broke down around me. yet, here i am, among the ruins in an open field, naked, standing in front of a man who might never see me.
it's complicated.
i broke down in front of him. i dreamt with him. i breathed him. i don't care if he thinks me weak, i don't mind if he doesn't love me. here i stand, as if i am standing in front of a mirror. not even ashamed that i broke my promise. i remember the day i made it, and i still remember the reasons. yet, i can't be mad at myself for altering the parameters.
it's complicated, i found myself saying. when she asked me if i loved him. it's complicated and i'm afraid we'll get lost. don't ask me anymore, i said. this is unknown territory, it is quicksand i am wading through. my heart and my logic are at war, and i don't care if the battle never ceases... she raised her glass to me, and to the man who got through. i raised my glass to all the grays i know so little of.
2011-08-10
i always smiled condescendingly, whenever i heard that sentence about a romantic relationship. a few asked what that smile meant, and i replied with the talk of blacks and whites. you are either in one, or you are not, i said. not knowing should be hard on you, i continued. it should be eating away at your heart and soul. i wish you the strength to walk away; i wish you both the courage to make up your minds. with, poor baby, i ended my all-knowing monologues.
little did i know what the universe had in store for me. i had promised myself years ago, that i would never let a man through my thick walls, again. it was too dangerous, you see. i am a woman, and like most women, i, too, turn to jell-o and lose all sense when truly held. so i promised myself, i would never again become soft in a man's unknowing hands. that promise only grew hard and cold as days flew by. not a single person saw all of me. i made sure a part of me always remained behind doors. if i sensed anyone getting close, i fled without even a single glance over my determined shoulders.
little did i know.
little did i know i grew too confident behind my walls. i knew i could still feel, so what if he, who tried to remain close, didn't know the beginning of it. to give up was easy, and life was still beautiful without holding hands. i didn't fear kisses, for i never lost control. i didn't fear the warm smiles, for i never said more than i needed to. i didn't fear love, for i always slept alone. i had written my own rules, and by my own book i lived their lives. i didn't fear men, for it was me who got to rewrite them, and it was them who never got to read me.
it's complicated, i found myself saying, when he asked me if i had a boyfriend. and the condescending smile found its way to my lips way too quickly. it's complicated, i said, and more silly words that i never thought my tongue forming followed: i am not emotionally available if that's what you are asking. i am grateful he didn't ask more questions, i am in unknown territory, i wouldn't know how to answer them. i am not even sure how i got here; i don't remember when my fort broke down around me. yet, here i am, among the ruins in an open field, naked, standing in front of a man who might never see me.
it's complicated.
i broke down in front of him. i dreamt with him. i breathed him. i don't care if he thinks me weak, i don't mind if he doesn't love me. here i stand, as if i am standing in front of a mirror. not even ashamed that i broke my promise. i remember the day i made it, and i still remember the reasons. yet, i can't be mad at myself for altering the parameters.
it's complicated, i found myself saying. when she asked me if i loved him. it's complicated and i'm afraid we'll get lost. don't ask me anymore, i said. this is unknown territory, it is quicksand i am wading through. my heart and my logic are at war, and i don't care if the battle never ceases... she raised her glass to me, and to the man who got through. i raised my glass to all the grays i know so little of.
2011-08-10
2011-08-13
2011-08-12
bedtime stories: that summer night
She called to ask him of her fresh-out-of-the-oven mistakes. He had always been keen to tell her of her flaws. It was facing him she built her armor. It was facing him she accepted her bowel movements. She called to ask him. She called to bargain with him:
“I’m a mess.
“I’m a mess.
You need to fix this.”
She was about to say:
“You are still holding on to my pieces.
Let them go. Be kind, rewind.
Put me back, –not together-
put me back, where you found me,
that damn summer night.”
He started speaking before she could make a sound. But first, she heard him sigh:
“I’ve dreamt you with someone else last night. I’ve dreamt you with someone else so many nights; I should be used to it. We’re through and you are free. So tell me, why do I feel like the day you fled torn and bloody, broken and erased? I’ve dreamt you with someone else, yet my hands ache like the day I ripped off your wings and danced. Is it because you hate me still? Is it because it burns when a man touches the skin I’ve pricked and chafed? It feels like a haunting, and you are not even dead yet. “
“You know I don’t hate you.
I already wrote the pain out.
I pity us our mistakes no more.
Our fingers molded beasts and daemons
out of beauty and angels, so be it.
Look, we survived, we survived each other.
Blood still pumps through our veins.”
“I’ve feared this day for years. You’ve started dreaming a future again, haven’t you? And you want the fragments I am holding on to? You want to be whole again, I get it. But, please, don’t ask me to forget you.”
“I need the beast back.
I need to be pissed off.
Cut the sentimental crap,
and fight me.”
“Don’t fool yourself; read between the lines, I am still the beast. But, you are fine now, I can feel it. I’ll forever regret fathering the little daemons out of you. But, fear no more, I now hear the voice of the angel I found that holy summer night.”
“Life is not a fairy tale,
and angels do not exist.
We were two fucked up kids,
who fucked each other up.
Yes, we loved, but we hated more.
Tell me of my daemons;
remind me why I am to die alone.”
“I know you don’t believe, but I have faith, God exists. You’ll go back to heaven, and in hell I shall pay for my sins. So, this is it, you’ve started dreaming again; someone got through. You can have the crumbs I’ve been holding on to, but I can’t and I won’t forget you. I promise I won’t let my left side ache for your weight as I sleep; I promise, I won’t call out your name in dreams; that’s the least I can do. I’m sorry I cauterized your heart shut, but now that you pried it open, I can peacefully put you back where I found you that damn summer night.”
2011-08-11
there is a photo of me in my parents' bedroom. there has always been a photo of me where mother slept. i can't decide if it means she likes to wake up to my smile, or if she looks at my shining face right before sleep and sighs for all the days i ooze pitch black.
"you are a sensitive child," i remember her saying, "things affect you." i didn't quite understand what she meant the first times i heard those words uttered, but in her eyes i could see it meant i was different, and her voice carried a profound heartbreak. i had always thought being sensitive was something to be proud of; sensitivity brought kindness with it, didn't it? yet, there it was, on my mother's face, the heartache i was bound to endure. [the roots of the ripper i invented as myself probably lie in her premonitions. she told me life would rip me apart, i told life i would rip it back.]
i don't remember the day that photo was taken, but it is a professional's work, for some sort of bureaucratic occasion. i am possibly 19, but i could be 21, too. timeline of one's life gets all distorted under the shadow of one's memories. you can find that same smile in my most recent photos, and that not-so-subtle sarcastic glint of my eyes probably sums up my attitude towards life, universe and everything. my cheeks are full, i didn't lose the baby-fat until 25. i have glasses on, thus i know i can't be older than 21. around that age i stopped wearing my glasses for almost 5 years. my hair is not it's natural dark colour. it looks somehow reddish. i must have dyed it with henna, or maybe a friend had managed to convince me to sit at a hairdresser long enough for it to be dyed "crimson." i don't know. yet, i remember that set of necklace and earrings. i used to wear those while i tried to convince the family that i had successfully fought off the first wave of my infamous depression. they are girly jewellery, unlike the ones i chose for my early twenties. the set was a gift from someone, they had arrived in a box, but i can't recall from whom, and why i wore them insistently. yet i remember playing with them, as i organized the dusty archives of the copyright agency. the back rooms were packed with books nobody had touched in years. somebody had to sit between the piles, and go through them. so many sentences i memorized in those dim-lit rooms, so many writers i met as i sneezed the dust every few minutes and played with my dangling earrings. yes, i'm probably 19 in that photo.
i still can't perceive why that photo is hung where my parents sleep. i have better photos than that. plus, when i was 19, i hated everything, to breathe i read. has my mother already forgotten? or does that photo forever remind her that i can scare hell away with a smile?
"you are a sensitive child," i remember her saying, "things affect you." i didn't quite understand what she meant the first times i heard those words uttered, but in her eyes i could see it meant i was different, and her voice carried a profound heartbreak. i had always thought being sensitive was something to be proud of; sensitivity brought kindness with it, didn't it? yet, there it was, on my mother's face, the heartache i was bound to endure. [the roots of the ripper i invented as myself probably lie in her premonitions. she told me life would rip me apart, i told life i would rip it back.]
i don't remember the day that photo was taken, but it is a professional's work, for some sort of bureaucratic occasion. i am possibly 19, but i could be 21, too. timeline of one's life gets all distorted under the shadow of one's memories. you can find that same smile in my most recent photos, and that not-so-subtle sarcastic glint of my eyes probably sums up my attitude towards life, universe and everything. my cheeks are full, i didn't lose the baby-fat until 25. i have glasses on, thus i know i can't be older than 21. around that age i stopped wearing my glasses for almost 5 years. my hair is not it's natural dark colour. it looks somehow reddish. i must have dyed it with henna, or maybe a friend had managed to convince me to sit at a hairdresser long enough for it to be dyed "crimson." i don't know. yet, i remember that set of necklace and earrings. i used to wear those while i tried to convince the family that i had successfully fought off the first wave of my infamous depression. they are girly jewellery, unlike the ones i chose for my early twenties. the set was a gift from someone, they had arrived in a box, but i can't recall from whom, and why i wore them insistently. yet i remember playing with them, as i organized the dusty archives of the copyright agency. the back rooms were packed with books nobody had touched in years. somebody had to sit between the piles, and go through them. so many sentences i memorized in those dim-lit rooms, so many writers i met as i sneezed the dust every few minutes and played with my dangling earrings. yes, i'm probably 19 in that photo.
i still can't perceive why that photo is hung where my parents sleep. i have better photos than that. plus, when i was 19, i hated everything, to breathe i read. has my mother already forgotten? or does that photo forever remind her that i can scare hell away with a smile?
2011-08-09
i am having resplendent dreams these days, it is when i am awake everything reeks black.
i write, i can't stop the words;
i talk, every soul needs soothing;
yet i won't reach for the one i want.
(i won't really want to. i won't, i swear.)
i refuse to wear my glasses; if i keep this up the fuzziness will flood over the sides, just a while longer and the memories are bound to diffuse.
i know why i chose the thickest book;
it is the shrapnel of hair strands hidden between the pages,
it is those sneaky bastards that keep shaking me silly.
i am a big girl. i'll read this through. i'll write it out. it is the last thing i want to do, but that's another story. for now, i'll just do what i must. afterall, i am 27, going on 8.
i write, i can't stop the words;
i talk, every soul needs soothing;
yet i won't reach for the one i want.
(i won't really want to. i won't, i swear.)
i refuse to wear my glasses; if i keep this up the fuzziness will flood over the sides, just a while longer and the memories are bound to diffuse.
i know why i chose the thickest book;
it is the shrapnel of hair strands hidden between the pages,
it is those sneaky bastards that keep shaking me silly.
i am a big girl. i'll read this through. i'll write it out. it is the last thing i want to do, but that's another story. for now, i'll just do what i must. afterall, i am 27, going on 8.
2011-08-04
GÜNAYDIN DÜNYA!!!!
i tossed and turned in my big bed until i woke up to the house phone ringing. i had the covers curled up into a ball in my arms while sister asked me if i would accompany her to an event held by a feminist woman from algeria. "i have an appointment at 6 pm, we'll leave with the 3:45 pm bus, you'll get to read until 7:00, the event starts at 7:30." too many numbers, sister, i said, i have merely slept 3 hours, let me have my coffee first, i might come, i might not come. when i hung up the phone all i could remember was the 3:45 bus, and that thing about me being able to read until 7. i checked my e-mail to see if there was anything about work. zilch. i looked into the mirror to see if i had the energy to be depressed today. nope. i wiggled my fingers to figure out if they could work on the thesis. not really. "i am still drunk i think, and can't seem to wake up and decide what to do with the day, so i'll come along." she yay'ed into my poor ear and mutated my infamous sentence back to me "when in doubt, say yes!"
watch it sister, i might just as well make that my motto for a while. i poured myself another cup of coffee, while thinking i could wear a real summer dress today: strapless, long, airy. that's an advantage of a real summer, you can wear real summer dresses. and the other sister called yet with another plan, all i heard was "come with me", i wrote down the dates in my little notebook and said "yes".
when in doubt, say yes.
do you hear that, world?
with that motto, i won't get to be royally depressed.
helei.
nono, i mean it.
watch it sister, i might just as well make that my motto for a while. i poured myself another cup of coffee, while thinking i could wear a real summer dress today: strapless, long, airy. that's an advantage of a real summer, you can wear real summer dresses. and the other sister called yet with another plan, all i heard was "come with me", i wrote down the dates in my little notebook and said "yes".
when in doubt, say yes.
do you hear that, world?
with that motto, i won't get to be royally depressed.
helei.
nono, i mean it.
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