Some People Have Real Problems - Ode to Sia

Some people have real problems

I read one day

On the jacket of a cd.


No place to stay

A black eye from last night’s domestic fight

Locked away by the flip of a coin: a case of mistaken evidence

Abandoned by irresponsible parents


Some people have imaginary problems

Electric currents pulsing through you in rapid succession

Turning beauty into nightmare

Happiness to emptiness

Easy to hard

Energy to inertia

Lust to love


Some people have no problems

In a perfect world

A perfect inner heaven

A perfect bountiful sea


Some people can’t tell the difference

Nonna Mia

Once upon a time,
She was vibrant,
The quintessential grandmother
A homestyle meal, a fresh salad from the garden, a slap on the rump
When your actions were just a bit on the 'cheeky' side
And I loved that woman.
But she left us,
Years ago now,
Her body on earth, but her mind far away
Now...her body has joined her mind.
Farewell, nonna mia.
You're on a new journey now.

Opening the Eye

I taste the salt from my belly button

Tinged with the memory of tears

As I try to open the eye

I feel myself sinking back into the depths

Of where I was

And can no longer be

I open the pages

To scribbles written

Barely legible

Telling me of truths

That my cells already know

But are too full to absorb

The eye is pink and crusty

But I crack it open

And read.

Asparagus Gym

I wake up at 5:45a.m. and my body cringes at the thought of rising from the comfort of bed. It is cold out there. Everything tells me to refuse the offer of a sunrise workout.

But I get up and I go and pick asparagus as my hamstrings, my quadraceps and my glutes burn hour upon hour.

And I smile as I pause...I'm being paid for this. For getting back into shape.

I am blessed.

How to Disappear Completely

How to Disappear Completely- Radiohead

It is time. I have spent enough time doing things for others, trying to make things work, trying to repay debts, trying to keep relationships alive and well. Now is my time and I know what to do.

Now, it is time for me. I embark upon a journey unknown, a future unknown, a life unplanned, without expectation, except to find myself.

One day, perhaps, I will return. Perhaps I will be stronger. Perhaps I will have a sense of self that will not fade or hide or die. Perhaps I will be what I've always wanted.

Now, it is time. Time to disappear completely.

Catch and Release

What can I say? You brought me the greatest joy...and ultimately the most unbearable pain. I wonder everyday if it was all worth it.

The truth of the matter is...everyday I don't know.

Perhaps I never will.

 Catch

It is so.

Your fuck-a-foreigner fantasy…
Fulfilled.

One more tick off your list.
And poof…I am forgotten.

You have planted a seed
Inside me

A forget-me-not

And I am feverish with
The memories I once believed
Were real.

Love?
An illusion I once blindly subscribed to.

But you knew.
The truth and the lies to bestow
Upon an unsuspecting soul.

I scratch at my full-body rash
And rivulets of blood
Run down in a slow trickle.

I cannot rid myself of
That which you have planted.

It has already taken root.

I am here: poisoned.

You are there: conscience clear.


Release

The sun has set.
Dusk fades into black.

It is quiet,
The air, still
My mind heavy.

I release the memory of us,
You are free
From me
What we had
And what could have been.

I was difficult.
Perhaps.

You were difficult
And never let me try.

I was yours,
Completely.

I realize now
You were never mine.

Zombie

Like a zombie rising
I walk through my days
In slow motion

Wading through the muck
Neck-deep
My face exposed to the elements

Stripping away what’s left of my life

All the mistakes
I’ve made

All the lies
I’ve uncovered

All the betrayal
I’ve experienced

I’m tired

This life was not what I wanted.

Anger

Career?! Disease?! Control?! Love?! Culture?! Life!!!

Hope...

...is DEAD.

13 Angels Standing Guard at the Foot of Your Bed

13 Angels Standing Guard at the Foot of Your Bed- A Silver Mt. Zion
I don't know if I believe in Angels, but if they do exist and if there are some good ones around us, spirits who watch over us and send vibrations of peace and calm, I wish they would stand over my bed and bless me with their presence.

In a world full of death, inflicted upon us by humans lost in despair or by Mother Nature herself, we could all use some indication that it is not all for naught.

I lay down in a dark room and close my eyes. I let myself absorb the energy and it restores me.

This is how I would want them to sound.

Weakness Is My Lover Tonight

1999

It is the admission of weakness that has me here tonight. I can taste the night-time air at the back of my throat, forcing me to hurt my brain. I don’t want to breathe in this frigidity but I cannot live without it. So I inhale. And again the taste of failure, cold, biting, cruel enters my body, headed straight for my thought processing system that seems to have taken a day off today. Those many feet of seemingly swollen veins have declared a self-proclaimed holiday. And the rest of me rebels. Arms, stop shivering. They raise up from my sides, undulations emerging from their once steady swing. It is a dance that follows the rhythm of the clarinet and the lonely beat of the conga drum. The sounds of the wailing, thin reed instrument, piercing the air with the precision of a Haitian’s sharp wandering eyes, and the trippy taps of the conga, making me think of the speed of incoming storm clouds, induce my torso to join in the prayer of thanking life for music.

Here I am raising up from the ground, my feet finding steps in the air for which to ascend. Each step beckons to me, inviting me with “mmmm’s”, “rrrr’s”, “yes’s” “no’s”, “yes’s know your woes despite your clothes.” Each step reveals the colors I need to ingest to be whole. And as the music continues its Indian/African vibe, I collect my soul and step onto the first step. Charcoal, onyx, ebony, dark. “Here I am” it whispers. Who are you? “Let’s see….”

Warmth, like the kind felt from a man pressed against your backside after a long bought of heavy breathing, appears, soothing in its delicacy. I am in “a safe place?” Yes. My life comes from the woman I hear making strange noises. I breathe through her, eat through her. The sound that I often hear goes up and down like a see saw, curving and lilting in a singsong manner Often I bump around in here, when the one who wants me is making that noise. My home rumbles at times like those. I kind of like it. It can be really loud and it’s always joyful and I never want it to go away. Laughter.

I move away from that step, my past having taken up a nice chunk of the “on vacation” linguine in my head. Another step looks more recent, it has my symbol on it, painted in blood. I step onto it.

Determination tastes like oxygenated semen sometimes, thick and acidic. Other times it tastes like pineapple, also acidic yet juicy. Thin, I guess you’d say. This time determination is like the pineapple. I’ve found a razor blade from a Bic razor. It looks a little old, like feet that don’t get washed enough and accumulate skin and other natural products between the toes. Part of this razor looks this way, the rust hanging on like the crust between one’s toes, or the crust around sliced bread; sometimes it’s hard to get rid of it. My brother wraps the less appealing side of this otherwise perfectly healthy piece of shiny metal with a gray, iridescent piece of duct tape. Gray like the fake gray people go to the hairdresser’s for to cover up their otherwise dull gray like a ten year old scouring pan hair. He uses the match to sterilize the blade and I always like the split second smell of that head’s red hair catching on fire, giving me a disgustingly pleasant whiff of rotting eggs. It reminds me of the two-hour car ride to the beach when we pass by the sulfur pits: “Source Puante.”

He draws on my back with a pen. He tells me, “I’m gonna start cutting now.” Anticipation. Tastes like… the extra production of saliva right before you eat the piece of strawberry cheesecake you’ve been eyeing for the past minute. Then a stinging sensation, like a papercut, no, less painful because you expect it, like five mosquitoes biting you in the same precise spot at the same precise moment. Yes, that is what is felt. I can taste the iron of my blood spilling into the cotton balls I know he applies to my carved skin. I can imagine the cotton sucking up the bright redness like cattails suck up oil on ocean surfaces. And when it’s over, I run to the bathroom and turn my back to the mirror, craning my neck around, not exactly like a crane, but I try, and I see the circular gouged-out pieces of skin, filling up with rivulets of my personal liquid. I smile. This is my gift to myself.

I step off that step which has helped me somewhat in my quest to eradicate my weakness tonight. But still, there is a lingering wisp of it, twirling about my face, like the skinny piece of silk you run into, where you were not aware a spider lived. And often when there
is one small thread, you can run into many others. A web of weakness. This is the weakness felt when you’ve just had a head on collision with a taxi cab on a dark Haitian road that is framed by a mountain on one side, and a ravine on the other. It is the uncontrollable shaking that persists even two hours after the accident has happened, when you know you’re safe but you can’t believe how close you came to death. It is the weakness felt when a man in his forties, who is merely supposed to help you with your bad back (after all he is a doctor), takes you out for dinner, buying you drinks you didn’t ask for and touching your hand while telling you how pretty an eighteen year old you are. It is the weakness felt when you hear a man you thought you knew, scream profanities to you on the phone and you swear your heart has suddenly decided it’s been on a two-hour marathon and your brain has only just found out. It is the weakness felt when you know you should have listened to your gut feeling and instead you listened to your brain.

I take one last step. This one the many shades of brown that one encounters every day. Burnt ember, sienna, dark chocolate, marabou, cocoa. Here, I am all of you. I become that cinnamon breeze that wafts through your nose. I become the funk in your sweat. I become the nine year old blind dog that you still love so devotingly. I become the alarm clock you wake up to in the morning, and the crisp apple you bite into to soothe your parched throat. I become you and we become one. On this step, I understand you. And so being, I understand myself.

And so the weakness, once before felt, dissipates like mist so often does, with the strength of the heat of the sun. But that is only when the sun has risen. Right now, it is still dark.

Sorrow

I rise in the morning and stumble off to take a shower. The water is scorching hot. I cringe and pull back from the pain.

I chop vegetables and injure myself on the index finger. Blood seeps through. I place my lips on the wound.

I hike up a mountain and two days later I can feel the soreness in my glutes and my shins. It hurts.

I drink water and then continue with my Taekwondo. I get a stitch in my side. I have to stop.

I am alive. I feel, I experience, I continue everyday, moving past those pangs, pricks, stings and aches. They are testaments to the fragility and strength of our bodies. I welcome those sensations.

Everyday, I wake up in the same bed and everything resurfaces. The aches and twinges go away with time as the body heals from the inside out. And you can feel your body healing and it's a daily little miracle.

But memory, memory is not a flesh wound. It jump starts the anguish that grows, not fades away.

They say pain heals with time; all pain. But with me and with time, the hurt, the torment, the torture, the agony, the woe, the grief...they grow. And now I have a full-blown tree inside me, black with misery.

Each day, each branch grows an inch and I can feel myself stretch from exertion. I am becoming misshapen, distorted, a mutated form of what was.

I have tried several doors. They are locked. I have no keys.

I have no tools, I cannot pick them.

I have no strength, I cannot break them down.

I have no love, I cannot sweet-talk them.

I am here, in this windowless room, my body taking root in the ashy ground of despair, staring at impenetrable barriers.

And I know. I know what I must do.


Pneumonia - Bjork

Get over the sorrow, girl

The world is always going
To be made of this

You can trust in it
Unless you breathe in
Bravely

I adore how you

Simply

Surrender to high

High

And your lungs

They're mourning
T-b style

All the still-born love
That could have happened
All the moments
You should have embraced
All the moments
You should have not locked up

Understand so clearly
To shut yourself up
Would be the hugest crime of them all

Hugest crime

Of them all
You're just crying

After all

Do not want them

Humans around

Anymore

Get over that sorrow, girl

Get over it

Real Men?

What does it mean to be a man? Societies in the west, and the east for that matter, have shaped the essence of what a man should be. It used to be that gentleman who opened the door for you, that person who held the small of your back as you walked. Even in present day some people think a man is someone who will stand on the edge of the sidewalk when with a woman, to protect her from any potential accidents off the streets.

A man was a provider, a protector, a person of substance that could be counted on.

A man was not supposed to cry, a man was not supposed to play with dolls. A man was supposed to fight to protect, he was supposed to die for the good of others. He was supposed to bask in the glory of that sacrifice.

He was to take on the burden of feeding his family and yet not get too involved in his childrens' lives. He was to be the discipliner, the strength of the family, the one that all looked up to.

A man was described as the strong, silent type. The tall, dark, handsome type. The Heathcliffs, Edward Rochesters and Darcys of this world... the James Bonds, Supermans and Batmans...

He was impenetrable and it was the woman's job to break through that barrier and find the human beneath the shell. The Catherines, the Janes, the Elizabeths... they were the strengths behind the strengths.

All my life, all I wanted was honesty and respect. I didn't need that uncrying, unfeeling gentleman of a person. I wanted truth, spelled out for me to see.

The honesty to be weak, if that were the case. The respect that meant that if things could not be realized, if my needs could not be met, that I would be told as a person who deserved to be told; without pressure, without cajolery, without anger aimed.

Very few people have done that for me. Those are the real men, in my mind. The Matts, the Wissams... I never expected to go through this world without being hurt. Though I tend to be on the naive side, I never expected to live a life unscathed.

But I did expect honesty, I did expect respect.

There is no greater pain in this world than the actions from others which imply you are not worthy of those things.

So where are those real men? The men who are, first and foremost, human?

I do not deny that pride is a necessity. I have lived much of my little life clinging to that concept. But there are greater things in this life than pride.

As I inch towards death, each day progressing towards that inevitable fate, I realize the futility of pride. It only serves to separate yourself. Pride is what separates those that condemn themselves to a life lived alone, from those who keep trying to live a life. Not free of pain, that seems more impossible as time edges on, but a life that includes possibilities.

I am stripped of pride. I stripped myself. I have done things that I can never take back, perhaps out of desperation (yes, most definitely), but also out of hope that some good can come out of mistakes.

We will never be free of mistakes; the key is to acknowledge them and try to move forward. I used to be incapable of forgiveness and I have to work, daily to forgive others for the pain they cause. But of all the forgiveness I must learn, it is forgiveness for my mistakes and my weaknesses that I must try to achieve.

So, are the real men out there? Who are you? Where do you hide? Can you survive in the world of superheros and expectations? Can you survive in the face of disappointment? Can you survive?

There are some women out there, some women who are looking for those pure things: honesty, respect.

Simple words...but so difficult to live up to.


Real Men - Tori Amos (cover)


Take your mind back
I don’t know when
Sometime when it always seemed
To be just us and them

Girls that wore pink
Boys that wore blue
Boys that always grew up better men
Than me and you

What’s a man now, what’s a man mean
Is he rough or is he rugged
Cultural and clean

Now it’s all changed, it’s got to change more
We think it’s getting better
But nobody’s really sure

And so it goes, go round again
But now and then we wonder who the real men are

See the nice boys, dancing in pairs
Golden earring, golden tan
Blow-waving the hair

Sure they’re all straight, straight as a line
All the guys are macho
See the leather shine

You don’t want to sound dumb, don’t want to offend
So don’t call me a faggot
Not unless you are a friend

Then if you’re tall, handsome, and strong
You can wear the uniform and I could play along

And so it goes, go round again
But now and then we wonder who the real men are

Time to get scared, time to change plan
Don’t know how to treat a lady
Don’t know how to be a man

Time to admit what you call defeat
Cause there’s women running past you now
And you just drag your feet

Man makes a gun, man goes to war
Man can kill and man can drink
And man can take a whore

Kill all the blacks, kill all the reds
If there’s war between the sexes
Then there’ll be no people left

And so it goes, go round again
But now and then we wonder who the real men are

And so it goes, go round again
But now and then we wonder who the real men are

And so it goes, go round again
But now and then we wonder who the real men are

The Wind Shall Carry Everything Away

When I first moved to France, I didn't think (being the somewhat more judgemental person that I was at that time) I would like any French music. The only music I had known was from the likes of Charles Asznavour and Edith Piaf, music that I felt were somewhat outdated. But my lover at that time, the one for whom I moved to France, introduced me to many different bands and I discovered new worlds. This is the beauty of travel.

Students often ask me, of all the places I have visited, which countries have I loved the most, and which have I hated. I can never answer that question and it's not for fear of being unfair. In truth, I do not know. Every country has given to me and taken away from me. In every place, I have learned something and I have appreciated something. Every culture is an opportunity for growth and knowledge and every place, a place of beauty.

While still living in Canada, he introduced me to Noir Desir, one of the most popular French bands. I could not describe the style of music, probably in the pop-rock genre, but it sounds too hollow to categorize in such a way. One of their songs spoke to me then and I have never forgotten it. It is called "Le Vent Nous Portera" or "The Wind Will Carry Us."

It inspired me to write a poem the summer after he and I had been separated by the Atlantic Ocean and a year before I was to pack up my bags and follow him into an uncertain future.


Le Vent L’emportera July 14, 2002


Managing to take the pleasures out of summer.
Gentle breeze of the fan on medium,
Passionate music
Quiet evening
Mood lighting
And yet

Headache and heartache
And bodyaches
For a far away being
A remembered sight seen
Only in the mind’s eye
Only in the pictures lying
Across the apartment floor


I do not know
I can not know
I will not know when he’ll return

Shall I be tough and go away,
Away in my heart, from my heart
Smothered in blood, sullied with tears
Salty seas of a sadness so deep
The swim-less should beware

Some say the wind will blow it away
And hearts can be won back,
scarred but free of inundation

I do not know what to believe
When the sun has gone and doesn’t want to rise

When sleep sits just out of reach and pillows become hard
When the gentle breeze of that fan blows heat from the depths of the earth


Will the wind blow it out of the way
Will I not feel like I’m spinning out of control

Will my heart harden
Making strength from softness

Will I hear that beautiful voice whisper in my ear again
As I am slowly falling asleep

Whisper dreams of the future
In a country far away with a studio for him
And an office for me
With three horse-sized dogs and two kids
With an ocean as our back yard
All in the language of love

Will he ever do as he’s said and paint portraits of me
Naked on an unmade bed,
Portraits of a woman in love and loved
By the man who paints her

Will he return and entice her to move in with him
In an apartment full of light and life
Where they can start living like neither of them has ever experienced

Or will the dream die before his return
Will it drown in her salty sea
In the bottomless depth of self-pity
A sort of sanctuary.

Below, the original lyrics of the song followed by a translation that I found online and tweaked a little bit. It's very hard to translate from French to English because French is such a powerfully poetic language that often gets lost in English.



Le Vent Nous Portera - Noir DesirOriginal LyricsJe n'ai pas peur de la route
Faudrait voir, faut qu'on y goûte
Des méandres au creux des reins
Et tout ira bien là
Le vent nous portera.

Ton message à la Grande Ourse
Et la trajectoire de la course
Un instantané de velours
Même s'il ne sert à rien va
Le vent l'emportera.

Tout disparaîtra mais
Le vent nous portera.

La caresse et la mitraille
Et cette plaie qui nous tiraille
Le palais des autres jours
D'hier et demain
Le vent les portera.

Génétique en bandoulière
Des chromosomes dans l'atmosphère
Des taxis pour les galaxies
Et mon tapis volant dis ?
Le vent l'emportera.

Tout disparaîtra mais
Le vent nous portera.

Ce parfum de nos années mortes
Ce qui peut frapper à ta porte
Infinité de destins
On en pose un et qu'est-ce qu'on en retient?
Le vent l'emportera.

Pendant que la marée monte
Et que chacun refait ses comptes
J'emmène au creux de mon ombre
Des poussières de toi
Le vent les portera.

Tout disparaîtra mais
Le vent nous portera.


English Translation

I do not fear the journey,
I'll have to see,
I'll have to taste it,
Meanderings through the loins,
And everything will go well there,
The wind will carry us.

Your message to the Big Bear
And the trajectory of the path,
A velvet moment,
And even if it has no purpose,
The wind will carry it away.

All will disappear but
The wind will carry us.

The caress and the shellfire
And this wound that gnaws
A palace of former days
Of yesterday and tomorrow
The wind will carry them away.

Genetics slung across the shoulder
Chromosomes in the air
Taxis for the galaxies
And my flying carpet says?
The wind will carry it away

All will disappear but
The wind will carry us.

This perfume of our dead years
That which may knock at your door
The infinity of destinies
We set one down and what remains?
The wind will carry it away

While the tide is rising
And everyone reviews their accounts
I bring into the hollow of my shadow
Particles of you
The wind will carry them away.

And all will disappear but
The wind will carry us.

Selfish

Soft heart, beware: those pretty blue bruises
We are the same, adorned with different colored paper
Sensibilities on hyper-tension
We watch the same painting, enthralled
And yet I see nothing but the sky
And he, nothing but the sea

I am Venus, he Mars
4 days a week
I am Mars, he, Venus
A blessing and a bane

One look and a mouthless voice screams
“Independence!”
I am a strange bird
Loved: the pretty feathers! Mars-like quality!
Novelty that soon wears off

And along with the newness dies the indulgence
I am now: cold, heartless, uncaring, selfish

Once sugar-coated in brilliant feathers
Now an ugly monster
Shunned and feared

My only mistake
That first responding smile
My person, intact
My vision now skewed.

Truth

Truth

Tumbling towards the travesty of truth
Tick tock goes the clock

Touch me, touch me not
Today, tomorrow, together…?

Troubles treble
Tirades teeming, steaming
Up
The windows

Time tastes…iron-like
Like a blow to the mouth

It hurts,
But I smile
A bloody, trembling grin
Distracting from
The rest.

I Really Want You - A Performer's Words

Last night I went to see James Blunt in concert. I was expecting a pretty low key affair. When I've seen him in videos he always seemed sad, depressed. I was really shocked to see him live in Seoul with an energy and an intensity way beyond my expectations. He smiled a lot, he was in his element; not only a composer and singer, but also an entertainer.

He was really enjoying himself and I could almost see how he was absorbing the energy from the audience, even surprising us by jumping into the crowd and running through, letting everyone touch him. I was up in the rafters, but that was okay. Running up to touch an artist is not really my thing. I don't need to touch, I don't need an autograph, I just want to experience.

I went alone and sat next to some Americans, one of whom was an interesting woman from California. It was an awesome concert. I'm really happy I got to see the pleasure on his face, a smile like a five-year old child's, lighting up the stage.

The more morose songs were sung with every fiber of his being and I felt a connection there, like we had experienced similar things. I had downloaded songs from his "All the Lost Souls" album, since I hadn't had a chance to buy it yet. There was a song there called "I Really Want You." I guess I must have downloaded a shortened version. It was not among my favorites. But last night, I heard a different version and I was carried away by his words. Words that reflected my own heart. I absorbed the energy of it all and wished he could hear it.

After the show, they were selling his albums. I bought it and when I listened to it at home, it was missing something. During the concert, James Blunt added some verses of his own. The original lyrics:


I Really Want You - James Blunt

Many prophets preach on bended knee Many clerics wasted wine.
Do the bloodied sheets on those cobbled streets mean I have wasted time?
Are there silver shores on paradise? Can I come in from the cold?
I killed a man in a far away land, my enemy I'm told.

I really want you to really want me, but I really don't know if you can do that.
I know you want to know what's right, but I know it's so hard for you to do that.
And time's running out as often it does, and often dictates that you can't do that.
But fate can't break this feeling inside that's burning up through my veins.

I really want you.
I really want you.
I really want you- now.
No matter what I say or do, the message isn't getting through,
And you're listening to the sound of my breaking heart.
I really want you.
I really want you.

Is a poor man rich in solitude, or will Mother Earth complain?
Did the beggar pray for a sunny day, but Lady luck for rain?
They say a million people bow and scrape to an effigy of gold.
I saw life begin and the ship we're in and history unfold.

I really want you to really want me but I really don't know if you can do that.
I know you want to know what's right but I know it's so hard for you to do that.
And time's running out as often it does and often dictates that you can't do that.
But fate can't break this feeling inside that's burning up through my veins.

I really want you.
I really want you.
I really want you- now.
No matter what I say or do, the message isn't getting through,
And you're listening to the sound of my breaking heart.
No matter what I say or do, the message isn't getting through,
And you're listening to the sound of my breaking heart.

During the concert he added words to this effect:I killed a man in a far away land, my enemy I'm told. So I went to see him and I saw that he looked just like me...
We are our biggest enemies. The doubts, insecurities and pain we feel are always greater when we inflict them upon ourselves. I can say this intellectually, I can understand it logically, but it is my heart dictating my every cell and I have not been able to turn it off. Will I wake up one day with a heart cast in stone? Is it possible? I struggle between wishing for it and rejecting it. One day, I will wake up and the decision will have been made. I will wait and see what happens.

I Do Not Want This

I discovered Nine Inch Nails in high school. I'm not sure who introduced me to them or whether I found out about them on my own, but there was something about Trent Reznor's lyrics that spoke to me. He was able to convey to me a feeling that I could relate to even then and I can feel that sense of desperation, anger and hopelessness even today. He speaks to me still; it's as though he understands what I've felt, what I feel and how futile life seems at times. There is a comfort in knowing that thoughts and feelings can be conveyed to others in such different forms of art. An homage to Nine Inch Nails.

Thanks for your words, your music.

I Do Not Want This - Nine Inch Nails


I'm losing ground
You know how this world can beat you down
And I'm made of clay
I fear I'm the only one who thinks this way

I'm always falling down the same hill
Bamboo puncturing this skin
And nothing comes bleeding out of me just like a waterfall I'm drowning in
2 feet below the surface I can still make out your wavy face
And if I could just reach you maybe I could leave this place

I do not want this
I do not want this
I do not want this
I do not want this

Don't you tell me how I feel
Don't you tell me how I feel
Don't you tell me how I feel
You don't know just how I feel

I stay inside my bed
I have lived so many lives all in my head
Don't tell me that you care
There really isn't anything now, is there?

You would know, wouldn't you?
You extend your hand to those who suffer
To those who know what it really feels like
To those who've had a taste
Like that means something
And oh so sick I am
And maybe I don't have a choice
And maybe that is all I have
And maybe this is a cry for help

I do not want this
I do not want this
I do not want this
I do not want this

Don't you tell me how I feel
Don't you tell me how I feel
Don't you tell me how I feel
You don't know just how I feel

I want to know everything
I want to be everywhere
I want to fuck everyone in the world
I want to do something that matters

Desperation

It was all I could do to stop from calling. Yesterday I felt like desperation was the word of the day. My heart screamed to hear that voice on the other side of the phone. It lay beside me and I stared at it as both a savior and an enemy. If I called...what would happen? Would he pick up? Would he let it ring into the open? Would I get the response I wanted or would my actions crush me yet further?

I remember the night I confessed. I broke down in rivers of tears as I gave him my heart, bruised and damaged as it was. But I gave it. Fear had taken over my throat, gripping it in a vice as the sobs escaped into the night. And he held me, giving me hope that I had not given in vain.

As time passes and I see the world continues to function, I break down a little more each day. They say time heals all wounds, but time has worked against me here.

I used to cling to my pride, a precious untouchable thing. As I felt love encompass me, I let pride go and followed my heart. The things I have done, the words I've uttered, the looks I have given and the tears I have shed were devoid of that pride. Many a person has mistaken me for a cold-hearted woman, removed from the feeling that being alive entails. It is not as it seems. Those that take the time and look beyond the surface can see that pulsing organ beat as warmly and as truly as their own.

Desperation is devoid of pride. Instead you are on autopilot, driven by a force beyond your thoughts. And I am weaker now than I feel I've ever been and all I can hope for is an end to it all. If I disappeared, I would be running away. And I have never run.

Today, it seems like such a sweet path. Run from the memories, the sights, the smells...

I remember watching the movie "Someone Like You". The main character went through a bad breakup, her heart shattered, and she went to a doctor and asked for her sense of smell to be removed. A strange request, granted, but she wanted to erase the memories associated with the smells of her former lover. I would, if I could, have my memories removed. Start over, forget the desperation, the wonder, the agony.

How do you rebuild a shattered world? Work is done on automatic though there are moments and there are students who manage to bring out in me real smiles from time to time; taekwondo forces me to concentrate on my muscles, the discipline it entails, but beyond that is a chasm of darkness that begins as soon as the alarm clock sounds and ends as my exhausted body finally, finally drifts off to sleep.

As I lay in bed last night, pain radiated throughout my body. I could feel the bruises with each movement on the cold sheets. I had been through a war with myself and I managed to keep my hands from that phone. There are many moments when I want to destroy that silent communicator, throw away my computer and crawl into a dark space and sleep the memories away.

This is what people seek in heroine, cocaine, opium...The oblivion of escape. The core of me cannot accept that form of escape, but I understand.

You would think, as you got older, that breakups would get easier. You've felt the pain before, should it be a surprise each and every time? Do we not subconsciously prepare for such eventualities? Have we not bounced back from those times to emerge stronger?

But as I age, it just gets to be torture. A wheel of torture being cranked every day, tighter, tighter and yet tighter as the days progress. Time moves at a snail's pace and every inch of your mind and body is stretched to its limits until days, hours, minutes and seconds pass in infinitesimal increments and all becomes a blur.

Alfred Lord Tennyson once wrote:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

I always believed that. What sadness to have lived a life without love? Can I still swallow that thought without choking on it? I fight with myself daily to keep from feeling regret. It's always been a waste of time to regret, hasn't it? I struggle to keep anger at bay. One of my male friends told me that it was healthy to feel anger and that I should embrace it, but I cannot. I will not. If I do feel it, it is for myself and myself alone. Anger for being so desperate, for relinquishing control when the odds were stacked against me, for not being able to let go, for being weak, for loving him alone, for sitting here and writing about a man I will probably never see, hear from or know again.

Desperation pushes me to write this, in the hopes that I will feel better, if but for a brief moment. In the meantime, I am on that wheel, and I am cranking it by myself, my own torturer, my face set with resignation and my heart, still in my breast, shredded to pieces.

Questions

Tonight, as I sat in class with my students, we discussed excerpts from "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus". I had re-read this book while in India in December and on until January, upon my return, but oh, how we forget!

As we read the excerpts in class I saw the errors of my ways. I see now that I should have been more understanding, more patient, more open-minded towards you.

I was hurting and each person reacts differently to pain. Some back away and hide, as you did, and others confront this issue and perhaps, at times, beat it over the head. That's me. That's always been me and though I have tried to curb my natural tendancies, I suppose those few months of insecurity lead to my impatience. And for that I'm sorry.

I wonder, daily, whether things could have turned out differently. Was it really out of my hands? Would you have left me regardless of my support? Or did I drive you away? I want to talk to you, find a common ground, clear the air, but you have escaped and I am left here, questions photocopying in a never-ending loop.

My attempts to reconnect have gone unanswered and it tears me apart to feel as though I am the only one who wants this.

I go through the multitude of emotions in a 24 hour period: pain, sadness, anger, desperation, hope. But none of them matter because they start all over again the next day and I never get any answers.

I sometimes question my decisions, I question my person and see a continuous pattern in my relationships in the past four years. In all, they have left, given up, run away. What is it that I project? Did I push you away first? If so, how? Is it all my fault? Are you using me as a scapegoat for the wrong that has happened in your life? Is is fair? Is it true?

Will I ever get answers, or will I be forever in question?

Squeeze

Squeeze I once held a heart in my hand, I let it slip through my fingers. Like sand. I once held a great friendship on my fingers, I let it slip through my hand. I now hold my own heart in my hand, On my fingers. And I squeeze. For if I let myself feel Tears will want to bless the cheeks That you have kissed, That you have touched With your hands, Your eyes. But I cannot embark on this road of intensity, So I retain my hold on my heart And let my blood drip, drip, drip.

Unravel - Bjork

Take: An Exercise on Words

September 24, 2003


It is a verb, neither positive nor negative but capable of being either. I take you to be my lawfully wedded wife, I take away your virginity, I take your toy away from you. I take you for all that you are and all that you may be. I take you as you are and will cherish you always. You can take what is given or take away what one wants to keep. One word can change your world and bring light or darkness to live inside you.

‘I can’t take it anymore, I can’t take you anymore.’

You rescind what you once promised to cherish and hold and love for what was and what would be. Taking should be done with caution lest you change your mind and take away the promise you once extended.

‘I will take you away from here.’ Also neutral. That may be a wonderful thing as the ‘here’ can be a bad place, a place where one wants to be taken away from. But what if you loved where you were and you were being taken away, kidnapped, never to see your loved ones again? Lost to the rest of the world. Taken and never given back. Taken and losing yourself.

I take this life that I lead and I hold it to me. I am not ready to have it be taken away from me so I will take the first step and swallow my pride. I will take charge of my life and take away the bad , replacing it with the good that I have found nearby.

But sometimes you want to be taken away from a place and have no one to do it for you. What then? You must take yourself away. Like a thief in the night. I take Leita away from here, so that she can be well taken care of by herself. And in order to do that, she must make the first step, and swallow that big pride of hers. In order to take something, you must give something away.

Take, for example, a beer mug full of tea. Earl Grey to be exact. The water has been altered and the tea cannot darken to its fullest as a large chunk of lemon had been added. So the tea remains a light amber, pulp floating inside. I add four cubes of sugar and watch them disintegrate before my eyes. I lose something to gain another. The taste has changed. Earl grey has revealed a different side to me. It is a different step. And not unpleasant.

The Opposite of Love Isn't Hate, It's Indifference

Broken Days

While rereading some of the writings I have written in the past, I find both a comfort and a horror in them. Most of these thoughts still have a place in my life today.

Do we really change so little?

Are we really doomed to carry the same feelings throughout our lives until the end?

Was there ever a real capacity for change?

Summer 1997 Broken Days How dreary a day when nothing is new, And there’s not a damn thing to do. A search begins yet everything remains second best, Mediocre. And the band plays on, The same music loops, A broken record. All familiar surroundings close in on you, And what was once comfortable becomes unbearable. These are the days when life’s got no meaning, But you continue to hope for a sign of otherwise. Diamonds shatter and night is no longer dark, The world’s stopped spinning, And becomes the center of the universe. ‘Cause these are the ways of them broken days, Crazy days, when all is not what it seems. You long for simplicity, The days when all is bright, And you wait for the ease to sink in, But since these are the ways of broken days, You can’t ever make the simple life emerge, Not on broken days, ‘Cause these are humanity’s (yes...my) subconscious ways.

Angelfish

Oh how this still applies!

July 17, 2000

I saw the sun setting on a cluster of mangroves. They turned burning orange, illuminating the turquoise waters surrounding them. And the angel fish rose out of the water, ascending toward the heavens, their iridescent purples and greens blinding me just as love had once done. I fell to my knees then, tears seeping through my closed lids. I was remembering your lips and how softly they touched my cheek. You were a ghost to me even then, your decision made; you leaving me behind. God, and as I think of the setting sun, the mangroves in flames, I can’t help but think of us, extinguished. The sand was rock hard beneath me, everything I saw and felt was unforgiving since you kissed me goodbye. But I no longer wait for your phone call as I finally see the beauty of the angels who rose out of the water that evening, that first day of renewal, that first day of healing.

Pieces of Me

December 2007

Unison
Connectedness
Fleeting moments I have felt.

One day I will wake up
And I shall feel that
And it will stay with me
Because I will have found
That part of me
The missing piece in my puzzle

Happiness

Which so eludes.


December 2007


Dreams…
There are no limits
Reach out for it
Chase it

Breathe it
It will perhaps not come true
But at least we can say
As we breathe our last breaths
We have tried.
No regrets.

This is Now

It was a month, on Sunday. A month since I've seen your face, touched your skin, felt your breath, heard your voice. A month since my life has turned upside down.

The pain is just as real today.

I ache for what we had,

where we could have gone,

what we could have been... together.

It seems you have moved on and I guess I must do the same. But it's hard...to let go of something so beautiful, someone so pure. I miss your child-like laughs when faced with new experiences. I miss your gaze, your mind, your art. I miss your heart.

And I'm not ready to continue this life without you. The future looms in storm clouds, darkening as it approaches. Once upon a time I would have shut myself off and cursed you. Once upon a time I would have seen only black and white. But now, it's just gray. Everything is gray.

I have been torturing myself with hopes of communication. Checking my email, my phone, the mailbox, the door, listening for footsteps in the hallway...Everytime the bell rings my heart skips a beat. Is it you? Have you come to mend our rift? No, it is only the women from the church, seeking new recruits. I can't bring myself to open the door and politely turn them away in my broken Korean. So I turn away and curse myself for my silly hopes. I have laid down my heart and it lays, still, on the ground, gathering dust.

What could have brought you back? I wonder. What could I have done to fix this? I've looked at it from all sides, every angle and as the tears well up in my eyes I can't think. I walk around in this world and try to find grace in the buds opening on spring trees. I inhale the warmth that has arrived, but I am cold inside. I shake like the leaves in Fall. I can't seem to still the motion.

Couldn't we just accept our shortcomings and compromise? Is it really only black and white? Have we been reduced to that?

Four years of rock bottom...
Heart empty
Energy depleted
Hopes on hold

And then a dream
A beautiful world where
I could be real and soft

Giving up pride
Accepting weakness
Adopting hope from another place
Holding it to myself

You did this
Gave me three months of
Possibilities
Courage
Strength and
Best of all Hope.

Now that I am awake
I see..
It was a dream.

Those storm clouds
Held at bay
Return

I am caught: a fishing boat in a roiling ocean
Waiting for capsize

Oh, but what a dream
What a beautiful dream

Thank you for those
Short months.

I wish...
I could have dreamt forever.

Pagan Poetry- Bjork

How I Loved You Then

Oct. 21, 2007


Working Out...an ode to happiness

He is hope, personified
Inhale that vibe, infusions
Of energy that uplift.

An inner smile pushes outwards

Until I can feel those muscles
In my face again.

They ache with disuse, but
I carry on, a daily exercise
Easier with time.

It seemed impossible
This meeting, unexpected, perhaps
Unwanted, but I am here
Cloaked in his smell, his clothes
His presence and there is peace
At long last.


December 2007

Trust

Trust.
That I want you in my life.
Trust.
That I care.
My baby steps toward you
May seem too small
But still I’m walking.

Life is...

Nov. 10, 1998


Part 1

Eat sleep and die life,
Swallow it,
Yummy in the tummy,
Digestive on the most part,
Spoiled at times,

The times,
They are a changing,
Complication becomes commonplace,
The real world looms.

Simplicity becomes a phenomenon,
Felt, oh once in a blue moon,
In a tree, a leaf, a seed.

That side seems shut,
Non-emotional bastard speaks loudly, clearly,
She clears her husky voice,
She sings in all her glory.

Yes, take that life and live it,
Feel-it, hurt-it,
Comp pat a bill-it
If you can…
If you-she can it.


Part 2

Arms twisting upwards,
Gyrating gracefully,
Undulating openly.

Crooked fingers,
Pulling apart those pieces of sky,
Trying, finding and hiding it
For further use.

They dance,
Those arms,
Those fingers,
They dance to my rhythm,

To the music in my intestinal head,
The melodies zip through those tubes,
Like the lightning bolts I just miss,
Those bolts that have to be the most
Beautiful of them all.

They listen,
Those arms and fingers,
To the sounds of the breath of carbon dioxide,
They inhale those particles,
Visible to those strange moving orbs in sockets.
Those particles,
Almost tangible but then gone.

Yes, well,
Life is….
Just that.

Mme. Gardinere

I attended a small school in Haiti. There were approximately 360 students from Pre-Kindergarten to 12th grade. It was like a family, in some ways. My French teacher's name was Madeleine Gardinere. Most students disliked her and were afraid of her. She could definitely be scary. She was tough and sometimes mean in her corrections of our French. In a way, she was right. We butchered the language. Grammar was so difficult, I still have trouble with it.

But I liked her. I saw elements beyond her hard exterior. She was always dressed in clean but fussy suits and always over-powdered her face, so that it looked like a ghoul had been pasted on top of her otherwise dark skin. She was not an expert in the makeup department, but it always gave us something to talk about.

She had terrible bunions on her feet and I couldn't help imagining the pain she must have experienced at the mercy of fashionably uncomfortable heels.

It's her history that intrigued me. There was a bitterness in her actions and words; but I saw the deeper sadness sitting at the back of her eyes. A sadness that I think stemmed from her aloneness. She had traveled around the world, seen and done so many exceptional things and I admired and wondered what it would be like to do the things she had done. But she was in her 60s and had never been married, had never had children and I think that this is where that bitterness stemmed from, why the sadness was there.

Perhaps she had regrets. I remember thinking she must have had a great love and she had lost it somehow; I was never to find out who or why or when.

Today I look at my life and the experiences I've had and I think of Mme. Gardinere. I wonder if I'm headed in the same direction. I'm traveling around the world, accumulating experiences that are priceless. They will forever be my own precious jewels that I carry on me. But I, too, am alone and my life seems to follow the same patterns of loss locked in a never-ending loop, like a suffocating necklace.

Mme. Gardinere, I love you and what you taught me. I will always be grateful for what you taught me. But forgive me, I do not want to end up like you. I don't want to expel that stench of bitterness. I don't want what you had.

Bitterness Creeps In...Push!

Can someone explain to me how some people are able to just erase you from their lives as though you had never impacted it? Can you just ignore the past and move on without questioning that blank space left behind?

Sometimes I wish I could just disappear from here and insert myself in a place where no one knows me and I can start anew. But that's not life, is it? Yes, people do it, probably more often than I know, but I cannot. Responsibilities to others and to myself keep me grounded. But sometimes, like these past few weeks, I wish I could say to hell with my responsibilities. Just leave. I will not be missed.

I used to think that if I died tonight, no one would notice for days, or weeks. Now, I know that it is not true. And the only reason I say this is that I have a job and my responsibilities to it. That's all.

In the end, I'm alone. To a certain extent, we all are. When I am stable, it is okay. I'm an expert at being alone, I know how to survive.

I look back on my university writings and the themes are the same. The bitterness of failure keeps coming back. It's never really gone anywhere. It surrounds us.

I wrote this while I studied at Dalhousie University. I find, to a certain extent, it still applies. How sad...:

November. 3, 1998


Mama I’m scared. I saw, I see it before me. It’s Failure. She’s approaching. Blackness, it comes, it wants to envelop me into its world. Oh, god, it’s a cloud above me now, it takes on so many shapes that each time I think it’s gone, it reappears in a different form. Why am I doomed to this? What did I do wrong? Or right? What did I say? Was it something I said? Silence. It’s palpable. I never wanted it to be this way. Never, never. Why now, why here? No, I’m not mad, I’m sad. What’s going on in that head, that head that isn’t mine? What are those thoughts? Why hide from me? It’s just me. Am I so scary, so repulsive, so wrong that I can no longer share the air? Why have I been shut out? I knew there was a door, but it’s been slammed in my face. Hard, really hard. Was that the intention? Was that a craftily set up plan? How could I have opened up my heart? Because now there is a puckering of the muscle, it’s been poisoned. And every time I encounter this other mind, this other presence, my own mind, the ego, laughs at me. At my stupidity. Why did I even try? Why did I open my mouth? Would it have been better otherwise? Who knows? I certainly don’t. But I can’t shed the tears that should flow now. I’ve never been able to let the sweet salt touch my lips for one of them. It’s the disappointment that I feel now which stems from the flower of hope. Hope that each time it will be different. Each time it isn’t. It’s a different face, but it’s the same outcome. Short-lived, unpleasant to view when the eyes open after the crash. Fuck the stock market and its crashes. This is what’s important. People. People who surround us constantly. We can’t get away no matter how we try. But was I so wrong that I thought differently about this? Was I disillusioned? Was it all a ploy? I think not. I think not. Bitterness swells inside. Bitterness smiles at me. She’s told me before that this is the way it is. I keep on defying Her, thinking She must be wrong. But has She ever been? No. She hasn’t. Fuck you Bitterness. Fuck You and what You stand for. You make me sick. I never want to see You again. But I know You’ll hold on to me. Your arms, longer than anything I’ve seen, are wrapped around me. I can’t breathe, I see the blackness approaching me. It’s getting closer, You’re squeezing harder. It’s above me. But in the darkness that now surrounds me, that surrounds me fully, I see the lingering smile that You offer me, floating gently in a breeze that I don’t feel. I see it, I see it and I hate it. Forever, I promise You.

Back to the Drawing Board

At the age of 11 or 12, I realized for the first time that I was not invincible and that I was not loved by all. It was the beginning of a different world. I've been alone ever since. Since my 12th year, I have become careful about what I say. The words that exit me must reflect the essence of who I am. I can look back on my life and be proud of those words, because I do not set out to hurt others. I'm not naive enough to believe that I haven't hurt, but I take comfort in the fact that when a question is asked of me, I answer with honesty. I have always wanted that in return. I always explain to my ESL students the difference between 'alone' and 'lonely'. You can be alone without being lonely and you can be lonely without being alone. You can also be alone and lonely all at the same time. I have been in each of those shoes forever, it seems; taking off one pair to put on the other the next day and so on. The best shoes are the 'alone' shoes, those moments when I take myself away from the everyday and experience things that could not have been done with others. Today... I am alone and lonely and in pain. As I was yesterday and all the days before, for the past month. I have met those who believe in the ever-lasting theory of love and those who have decided the word means nothing. It is just a word, after all. But I am a woman of words and they mean the world to me. I have loved. And I believe I have been loved. Those are memories that I will always hold dear and they are people I will always love. But it's not enough, is it? Your willingness to love and be loved has no bearing on what you will receive and how intentions become twisted with a little time and misguidance. You want to be careful, you want to protect yourself from the hurt, but in the end you either leave yourself open to it or you shut yourself off from any of the wonder. What makes some able to make things work? How do they manage to balance the pain and the joy and find a happy medium? I have tried to approach it from different angles, always trying to find the right combination of elements and yet keep falling flat on my face. This love is no different. I wanted it to work so badly. I saw things in him I thought would complement me. I saw pieces of me come out that I thought had disappeared in my last great disaster of a love. There was true hope there, a feeling that anything could happen, that we had the strength to work through the kinks. I imagined the respect we had for each other would allow us both to grow. These are the kinds of failures I can't seem to get over. If I try my best at work and it doesn't succeed, it hurts, but I find other ways to cope. I figure, it is not my calling, it is not my true passion, it should not matter so much. How can you say the same for love? I am not one of those who falls in love and, then a few months later, grows out of it. It sticks, forever. One will always be loved for his softness and sweetness. Two will be loved for waking in me sensations I will always cherish and an appreciation and understanding for art I have yet to find anywhere else. Three... three is loved, purely, still. And it is hard to say goodbye. Will I ever be able to move on, without the knowledge of what went wrong? Is this the lesson I must learn this time around? Is this a foreshadowing of the misunderstandings and the giving ups that are to come? Will I ever be able to muster up the energy to try it all again? Better yet, do I want to?