Confusion

There's nothing new to say,

Except to sing of blistered hands

and withered hearts;

And of those you can't quite sing

For then pain forever rings.

Blistered hands from too much application,

Withered hearts from misplaced supplication.....

Ceaseless questions hang aimlessly

for honest answers are hard to come by,

All the hows and whens and whys

Met with dreadful silence

After many failed attempts.....

Life is never as glamorous as we make it seem. So often we heighten every emotion we feel, give everything a poetic spin, make the blues bluer and and the pain grimmer. Life is okay, bearable, even good sometimes. Never extreme.

That's what I have to believe today; in this moment atleast. I think maybe if I hold onto this thought long enough, then this weight of deadness will get off of my chest because the hurt can't be as terrible as I think. Maybe the smiles around me will seem a tad less bright because nobody has any reason to smile that hard or that often. Maybe I'll feel like it hasn't been forever since we talked without fighting since there can't possibly be any reason we should fight that often.....

Even I can't convince myself. Cheating pain means stealing from joy and I can't accept that Tuesday afternoons aren't that beautiful with the breeze blowing in the trees or that life isn't shitty as hell on days like today.

I wanted to write a story so startlingly beautiful that I'd be in awe of myself, the kind that makes one forgive themselves for every day they had writers' block or doubted their artistic ability. Today, I guess, is not one of those days; after many failed attempts, I've still come up empty.

Of birthdays and other nothings

So it's my birthday today. Mostly, I have nothing to show for the length of time I've been alive except some pretty stupid decisions but every one is throwing words like great potential and bright future at me like they think I have my life all figured out. I'm utterly clueless! For the most part, I think of dropping out of school and maybe pursuing an alternative career in rythmic gymnastics or I could go off to India and 'find myself' or even become a gypsy and focus on the finer things in life... I'm young though and my canvas is still all flowery and dreamy; I think I'll just take time out and just be, for a while

Ever after

She sits there writing in her battered journal, oblivious to the shrieks from her noisy age mates playing yet another game conjured in the heat of the moment. She shouldn’t even be there but submitting to her papa’s whims is much easier than another fiery argument. So she creates her own little bubble where her fantasies come alive, where the little characters she dreams up run around; sometimes floating lightly, other times stamping angry feet impatiently waiting for their stories to be written. She indulges them, sweet talks them, spoils them – anything so they can love her as much as she loves them. And she writes.

He watches her from across the room, wondering why she’s here since it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be. He sees her every day, sometimes in the park, sometimes like today in the youth auditorium. Lately, she stays with him in his head, becoming a constant distraction, an obsession even. He sits there, watching her, wondering why there’s so much sadness in her eyes. And then he rises and goes to her.

Pause

We’ve all seen this scene played out a dozen times; mystery dude to the rescue, knight in shining armour or whatever and the unsurprisingly saccharine happy ending usually involving a castle, eternal love and a ‘happily ever after’ to boot. This is not one of those tales. In this story, there are broken hearts, very sad tears and the big climax that I find constanly missing in all folklore – the moment the boredom sets in. So let’s say we skip the tedious details. Boy meets girl, instant chemistry…… blah, blah, blah.

Play

One year and counting and the knight realises that his damsel is addicted to her distress, that she can’t actually be without the perpetual sessions of brooding, that the little bubble world of hers he found oh so curiously appealing is in fact impenetrable to him as to the rest of the world. Then what? How long can that love wait pleadingly at her door, urging her to open and let him in? And when the door is eventually open how long can he stand to hear stories of her pain? Pain he feels she is strong enough to bear, the hurt he feels she should have out grown, the constant throbbing that eclipses any semblance of pleasure making even the slightest inclination to smile so outlawed that it might as well be the sacrifice of young virgins on alters of pagan gods.

Then, the very same pain that made her so arrestingly vulnerable, damns her to heartbreak because despair is something we can’t stand to be around. We loathe irrevocable hopelessness in our own different ways. For some it’s the outpouring of sympathy which if directed at them would kill every bone of pride in their bodies, for others it’s the pure and perfect hatred of weakness, and for others it’s complete desertion. Any way it plays out, the only sob stories we stand around for or perhaps even enjoy are those that last up until the part right before we get bored. Now that’s where the drama lies……

Imagine if Cinderella, twenty years into her ever after woke up haunted by the memories of her teenage years, or Rapunzel remained forever a prisoner in her heart even after her prince hearing her ethereal voice saved her from her tower. How long would the pretty memories last? How long before these princes start to prefer patterns of normalcy to colourful outlandish tales? How long before they just walk away?

Venus significat humanitatem

He swings his legs over to the side of his bed, muttering under his breath words I can barely make out. I think he’s cursing or not, given his constant mantra that a man only curses because he doesn’t have the words to say what he thinks. He says that just to rile me, to rub in the painful truth that I can’t seem to stop swearing; as an affront to my supposed eloquence…

It works.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he shakes his dishevelled head. He says it again and this time I hear

“What am I going to do with you?”

There’s laughter in his voice, mirthless laughter. I don’t know how to react to this statement, whether to be angry at his denigrating tone or simply continue my annoying morning ritual of humming broken tunes of all time favourites. I raise a lazy finger and trace little circles round and round on his back, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back and then back up again. He grimaces as he stands and I can tell that he is angry; angry that even after teasing, tasting, taking all night, this seemingly tame gesture can wake his exhausted body up. Angry that he is powerless to stop it. Angry that last night, as we lay asleep side by side, merging into a gigantic question mark, he held me so selfishly, so possessively as if I was only for himself. Angry, perhaps, that I know this and that it gives me so much control….

In a few minutes of hurried preparation, we are out the door and in the car. I make a comment about a project he’s working on. He laughs mockingly at what he says is a gauche and amateurish observation. I know that is his revenge, that what I said is note worthy, profound even, because his brow is furrowed in intense concentration, the way it always is when I make one of my arresting assertions.

It stings anyway; because it’s him, because he knows it matters, because I can’t say anything about it without him making it about my ‘sudden’ oversensitivity to his satirical nature. The drive is silent after that. He, fighting the overwhelming urge to be tender, me, lost in thought. I remember what Maimouna, one of Sembene Ousmane’s characters in the book God’s bits of wood, says:

“You see with us – with women – we love a man when we know nothing of him and we want to know everything. And we pursue the one we have chosen no matter what happens, no matter how he treats us. But when we have learned what we wanted to know and there is nothing left, no longer any mystery, then our interest is gone.”

No matter what happens, no matter how he treats us…..

Sometimes, because of our miserable inadequacy, we are often overwhelmed, with envy or maybe fear, by the beauty in others we feel we can’t realize. We want life; our life, their lives to be limited to the confines of reason. In our desire to grossly violate the extraordinary, to erase its existence, we sever it pretty head and in so doing, level it to the mark of acceptability.

Well, at least that is what he does and now we are in limbo, so much so that we have quietened even what we thought was the immutable voice of reason; our raison d'être, so to speak. We are driving on fumes, on memories of a happier, fuller time. Loving has become so hard, a battle. What we have now? I don’t know…..

Overtime, the pain grows and with it, the intolerable cruelty that unvoiced confusion brings. I become somewhat frightened by the abysmal hopelessness of the ever growing hurt. Somehow, it reminds me of dull pounding that, regardless of how long it lasts, you never quite get used to and in the same moment of shattered glass, flying in ever which direction and yet still shooting wide of the mark.

Silence: that’s what defines us nowadays.

So many things left unspoken for so long that we forget each other so completely; even small talk becomes immeasurably difficult. Then there’s the hidden chaos; the dissonance of restrained feeling constantly mounting to a point that you have to express it or die! At that point, clarity dawns, as if the gods, waking from deep Adam-like slumber open their sleepy eyes and deliver me.

I see the world, I see him.

I see the little boy, terrified by what he feels, by the staggering intensity of it. I see his constant struggle to fight off the demons of past hurt and his continuous failure. I see his effort to convince himself that he is worthy of me; me who always puts up a show of eternal self confidence, me who’s tricked the world into loving me and now struggles to be that which the world loves, me who he has placed on his pedestal……. Me

And I laugh at life and its absurdities, at how like the six year old boy in the play pen, he pushes me into the proverbial sand pit and screams how I smell of dog poo, leaving me in tears – bruised knee and all yet what he really wants to do is share his lunch. I laugh at the detection of his masquerade and the relief I feel in unearthing this deception. And in that moment I think that perhaps Maimouna is wrong, that even when we know all there is to know and solve the mystery, that our interest still holds and we are in as much danger of falling in love with him as we were when we knew nothing to begin with. Perhaps, I shall wait for him to out grow his fears and then share that lunch. Perhaps, I shall stay….

It is love after all, that is the sign of our humanity. And love is intangible, illogical, unreasonable; without definition.

Love is you

By Chrisette Michele

What's your definition of it?

How does it make you feel?

Tell me what you say that truly makes it real

Kings and Queens, Philosophers have tried so hard to find

Tell me what it means to you dear, nevermind

Love is kind when the world is cold

Love stays strong when the fight gets old

Love's a shoulder to lean on

Love is you

Love's like the water when the well runs dry

Quench my thirst, keep me alive

Just need it once too, baby

Love is you

Is it possible, there is a kiss that's so divine

Or am I just a fool, is it all in my mind?

Is there something chemical

A scientist might say

Well love must be a drug

To make me feel this way

Cause love's my permission to be who I am

No inhibitions cause you understand

Freedom to breathe oh baby

Love is you

Love's like a kiss when the sun goes down

Holds me tight when no one's around

Love's what I want to hold on to

Love is you

Love is kind, it makes me stronger

I don't have to look no longer

You're the one I cling to Love is you

When the chips are down

Love will stick around

I'm so glad I found

Love is you

As much as I've tried to clarify

Love's quite simple, he's just my guy

Perfect definition

Love is you

While we sleep

I don’t know how long he may have stood there. Whether he had some master plan or if he was merely an amateur with an opportunity he wanted to seize in that moment…. How could I know? My mind was far away, in that place where dreams are made and magic is real; even for twenty year olds. It’s rare that I dream, or rather that I remember the little abstract titbits that float in and out of my subconscious but this was one of those days.

I dreamt of Cinderella in reverse; a story of a little orphan girl and a witch instead of a fairy godmother. A story in which the pumpkin remained exactly that – round, plump and orange - in which the mice were filthy and scurried around, nibbling at dead decaying mounds… A story with a prince, of course, an coarse ugly evil hearted being but a prince all the same. A story in which at the stroke of midnight, the orphan Cinderella returns home after a night with the prince, lost slipper and all but also bloodied petticoat and thighs bruised in places that the prince had torn to satisfy his perverse appetite. A fairytale without the happy ending

So there I was, in my own little dream world, unaware of the silent voyeur at my window who had somehow pried my window open and who now stood watching the rhythmic rise and fall of my naked breasts; the nipples that had budded in the cold. Perhaps that is what woke me, his naked penetrating gaze… I don’t know. I opened my eyes, startled to find myself being watched by this seemingly faceless stranger but his eyes, his eyes! Was that terror or shock? He had that look that wild animals have when they are cornered then caged: an overwhelming desire to strike back while in the same moment, an understanding that their fate has been sealed completely.

I blinked and he was still there, standing as if watching to see what I would do next. I sat up and quick as lightning he put a wire through the window and took my purse. I screamed. Not the kind of scream that speaks of fear but rather of shock – at his daring, at my own fearless curiosity, at the fact that my dream had been stopped abruptly and this was real. He ran, or perhaps I only imagined that. I reached out and tried to shut my window and this time he had a cassava stick. I almost laughed when I saw it. It was fresh, probably from our garden outside. I thought that he may hit me but somehow the threat of attack did not register. I looked at him again and saw his chequered orange shirt and his curly hair - dark as coal. Yet, somehow, I couldn’t for the life of me see his face. It was like a featureless orb except for those eyes, those wild searching eyes.

I screamed. I knew that was what he was waiting for before he decided whether to push dumb luck or flee for dear life. I screamed and sent him running.

The purse was more or less empty. If you lived in my house, you’d know not to leave money lying around for a certain someone to find. It had other things though, my ID, medical reports, academic nonsense and so on. Some he threw out, I wonder why… He took the most important thing though, the purse itself. Someone special gave it to me and now it’s been added to an ever increasing list of items that have mysteriously disappeared. Things that reminded me of her, things that I treasured.

In it was a picture of four laughing girls posing in a studio whose name I can't remember, laughing at the photographer who was asking us more or less to bring sexy back. In my on twisted way, I hope the laughter in our eyes haunts him, perhaps as much as his presence haunts my mother, perhaps as much as its loss hurts me, perhaps as often as my little sister will sleep fitfully trying to escape the thought of you at her window

F.W.Bs

You're talking about your poetry, about the the latest piece you've penned. You want to read it out to me, I'd much rather read it myself but I indulge you, laughing a little inside. You start and I am somewhat distracted at the start but then I pay attention and it is poignant and beautiful like memories trapped in a capsule; ever present, ever yours...... you tell me stories of far aways lands, places you've been, people you've seen. I'm fascinated but I mask it, dismissing your tales with a smile and changing the topic to one I can argue with you about. You're watching me, I've made a mess of your room poring through your books and spreading them everywhere. You don't seem to mind, you just keep watching as if hypnotised by some unseen power I unconsciously wield as you tell me the story behind each book. You want to read something of mine, your fingers are itching to, you say. All I have is my journal and there's too much pain there, demons I am haunted by, the kind I can't let you see. you let it go and I'm laughing again, laughing at your absurd taste in music, laughing as you try relentlessly and pitchlessly to sing along to Yael Naim. You're unembarrassed, you want me to dance with you in you cramped room but I'm too shy and it amuses you......

So we sit and talk, you of family and exotic places and I as always playing safe with philosophies and love. You touch me, out of the blue, like it is your place to, like it is the most natural thing in the world to do. My hair, my face. All the while talking and watching me. you stop mid sentence and there's a kiss, then another, then another. You are holding me and I wonder passively how we got here then I laugh and you laugh with me. Laughter and kisses, laughter and kisses. There's someone at the door but you ignore it, instead you tap your hand against my body rhythmically to another ridiculous song. We start to talk again, about the music, the knock on the door, how beautiful you think I am; nothing and everything..... And there again is laughter and kisses

The picture

Strangely, I've always wanted to appear natural in your picture. Not excessively gifted by nature with a beautiful face or striking looks; just real. I thought you would place me in an old rustic kitchen, nothing like the ones we have these days... One with cold water and concrete slabs; no modern artifacts to marr the scene. I pictured a cheery little fire place breathing warmth into the room where I'd stand in an old blue dress. I'd have an apron of course, it'd be white with stains of soot from when soiled hands strayed unconsciously. They'd be an old toothless black dog asleep at my feet on the cold stone floor and a wooden table at the centre of the room loaded with a colourful assortment of fruits and vegetables.... My hair would be wild, tangled in the way only sea breezes can or perhaps the eager fingers of an amateur lover. I'd be smiling, a smile woven by the laughter of children or walking barefoot in the sand.... There'd be white sheets hung out to dry, billowing in the wind like incarcerated angels fighting for their freedom. Then there'd be you, beautiful as ever, seated behind the untamed sheets in those moccasins I beg you constantly to throw away. That premature grey in you hair that you think makes you look distinguished would be even more evident now amidst the myriad of blinding white cloth. You'd have a playful lopsided grin on your face as you drunk every thing in and translated it to your intriguing poetry that is art. Then, you'd be as intoxicated by me as I am, always by you.

Of broken hearts and restoration.

I held a stranger in my arms last night. She was cold and broken on the inside out and, filled with pain, afraid of the of the ghosts of the past that had come to haunt her. She held me so tight, I was afraid I would be ripped to shreds and yet I knew I wouldn't let her go even if I had the chance to.......

I hadn't been to church in I while... OK, I had been to church but just not the one my papa and mama are ministers at. I have never been overly enthusiastic about being a pastor's kid and given that I was a bit of a tomboy when I was younger, you imagine my horror at being all dolled up in pink, silly looking girly dresses and being made to sing in front of a congregation. Then as I grew older, I having to join some kind of ministry at every stage of my life and by default, be the said ministry leader and so on and so forth. I felt a strange need to escape this life and that is how my diabolical alter ego was born; the one who has successfully burst out of her spiritual bubble and decided to adventure a little......

Anyhow, there was a meeting at church and the old folks wanted me to go. I hated the idea, I had spent the whole day at the office and all I wanted to do was go sweet talk my movie guy into giving me a couple of free movies and head home. I ended up going, I guess if you knew my mom you would kow why.

We were late and the speaker had already started. He wasn't one of the fiery types and I was glad because I had a headache already. He wore a banale grey suit and had unassuming forgettable features; the kind that you could pass on a street and forget immediately. His lips were moving but I could barely hear what he was saying, I was too busy flirting with the cute stranger next to me.

I don't know what he said but he got my attention. His gaze held a sort of tangible magnetic intensity and I was suddenly fearful that he could see right through me. He talked about emotional wounds that cause heartbreak, how in His ministry, Jesus was so sure about his father's love and what it must have felt like for him to be deserted on the cross for us. He talked about rejection and how destructive it is and how Christ came to restore us from that destruction. All this time he looked at me, his intense gaze fixed as if to say 'don't bother hiding' I can see you!'

He asked the congregation to share their testimonies and each one came in tears sharing the unbearable pain they carried, the heartbreak they felt, the shame they hid from...... I sat in my chair and felt something in my gut constrict and my chest weighed a tonne. The people kept coming and then he asked then to come forward and pray together. I stood transfixed, afraid and embarrased to move, to be seen as flawed, weak, in pain......

"Bretheren in the congregation, come foward and hold the ones standing at the front"

I would have missed his summons if my sister hadn't dragged me foward. What was I supposed to tell these aching hearts? Jesus loves you and it will all be ok? He kept repeating the demand that we should forgive in order to set ourselves free. Forgive, forgive, forgive... I looked at the person standing next to me and held her without thinking. I felt her body shudder in an attempt to fight the emotion even before I felt her tears soaking my shirt. She clung to me like I was her life line, hoping to tap into some strength, perhaps. We stood there painting an odd picture of strangers in embrace and yet our hearts were strangely in tune... I don't know how long it took but the raging storms finally calmed and we let do as if only then did we recall that we were strangers. I turned to walk away and like the whispering of the sighing wind, I heard the words "God bless you" and that was enough.

When you are gone

I pray for the day that you shall die
When in my heart, you are nothing more than a fading memory.
I pray for the day I shall smell your rotting corpse
in the earth that is me,
When the worms shall devour you and make me fertile.....
There shall be no dirge,
No church bells re-echoing pain.....
No ceremony,
No casket carried out,
No wreaths laid at your grave...
The children shall play in street corners,
Running away from the incessantly nagging mothers.
The men shall drink overly much and throw drunken tantrums
And I shall cry,
Happy happy tears
As I take a piss on your decaying carcass

What’s done in the dark

She gathers up her clothes, half afraid to look at him
Sticky with sweat, with him
The sweet agony of seconds back forgotten,
In it’s place; shame and misery.
He grunts, sighs and turns dreaming perhaps of someone else,
She sneaks past leaving behind a candle
Glowing unceremoniously in the dark.
Alone. Cold.


He jabs his arm, swears loudly, tries again
In a corner lying forgotten, his crooked spoon
Black from over use.
He finds the vein, swears then groans; part pain, part pleasure
The needle joins the spoon on the floor
He rises, soaring high, leaving behind a candle
Brilliant flame, burning bright and true
Penetrating the darkness.


I lie in my bed
Warm, snug, fed
Looking at the moon through my window
Haunted by memories that linger
Praying for relief, the comfort of forgetfulness
Neither comes.
On my wall
Shadows of roaring flames
Burning, burning
Reaching higher and higher
I shut my eyes tightly and fall into a troubled sleep.


At dawn we all rise,
Her, Him, Me
Last night’s fires seemingly gone,
Covered by cheery smiles that belie our guilt……
Inside, the flames rage on
Burning high and fierce
Smoking, staining us with soot on the inside
We are all slaves.

Then night comes again.

Drama in real life part 2: The kiss

"What makes you so sure I'm made of stone and how sure are you that I don't feel the same way?"
I can hear my heart in my ears, that deafening sound of half fear half relief that comes when two people admit they are attracted to each other. The knowledge that what happens next is left completely to chance and fate.
He holds me then, the moment seems endless, I feel myself rise and my heart beats louder at every new height. In his eyes I can see the fire that I know is the reason my eyes are stinging.
"Go"
He mouths it almost painfully, like they very thought of me comlpying is death in itself. I stand confused, speechless and slowly we walk, through the door, out onto the dirt road, hand in hand not saying a word.
I ask him to say something, any thing. The tension is so thick it can be cut.
"There's really nothing to say"
He puts my hand and his into the pocket of his sweat shirt, I feel a fresh tinge of warmth at the gesture. He is different but it's nice....

Later, I dream of his eyes, their intense penetration that scares me half to death and yet now, that I cannot live without.

Saturday, I'm hanging with my girls, all I see is their lips moving, I can't hear their words. I feel transported to a place that only I seem to see. Him. I hate him and what he is doing to me. I'm in a club, music is blaring,dancing sweaty bodies everywhere. Him again, in my head, in my blood. I hate it. I'm on the phone with him, silly excuse about a book which I suddenly need.... urgently.

I'm at his home in a few, wondering what possessed me to com, feeling the old familiar happy fear. He lets me in and again, there are no words, everything said with just one look. I feel cramped, claustrophobic, I check to see if the windows are open, they are. I sit. I stand and begin to pace. I sit again and in his eyes I see laughter. He sees my anxiety and is amused by it.

Times passes; a minute? an hour? Two? I don't know..... Somehow it doesn't matter. I know in that instant it's now or never. It happens so fast I barely have time to catch my breath....
Hands, hearts, breath, lips, tongue, darkness, pleasure. Nothing is awkward, no fidgeting wondering where the hands should be placed, just primitive impulses,; no restrain, no control, just desire and the need for it to be satisfied. Nothing one pictures in a first kiss, usually those are supposed to be chaste and sweet, awkward and experimental.... It was nothing like that. No, it wasn't. And then, things got out of control....

To be continued........