12292010

yesterday: i didn't sit in my office to write. or at my kitchen table. or in any of my other usual writing places. instead. i sat in my dining room. on the floor. beneath the window. in the warm blaze of sun rays streaming through the curtains. back straight up against the wall. legs bent at the knees. journal and pen in hand. and i wrote. and i wrote. and i wrote. and when i had finished writing all that my thoughts were willing to give i cracked my knuckles and made a conscious decision, as i always do, to go back and read what i had written. and as i read. i realized: where we are affects how we receive. how we perceive. and what we deliver.

12282010

last night

i winked

at the stars

and they

(oh stars

how could

they not?)

winked back

12272010

manipulation is as old as creation

and how vibrantly it still survives!

powerful, not by its own devices

but by those who keep it alive

though the tragedy is not that manipulation lives

but that it believes itself a winning card

or maybe those who manipulate

believe themselves the winners

the scorers, the smart

insults to the intelligence

i don't appreciate them

i don't receive

i don't indulge

i don't oblige

instead

without a moment's pause

without a second thought

i discard

12262010

night dreams come 

in unexpected inhalations

i swallow them

i choke on them

they impose

i bow down

i don't rise

they are my jailers

they hold the keys

***

daydreams come

in expected exhalations

i propel them

i expel them

they oblige

i lift them

i drop them

they are my puppets

i pull the strings

12232010

come

sit down

rest with me

inside a silent moment

and let your soul

rest and linger

in silence

too

12222010

explosion of thought

eruption of imagination 

a peace… yes, peace

that’s it... that's it

a peace that is 
here one moment

but broken the next
the disturbance of dry days 

parched... yes, parched
like desert sands 

when the mind is blank 

or lacking stimuli

those things that 

pull. trigger. shoot. 

a thought into existence 

out of the stagnant womb 

where it rests. and lingers.

and festers. and rots.

12212010

it’s immediate 

this desire

this urgency

this pressure 

to create

  

it’s perfect 

i see

i feel

i write

i manipulate

12202010

last night…

i opened a silver box

filled with old

black and white photos

yellowed by time

...

there were no digitals

back in the day

...

i went through the box

photo by photo

…

but there was one photo

of you and me

...

a photo so old

and bent and torn

about the edges

and almost sepia with age

...

a photo where you were

doing something funny

because you wanted

to make me laugh

...

and i was laughing

because the laughing

was good

and innocent

and real

...

and i held that photo

in the palm of my hand

like it was a holy relic

...

and i thought to myself,

that was a moment

in which i loved you

12182010

i lodge myself

between your ribs

beneath your heart

inside your gut

can you feel me there?

you might not know

that much about love

so let me tell you this

if i don't hurt

like a blunt blade

thrust into your vitals

then what you feel

is not love, my love

12162010

today. i came home early from work. intentionally. maybe it was an act of rebellion. i like to think of it as an act of self-preservation.

i came home. removed the dress pants and the heels and the earrings and the rings. jumped into my comfy clothes. went into my kitchen… my safe haven. because in my kitchen… i can hide from anyone… anything.

even in writing... i can’t hide.

even in fiction... i can’t hide.

everything i write comes from inside my mind, imprinted with the breath of my thought.

my thoughts… my words… are truths. but bread… is something else.

take one glass bowl and add warm water. sprinkle some yeast into the water and wait until the yeast foams. add the flour and sugar and start to mix the warm slop with your fingers. roll it up into a ball and knead the hell out of it. put the dough back in the bowl and drizzle it with some olive oil. cover the bowl with a towel and wait… wait... for that dough to rise. and while you’re waiting… you can read a silly book (only a silly one)… or take a nap… or watch a chick flick. and every few minutes… maybe… you can peek at your dough through the glass bowl and see how much it’s risen. because the sight of that dough inflating is almost… almost… like having a handmade bonbon inside your mouth. though you don’t want to peek too too often… because a watched pot will never boil, right? at any rate, do what you will while you wait but at all costs… do not write. do not make your mind work. the whole idea is to give your thought some rest. and once that dough is as big as a beer belly… go to town!

and a few hours later… you’re at your dinner table… chewing and gnawing on those parts of your soul that you were discarding when you were kneading that dough… when you were killing your arms… your hands… your fingers… killing the thoughts that needed to be strangled. because… they were trying to strangle you.

i write… to examine my mind.

i cook… to purge my soul.

and the more there is to purge… the more food ends up on the table.

and so, tonight: crusty bread… arugula salad… fennel au gratin… braised mushrooms… spatchcocked cornish hens… rise pilaf… and strawberry tarts.

but… back up. while i kneaded and stirred and chopped and split and diced and rubbed and stuffed… and purged… the hour grew late… dusk arrived… and then night. and in came my husband jingling his keys and saying, what smells so delicious? aren’t you cooking up a storm! and when we sat at the table with all the food laid out in front of us, he said, what are we going to do with all this food, nevine? and i said, we’re going to eat it. because food… especially food consumed in the company of loved ones… is solace. not only for the belly. but for the soul. the purged soul. purged… and empty… and needing to be refilled.

and given that so much purging had needed to be done, today… one short afternoon following a long day of work would never have sufficed. so, i told them… at work… i said, i have a personal emergency to attend to. and… did i lie?

ME is a personal emergency.

and ME will not wait, anymore.

12152010

if i wait for you 

to make me happy

i will be waiting... 

and waiting... 

and waiting... 

forever

12122010

there are days

where happiness

comes

from nowhere

throbs

like a pulse

in my vein

and i walk with it

as it leads me

i don’t know where

i don’t know why

until

my surroundings

dissolve

and i am

immersed

inside a golden moment

of molten joy

that drowns

the black-rimmed doubt

lurking

in the shadows

of this

my glimmering place

12092010

my eyes are glass windows through which i see… and they are large… wide open… and clean.

but... someone comes along... with a handful of rocks… and an intent to shatter my windows.

and i know that if my windows were to shatter… i would see no more. 

but… just because i can’t see… doesn’t mean that what’s there to be seen... no longer exists. 

and if it exists… but i can’t see it with my eyes…

i will hear it in my ears…

i will taste it on my tongue…

i will smell it in my nose…

i will touch it with my fingers…

i will clasp it in my hand… 

tuck it into the empty sockets where my glass windows used to be… 

and i will say to the one with the rocks… 

i dare you to come and take what’s mine.

and i will laugh inside myself… because they do not know… nor will i tell them...

my glass eyes were cloistered rooms… but my empty sockets are open sky.

12072010

do i want to be a man?

this question was on my mind all day, triggered by a situation i observed in the hall between classes. picture this:

a girl is speed-walking to her next class. she drops her binder. and papers… pencils… photos… are scattered everywhere. a boy stops. puts his binder on the ground. and starts to help the girl pick up her stuff and put everything back together. i join them. and, a sharpener… a couple of pens… a couple of sheets of paper later… the girl has everything back inside her binder… and she’s ready to head to her next class. she starts to stand up… loses her balance… and the binder goes tumbling… again.

the girl begins to cry. the boy stops… frozen. he stares at her face… rapt. he has a look of such anguish on his face. and the girl is crying… with abandon. what’s the matter? i ask her. i’m gonna be late for my next class, and this will be my third tardy so i’ll get detention again and my parents are gonna get me in real big trouble! yes. a dilemma, for her. besides... who wants to stay after school for an hour and a half with the ogress from outer space… the one with the beady eyes and hair that looks like it’s been held in place by fluffed up egg whites? not me, for sure. don’t worry. i’ll write you a pass. now, stop crying. leave your binder here and go wash your face, i tell her.

and that was the end of that part of the deal.

but the boy. he’s the one who really caught my eye… and my mind. the look on his face was… beautiful. it’s not that i reveled in his anguish. oh, no! it’s just that he stopped what he was doing… didn’t think twice about being late for class and getting into trouble, himself. he automatically did what he thought was right.. he stopped to help a girl with her mess. and that… to me… was… gallant.

gallantry is almost non-existent, nowadays. in fact, i think the word probably sounds archaic to most people, and i really think it’s on its way to becoming obsolete. but, i like a boy who’s gallant… because… he reminds me that i'm a girl.

in this day and age, where women talk about wanting to be “men’s equals,” i baulk at such statements! i don’t want to be a man’s equal. sure, i want to have equal rights as a man… in terms of work… and social dynamics… and pay… and all those other things we have rights to… but that’s not the same thing as being a man’s equal. underneath the straight-lacedness of a business suit or a collared shirt and dress pants with my badge being my jewelry… i… am… a… girl. i beam inside my heart when my husband opens the car door for me… or pulls out my chair at a restaurant. i burn with love and joy when he comes home with flowers… not because there's an occasion… but because i was thinking about you. imagine me coming home one day with flowers for my husband!

i’m quite content with my husband washing the cars while i cook dinner for the two of us. no, i don’t want to get my polished fingernails all busted and grimy with car oil and mud. but i’ll stick my fingers in dough, anytime!!!

in moments of desperation, i feel like some women are losing their grip on their femininity. like i said, i can have my rights and my entitlements. i have a job and an income and i am independent and successful and happy. but still… because i’m a true girl… if you’re a man… i’ll always want you to be gallant… i’ll always want you to open the car door for me, thank you very much. and i will never forget you if you do. because a man who's gallant... is a rare gem!

12062010

i caress you

like the sun caresses a lake at dawn

you kiss my lingering half-smile

and the shy wrinkles around my eyes

they were not always there, i say

and you say, we gave them life together

and now, like two teenagers

we giggle about our impending age

as though it were a hidden blessing

12042010

this morning. a vivid memory: when i was six, my parents took me to paris for the first time. we checked into a very chic hotel on the very chic ave. victor hugo, and the first thing i wanted to do was explore. my first stop in exploring a hotel room or suite is always the bathroom… because i've always loved baths.

i walked into a nice and inviting setting… large white towels… small bottles of colorful liquids on the sink and by the tub… and two large terry robes. i decided that i wanted to enjoy a bubble bath using some of the enticing-looking gel sitting in a basket on the edge of the tub. i plugged up the tub… turned on the hot and cold water taps… opened the bubble bath gel bottle… and poured the contents into the tub. and i sat there and watched as the mirror began to steam up… and the bubbles to rise… and then… dip!... i was inside. yum!

afterwards, i wrapped myself up in one of the too-many-sizes-too-big-for-me robes and went back into the room.

i sat on the edge of the bed. i remember feeling antsy… like any child of six would feel… antsy and wanting to do something with my idle hands. i noticed a wall-mounted radio… basically a speaker with buttons programmed to play different stations… nailed to the wall. i turned on the radio. i don’t remember what was playing… the singer… the song… i don’t remember. but i do remember this: bending down to look through the slotted front of the speaker… and seeing… in a childhood fugue of imagination… the singer… the band… the stage… the glimmer… the glamour.

i realize, now, that it was the dazzling effect of the expensive wallpaper… seen through the gaps on the speaker. but when you’re six… it’s all about the dream that’s sitting behind your eyes… waiting to be released. and you can’t deny that dream… because… when you’re six… it's all about the fantasy.

12022010

yesterday.

and today.

and tomorrow.

vivaldi.

for fire.

and darkness.

and passion.

beethoven.

for lust.

and insanity.

and sanity.

12012010

it happens almost certainly. almost. that the very qualities someone admires in you when they first meet you... become the very qualities they come to despise in you. if a certain person likes... let's say... the way you tilt your head slightly to the left when you laugh... they will come to hate that very slight gesture in you... more eloquently... more fluently... when the time for the hating arrives. if that person... let's suppose... admires your intelligence... they will begin to loathe what they will call your cockiness and presumptuousness. they might even question why they ever thought you intelligent, in the first place. and that... when the time for the hating arrives.

but, then. must the time for hating arrive? isn't it possible to keep liking and admiring and enjoying forever and ever? why must it begin with, oh, i so like the way she shuts her eyes and curls her shoulders when she's happy, and end with, and that stupid eye-shoulder thing she does when she pretends joy. what a moron!

how do we go from admiration to detestation? are we that erratic?

it's easy for us to say, well, it's her fault for being such a fake. but isn't it a bit of my fault, too? for falling for it? or how about... let's say... maybe... that i am the one to be blamed? oh, no. not i! we're so quick to say. we don't want to be at fault. we readily... so readily... reject blame.

maybe we are products of our environment. but are we really victims of 'the circumstances'? those circumstances that always bear a THE before them rather than an OUR - our very first step in the process of rejecting them. a sort of 'wash my hands clean.' a sort of... denial.

are we victims? i often wonder. but do i really want to know?