the slow unravelling of mind and me

What were once the souls of my dreams,

essences of my hopes,

masterpieces of my wishes:

My Times to Come,

have now dissolved,

washed away by salty seas,

broken in the storms of my Self.

They drown 

as it emerges that

my constant delusion of reprieve

has finally come to terms with me.

And so they become

thin tangled threads,

iridescent dreams of the past,

of what was and will not be,

quietly fraying, ready to snap

I am detached

from then and now and then

past and future trailing

behind my outreached fingertips

and all I can graze

are the locked doors

to rooms in which I don't belong.

But I can't help

pressing my face into 

the cloudy windows,

waiting for a Time

that Isn't

and Won't.

"And I can't stop

feeling sorry for myself."

how i live now

Each time I am asked why I'm here, I am less convinced of the answer I give.

my childhood's home

As I pulled the mass of folded quilt out of my suitcase, I got a whiff of my grandmother's house, a scent trailing back into days long gone. I know this quilt. It used to sit at the end of the guest room's white bed. But I never thought it to be a guest room -- it was our room, the kids' whenever we came to visit. We weren't guests, we were temporary residents. There's a difference.

Whenever we travelled to visit our grandparents, on either side, we simply moved from Home to Home. I knew their houses as well as my own. I grew up in these houses. Their painted walls, worn out carpeting, quietly tiled bathrooms have recorded my entire history. My childhood is a series of framed photographs strung across their open faces.

In that house, we used to slide down those rough steps in laundry baskets, toppling at the end, our laughter wild with excitement. The small air vents in the upstairs rooms provided perfect telephones, even though we had to speak so loud that we could hear each other through the halls anyway. Our little hands and noses would smudge the glass of the sliding doors as we pressed up against them to watch the train go by. We carefully propped ourselves up on the tall kitchen stools, wiping the sleep from our eyes as we waited for breakfast.Whenever we played hide-and-seek, that house was at our mercy, and yet we always seemed to end up in our grandparent's closet, barrelling through the clothes, curling up silently in dark corners. 

In this house, the wide marble staircases offered me a game of lily pad -- going up or down, I could only step in the white spaces, avoiding black veins as nimbly as possible. The black and white tiled kitchen laid out for me the same prospects. It was during such a game that I discovered one black tile to be mispatterned. When I was seven, I lit my first firecracker in the backyard. I used to walk around outside, talking to the plants, balancing on the edged gardens (where has that grace gone?). I knocked my tooth out on the wooden framing of the upstairs living room couch. The small mark of two shallow half-moons still stands out in the dark grains. We each slept in that crib. There is always a stack of blank paper and colorful markers for us at the ready on top of that shelf. How many family birthdays have we celebrated at the square center table, only to be celebrated again on a much grander scale in the huge dining room? How many times did I rush upstairs after school, poking my head through the decorative metal bars, to check if my grandfather was sitting in his chair, before running to give him a hug?

Neither of these houses stand exactly the way they used to. Parts of my histories have been covered up with fresh coats of paint, new fabrics, rearranged photos. In their efforts to update themselves, big or small, these houses have lost track of me. And every time I go back to stay, something in the changes alarms me. Like the threads of time are being cut loose while I still struggle to hold on. It terrifies me.

It terrifies me not because I'm slipping or because my grip is getting cramped, not because my homes are becoming gradually unrecognizable. It terrifies me because I haven't found myself a new home, for right now and today, and my quietly ending childhood's homes are the only ones I've got.

the flyswatter

A slight buzz flits by his ear just as he closes the microwave. He quickly turns to the noise and, out of the corner of his eye, catches the movement of a giant black fly darting around the kitchen. He turns back to the microwave, punching in numbers, instinctively flicking away the pest whenever it comes near. But in a quick second, the fly returns with full force, zooming around his head like a Chaser in a Quidditch match.

This means war.

He grabs the nearest weapon: a bright red flyswatter, ready for action. He scans the air for any sight of the target. He listens for any buzzing, any swift change in the wind. Sensing his enemy to the left, he whips his head around, crouching low behind the kitchen island. Stealthily, he crawls around the corner, keeping his eyes on the air above him. He realizes with a curse that his enemy has an aerial advantage. He would have to be on extra guard for this battle.

He follows the loud buzzing with both ears and eyes on guard. He can hear it getting closer and closer, lowering itself, ready to attack. And suddenly, the noise stops; the kitchen is blanketed in an ominous silence.

Suspicious, he slowly inches himself up towards the counter, looking over the edge, only to find ... He was face to face with the fly itself. It's giant red eyes glare at him; its furry tongue unwinding itself, taunting him, daring him to take a swing. At such an angle, he realizes the fly is actually a deep metallic green. Phaenicia sericata. Looking closer, he cringes as he sees his distorted, crimson reflection, several times over, staring back. Quietly, he raises his arm and with all his might, brings the flyswatter crashing down on the countertop.

The silence persists.

Lifting the flyswatter -- expecting the gore of a battle's aftermath, the splayed guts of his foe flattened against the cold granite -- he finds nothing. A faint buzz travels over him.

With an ugly scowl on his lip, he stands, frantically searching for the fly. Every buzz sends him into a whirl of panic, every flitting movement sending spasms down his arm. He grips the flyswatter tighter, refusing to give in.

One buzz here, then suddenly over there, above him, behind him. There is more than one fly, he thought, there has to be. He began swinging his flyswatter around like a madman, believing himself to be engulfed in a swarm. The flyswatter swishes through the air, claiming phantom fly lives one after the next. And then - contact.

With a resounding smack, the flyswatter slams into the counter. This time, he stops swinging. He feels something different about this attack. Inching closer towards the counter, he notices the shimmer of a broken wing lying a few centimeters from the swatter. He peels the flyswatter away, pulling up the pancaked remains of the fly. A small black hole in the center of the swatter. Annihilated.

With a malicious laugh, he mercilessly scrapes away the crushed corpse, reveling in the glory of his victory. He slams the trash lid closed just as the microwave begins to beep in monotonous applause.

the avenue

He keeps his head down against the wind as he quickly walks across the pavement. He looks up once, checking the street name, before pulling up his coat collar and ducking down again. He shoves his hands into his pockets, willing himself to keep moving forward.
The atmosphere on this street feels distant, uncomfortably so. The narrow white houses rise neatly above him, their faces calmly eyeing him as he steps past. Low wrought iron gates coldly stand between him and their frozen yards. Unfazed, he continues.
His breath comes out in short puffs of air, condensing in the late winter chill. His fingers trace the edges of a folded note in his pocket. Its corners feel worn from being folded and refolded a hundred times over the last few days. He doesn't need it anymore though, as he's memorized the address scribbled on its grainy surface.

He'd been at his tiny video rental store last week, crouching in front of a shelf, reorganizing the foreign films section, when he caught a silver glint in the corner of his eye. He had turned to find whatever it was, only to see an oddly familiar pair of worn sandals and a bright toe ring. As he turned back to the shelf, he shook his head at the wearer's silly disregard of the fact that it was barely 40 degrees out. Then it struck him where he had seen those sandals before.
He'd been with her when she bought them, still in her I'm-off-to-see-the-world phase. He hadn't believed her for months until she's stopped by his door to say goodbye. He'd even laughed when she invited him to come along and be her personal camera guy. But when she turned back down his front steps and began walking away, he could only stand silently in the doorframe, watching her go, his smile stale on his lips.
Now she stood only a few shelves down, but he stayed put, continuing to watch her from where he sat. She walked up to the front desk with an old zombie horror, the kind they used to watch together years ago, flinching and then laughing at the squirting blood that was so obviously fake. He watched her drop a few coins into the small film fund jar before turning and walking out the door. And as he had stood in that doorframe, he sat frozen again, staring at the familiar sight of her back moving away.
Later that night, as he was closing up, he pulled the fund jar out to add its contents to his growing pile of cash. He was saving up to buy the videocamera of his dreams. But when he emptied out the fund jar that night, a small buttermilk white note fell into the pile of coins and dollar bills. He picked it up, read his name on the cover, and opened it to find the strange address he now knew by heart.

He stares up at 1620 Forres Avenue, squinting against the sudden gust of icy wind. He hesitates a moment before pushing open the front gate. Wilted flowers fill the front window sills. So like her, he thought, trying to grow nature in the middle of winter. She'd argue that the calendar claimed spring had arrived, despite the clear proof that the weather here didn't follow any scheduled routine.
He climbs the high steps to the front door and pulls a bright orange daisy from inside his coat. Slowly and gently, he places the flower's stem in the door's knocker. Stepping back to admire the burst of color against the dark paint, he begins to back down the steps.
He is out the gate and almost halfway down the street before he turns again. Even from the corner, he can still see the dot of orange amongst the bleak monotony of houses. He smiles as he wraps his coat tighter around himself, glancing down the street for any oncoming cars. He jogs across the street, turns one last time, and walks away.

santa barbara

The subtle movements of the wind
gently Billowing the coarse fabric
of bright white sails,
Smoothly Skipping across the Shimmering surface,
Rippling into the sides of
Swaying boats.
It Tumbles through my hair,
across my sun-kissed skin,
In and Out the worn grains
of the dark harbor platform.
With quiet temerity,
it Orchestrates
a series of motion, of notes,
its nimble fingers boldly Skating
from one string to the next,
Plucking from them the intricate sounds of its melody,
Waiting for us
to Hear.

informal

You ask for a handshake, so I give you a high-five.
I don't fare well in situations that call for diamonds
and all I've got are jeans.
It's been a while since I've cared.
And who am I kidding?
I still don't.
You glare,
and I know what you're trying to tell me.
That's why I laugh
and turn away.
I'll be a sinking ship tonight,
but I won't need your help.
I can fail on my own,
and I'll do it with style.
You can go to hell with your diamonds and champagne.
I'll be fine
sipping a Coke.
Enjoy your night.
It's all you've got.

crossword

A series of boxes,
Uncapped pen at the ready,
My mind feels like a ninja.

Down, across,
Down, across,
My pen skates over the page.

29-down: French,
35-across: caress,
1-down..
Shit, 50 to go.

I don't know. It spewed from my brain so I wrote it.

almost home

I step into a dim entryway, the only sound a creaking door shut. I say hello to the empty space and stop. Waiting for an echo. Flipping on a light, I skip past the living room, straight into the dark hallway. I keep my eyes focused on the end that I cannot see. I stumble around the room until I reach the lamp. With a sharp click, my bedroom, that is old and yet still present, comes into light. I stand in the center and stare at my surroundings through a reflection.
I don't know if it's exactly the way I left it. I never left it the way they did. I'm still here.
The smallest sounds make the biggest noise. With every sound of home silenced, I feel as though I shouldn't be here. Like an intruder, stepping through the quiet walls of an abandoned life.
The heavy splatter of rain on the windows keep me company.
Time has stopped the world around me and I am the only life that moves. I am afraid to touch anything, open any doors. I am even afraid to look into any mirrors. Afraid that I won't find anything behind them. Afraid there is nothing to be found.
What's it like to be almost home? It's like fitting the key in the lock, and not being able to turn it.
It's like finally getting there, and realizing you haven't.

after / eighteenth wish

After, the air didn't quite smell the same. Why didn't it smell the same? Actually, I just said that because it sounded rather dramatic. After was definitely not dramatic. Neither was before, nor the inbetween. And I knew exactly why the air smelt different: eighteen candles had just extinguished themselves into my face. I coughed and opened my eyes only to have someone pop a camera flash in my adjusting pupils. Hi, could we please refrain from said abuse? Awesome, thanks ... Jerk.
When that little blind spot of color disappeared and I could finally see again, I was greeted by too many big bright smiles pointing right at me. Why are you smiling? Why are you applauding? I've definitely mastered the technique. Quick breath in, holditholditholdit, now blow! If I get 'em all at once, maybe my wish'll come true.
Oh, right, my wish. That's why this moment wasn't so dramatic anymore. I didn't wish for anything.
When I was little, I'd think real hard about my wish. It had to be good. No ponies, no Barbie houses. I don't remember what each of my wishes were, but every year I'd wish for world peace. Wow, what a kid. What a selfless kid. Actually, I thought that if I only wished for myself, God would send me to hell. Sometimes though I'd make the worst run-on sentences and add on a million wishes and go on for longer than necessary and everyone would tell me to hurry up and I thought I was being sneaky. But world peace was always in there somewhere. An afterthought or a beforethought. But there nonetheless.
What was I doing wishing for world peace? I was five. My world was my house, my school, and the car ride inbetween. Where was the war? the turmoil? the suffering? But I wished for it everytime.
I wished for world peace on everything, twirling dandelions, fading rainbows, falling stars. I even squeezed my eyes shut in concentration, to add to the effect? to make sure God heard me? God. So, I was praying. Is a wish a prayer? A special prayer?
Did it matter if they never came true? Because they never do. They never do.

Time to cut the cake.

voci

The sun glints brilliantly off the faces of clustered houses. The bustling sound of a village, crammed on top of itself over and over, rings in the heart of it all. Roof upon roof, wall stuck to wall, connected by a series of ledges throughout. A rooster announces the morning hours too late. The neighbors gesture wildly out the window, something about a severed head and rooster stew. The woman across the alley opens her frame to pull in the billowing clothes on the line. Little boys' yells echo below, running in shorts, tripping over a worn out soccer ball, the boys' legs tanned a deep brown. Small chimneys cough out their ash and smoke. Stray cats whine loudly as they rummage through the trash, hoping for the fisherman's leftovers.
I stand on the deck of my humble boat, feeling the old, strong wooden platform beneath my bare feet. The smell of freshly caught fish and sea clings to my clothes, surrounds me in air. The sun lightly warms my neck as I look towards home. Every face turned in greeting and I wave happily in return.
I wanted to get lost. I wanted to get lost and I wanted to be home. So I painted.

i am alone

*Disclaimer: I feel this piece needs a companion piece and I will post one .. once I've written it.*

His eyes snap open, governed by the harsh tone of the alarm clock. Buzzed awake.
In the dark, he slowly slides out of bed, shuffling his feet towards the bathroom. His toes curl in protest as he steps onto the tile. He runs the shower, a quiet force of water. He gets in before it's ready and his skin rises in goosebumps and shivers. Water pounds his back as he goes through the motions.
Drying in a rough towel, he brushes his teeth, flosses, winces at the burn of some listerine. An edge to start the day.
Opening his closet he sifts through a row of sameshirts, plainslacks. He blindly picks out a tie, knotting it carefully at his throat, a skill he has mastered without even having to look at himself in a mirror, a skill he'd first learned at his father's funeral so many years ago. He remembers the numbness he felt tying a noose around his neck. The memory keeps him in a chokehold, like the patterned ties that hang in the dark.
He doesn't bother to sit at the small table in the kitchen. He stands, eyes half-closed and glassy, while a pot of coffee brews on the counter. He breathes deeply, waiting, praying for the smell to wake him. He sways as he waits.
He grabs his coat on the way to the door, steps into the cold sharp air. He turns to lock the door, listening to the loud click as the key turns. Keeping closed a safe, a cold hard safe.
He walks towards the bus stop.

kindergarten

It was kindergarten and I was in love. We almost shared the same birthday so, duh, we were destined. We'd met during a game of leap frog and by lunchtime we were hitched.
From then on, we did everything together. We played house and tag and sat next to each other during reading time. We even moved our cots beside each other during nap time. Our marriage was so perfect.
The next morning, I was swinging in the playground all by my lonesome, waiting for my hubby to show up. I didn't see him when he did. Instead, I saw a faceful of sand. He'd pushed me off the swing from behind, into the ground. As I began to cry, he laughed. I turned sharply and shoved him onto the cement and when he began to cry, I stomped away with my head held high, flowery dress billowing in the wind of my glorious departure.
I divorced him after that. And I took the tricycle too.

crash the party - ok go

You're not the prettiest girl in town
I'm not the only boy with sullied clothes and a sullen frown, so
To hell with Valentine's, to hell with perfume
To hell with chocolates and picnics
And Sinatra tunes
'Cause while the rest of the girls are drowning in roses and songs he composes
And while the rest of the guys are all trying
All trying so hard

Oh girl, let's crash the party
El Dorado on the lawn (hey, hey, hey)
Let's burn holes in the carpets
Kicking, shouting, dancing on the tables all night long

I'm not so good with subtlety
You wouldn't say that I'm the picture of urbanity
Never put much stock in suavity, courtesy, chivalry, gallantry
All that useless jewelry
But while the rest of the girls still sigh for the night he was smiling politely
And while the rest of the guys are all trying
All trying so hard

Oh girl, let's crash the party
El Dorado on the lawn (hey, hey, hey)
Let's burn holes in the carpets
Kicking, shouting, dancing on the tables all night long
(Oh girl, let's crash the party)
All night
(Let's burn holes in the carpet)
All night long

My traditional Valentine's Day ode. Happy Singles' Awareness Day.

the shape of the self

The Self grows as a vibrant green blade of grass, strong and sharp, shooting towards the sun, thriving between the cracks of the sidewalk. It skips in the warm rain, leaping from one puddle to the next, splashing the chilly stone walls of its alley. The Self twirls in the sparkling, dancing dust, lit by the sky. It revels with bright laughter when it finds an exit ajar. It creeps slowly through the door, shivering at the darkness inside. The Self fearlessly marches on, even though it hears the faint echoing of the alley calling it back. The Self stumbles and crawls. It stands, wincing at its bruises and scrapes. The Self is lost, and as soon as its eyes begin to glisten, it disappears.

The Self is a wide expanse of black sky, punctured by billions of ways out, none within reach. The Self rests inside the quiet old man who watches the window with a concerned wrinkle in his forehead. The Self blisters on the heel, rubbed raw by a new pair of shoes. It paints lavishly on canvases it will never sell. The Self sleeps beside the nightlight, glowing valiantly in the dark. The Self holds the warmth of his arms, in the hugs she keeps precious. It walks innocently into the master bedroom, woken by the cold hand of a nightmare. The Self shines in joy at the first sight of a tiny sprout, after weeks of expectations. It falls softly with the snow, blanketing the frozen, wilted leaves of autumn. The Self rises in smoke from the blown out candles of my whichever birthday, as the waves crashed against the rocks outside, and he sat beside me, and I was smiling.

the senses

I stumble through the intoxicating stench,
imploring me, dizzying me,
Breathing heavily, I slide my palm through
the thick dark layer blanketing the grass
like deep honey, sticking to me,
urging me to taste.
Reaching out, I feel the face of glass eyes,
open for the first time,
the dry white mouth begging me for relief
choking on the salted breath finally inhaled.
Smoke blinds and burns me, enveloping my mind,
the bitter sound of agony deafening me
and I turn away
as if to see light on my other side;
I grimace at this shadow
of what was once hope.
Shuddering, my face twisted,
I lay my head on the warm ground,
and quietly become engraved.