without the drink

 

trickling down, a droplet of absurdity
parenthesis entity — that is me
I am a creature sublime to oddities
artefacts can behold me and I beholden
the seas of chaos, calamity and serenity;

surprised aren’t you when my mouth glides
on tongue and I produce a kiss of words
in sobriety, I mated with soberness and it was
sombre, there is a seriousness in the sexiness
of some abstinence and some less inhibitions (a hybrid)
I am caught in tongues, who are not carcera to cheeks

it feels in the midst of conversations I am the phantom
I do not glow with the iridescence of being high
yet I am a novelty of loosened limbs and tongue
without the bottle — I am still an engaged firefly of sorts

trying to talk to everyone … —

getting comfortable in things not spoken or a) rambling on about current feelings b) trying to incorporate something ontologically philosophical in them

it is strange what you may feel; you are intimate with the non-intimate passive-aggression,
I guess this is how bullied will always feel like — that you feel for something that may not
matter in the long run; you feel abused because it is strange…how people hate, how people
can learn to hate…it makes you think…should hate be a form of ambition for them?

you are not alone in the pub. Yet you are one of the few who don’t drink, that is actually not
an outsider thing to do, remember that, you could be designated walker and driver for all that
is mentioned and shared. You have to adhere to what you believe and your beliefs, religious or secular, they matter. Seeing people get drunk with talk is sweet wine for the one who is warmed
by interaction…yet, a small voice says, are you the odd one out? Not for drinking, not for skins,
it’s just you with your eccentric way of saying things — even if your accent is as perfect. Maybe,
it’s just you…have fun…your small confidences light others’ too as Williamson once said. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful, as she said, powerful more than we can measure and sometimes our light, our power, threatens others, who have only lived with their inadequacies, not their light, they fear
to be liberated for that would be the responsible thing to do than sulking in one’s own shame and fears. You don’t have to be responsible for them either, don’t fall into the trap that you need to be loved by everyone…what should you gain from love from people who may not know love? If they willing to learn, teach, but it is also mostly self-taught, so you cannot patronise either. One of those pretty sacred things, nothing profane or impure nor pure in being superiority complex can really reach it…hang around the sun, the moon, the clouds, the stars and any meteors and odd curvatures of light…you will reach places…

and the places you reached, will not have people who hurt you
and the places you reached, will not chart all the editions of yourself you did not want
and the places you reached, will polish you with all the organic you needed sans plastics
you will have yourself in footnotes and bibliographies of nostalgia and you know what
it’s perfectly sane to carry on your past, but it is insane to let it rupture you completely.
You should rupture to regenerate not to lose yourself and feel lost…what can you feel with
putting yourself feeling lost? Is it always the feeling you need? Your destination may be unambiguous
but need not be undefined as in the now-present, feeling a bit sure but having immediate purpose is a good destination for now.

if you feel you have lost enough, then you have, you won’t lose more
the universe does not keep random quotas of punishing you nor does it keep
an incensed brow to spit on your happiness, your sadness may be meant to be fuel for later happinesses or awarenesses, your happinesses may lead to some sadnesses too, however,
not all the time. Your emotions have too much meaning for a simple x and y graph with the vectors all
aligned — you can be good at the things needed to be good at if you try as talent is a cultivated institution as well, not to feel all is haplessly cornered and squared into genetics. Even if you suffer from a condition know that the condition can be transmuted and put into what you are learning or wanting to learn  — it is perfect way to be an original without feeling the need to try too hard. Hard enough and soft enough.—

I  rambled on and may keep on rambling on. For rambling on sometimes is needed. We are too immured at times to the feelings of non-confessions, non-pathologies, isolated simplicities of being a “normal product” — even if normal may just be a few gestures, a few vowels, not all, to the consonant to each person’s abecedarian inclinations and formations.

We must remember we are uniquely shaped even by the same experiences.—

My Mother’s Story: Moving onto motherhood

Coming here from Christian Mihai site as well. I am very happy you are writing about your mother. These lines got to me.

“My father had been chasing her for years and, knowing him though a previous boyfriend, she thought he was a good catch. At the very least he was a non-drinker who worked hard, which to my 34 year old mom, was probably good enough in a man. My mother never loved him but thought that maybe in time it would come to her.”

I mean I don’t like people, especially women, settling. Settling is a very hard-nailed object. It crucifies you even before you have lived and I am glad your mother escaped it because though she may have had your father she was smart enough, intelligent, to know that good men can mean multiple things. I know men like this. They chase you because you fulfil an image for them, even women who chase or like being chased, men who liked being chased do the same. Like, then they act all wounded if you reject them. Rejection is a blessing at times. I mean seriously too much acceptance in things like this can lead to overcrowdedness. I know they feel they love you because they chased you, but for all people it is not the same case. I am happy your mother had the strength to move beyond all of this.

The Newspeak Post

This is a multi-part piece. The first part of my mother’s story is here.

Upon returning to the United States in the early 1980s my mother tried to pick up the pieces and continue living. She was mostly focused on  finding better employment and helping her mother financially in Mexico. One thing missing in her life was a stable relationship. Already in her early 30s she believed that finding love and a lasting relationship were out of the question. Moreover, she was not even sure she could have children.

Fertility was a doubt because my mother was plagued with bad health throughout her life. Growing up doctors always told her she had a weak heart. Later, in her twenties, she was forced to undergo a procedure to remove polyps from her nose–without anaesthetic–a surgery that would haunt her nightmares for years. She still remembers how the doctor performing the operation had…

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plagiarising myself to get rid of writer’s block; not an academic tactic to employ

— [“How I feel, is not necessarily connected to what I would prefer to think
How I operate, is not necessarily my personality;
I am clueless, a writer’s block in motion
“cock-cunt” blocking my potentials that I did not know
— do not know, how to exactly cultivate…
and I feel lonesome all the time…lonesome in my blood”]

…and I plagiarised myself, we can have a “lol” to that, or can’t we?

because I am sometimes numbed. Sometimes left wingless, on the way to grow new wings
and the cocoon of the wait and weight sometimes bore me, but bores into, I am borne to be born in each consecutive packet of truth and time; I want more and more, wider and wider, but a halo like the gullet that swallows food. I need my heart to be oceanically gradual.

So I am tested for tides. I am a tide in a little vein.—

poet, poet, who is poet? am I poet? wanna -be poets

I am not a poet; though poetry was my spleen and spine
I am a poet; poetry is still my spleen and spine

I do not populate bookshelves, or publications older than digital casings and floppy-disc sagas

I just learned writing and reading and tasted it as the fibre of my being and bone, metal, mettle and flesh and organic spirituality

I write to be. I write therefore I exist.—

survival via paragraphs.—

How I feel, is not necessarily connected to what I would prefer to think
How I operate, is not necessarily my personality;
I am clueless, a writer’s block in motion
“cock-cunt” blocking my potentials that I did not know
— do not know, how to exactly cultivate…
and I feel lonesome all the time…lonesome in my blood
like some odd sterile-vaccination to another incubation
an incubation that waits in the wings; I am a mouth full
of disjointed feathers; corporeal but not blood-stained
they inhibited the concept of death, in my mouth the feathers
waxen and wane like flowers in bloom and they recycles as
cat-got-tongue sort of feats…I am just sad, I am just lonely,
I lost that person close to me — Abbu, Dad, I don’t want to believe
that you don’t walk beside me — that all these journeys are now
mine alone. And I am not happy always alone. I feel angry.
This month I had procrastinated to daydream — been unable to
fit the home model of me in this new home. And it does hurt.

But who is willing to understand?

Not everyone will get it. They manage. They think you will. The same.
the same ways; nothing new — as the human world forgot the existences
of biodiversity. I have been unmade or made into plankton. Into a unicellular being by ennui and loneliness. I can’t withstand this need to be more as I do not know how the future will be cunning — how it takes my fate with a grain of salt? I will be the Red Sea motherfucker you will see how I wash you with salt and caribous and whales and I am not going to make a whale of and effort doing so — I am lost but have not lost. I feel cold but I am not numbed yet bastards! I did not wish to be trouble but I became trouble because I always yearn for what other people are taught to detach — the search of intimacies, the search of love, the search of sacred sex, a life beyond gendered expectations. I think people use all that is normative as manipulations, as fetishisms, but I do not know honestly how to be honest with those — I could only be me and outlast the lingering eye of discriminatory tastes. I yearn to talk, to think, to not be betrayed by obscene friends who had lived a life but chose to thwart mine.

I know I am no poetry in motion.

That I was chipped from the start, weakened already, I am no IQ wonder no genius in a refrain, waiting for a right chord to strike. I have no serpent’s tooth, no cunning fox with no tale. How I operated was survival and lacking what I needed to survive at best. How I feel is just the dregs of disatisfaction. Nothing in me on this was apt to binary. I was happy too to have heating when the minus degrees struck and food in the fridge. I wished I knew how to transmute disappointments in life as talismans of the future. Or, maybe I am learning the art but have not mastered it enough yet? — I hear distant city-life outside, echoing, wailing, demanding to be heard. Am I demanding to be heard?  — I am wailing on poetry, but the poem was also a soft pinch on your thigh, a flirtatious revenue to ask “look, at me, I am talking, but I also look nice when I breathe.” I am like the existential ugly duckling, waiting to swan and swan dive out of abyss, into it and peripheries and centers and all. Clipped wings may be coined for the so-called well grounded. I rather file them, adjust the bluntness and sharpness, so that walking, floating and flying can be done with chimerical speed. I speed into God; I know God will speed into me…—