Archive for January, 2010

(This came to me in the middle of the night. It woke me up and insisted on being recorded. I found it this morning, months later, and it insisted on being shared. It was born from a fleeting emotion. A startling thought. It grew independently long after I dismissed it. The emotion is from me yet not my own.)

The silence was suffocating. No noise to grant an escape; no diversion for the mind to cling to, to be pulled from its own thick folds of thought.

She turned and looked at his back, calm in the light streaming onto their bed from their neighbor’s kitchen window. In that moment she loved him forever. She slid across the lumps of their padded futon and shadowed his fetal sleeping position. She squeezed him lightly, attempting to provide him the security she yearned for.

Listening to his low breathing, she smiled and tried to control her own. She always felt so unruly sleeping next to him, filling her lungs entirely with every inhale and releasing the air loudly. She glanced out at her neighbor at his sink then over to her alarm clock and wondered why he was still awake at 3:18 in the morning. Her eyes glazed over as her mind sorted through all of the possible reasons and in its searching stumbled into the setting of her mother’s kitchen.

Her mother stood washing dishes in the light provided by the moon and the weak fluorescent lamp above the sink. She finished the dishes then moved on to the counters and finally the floors. She washed everything she could at 3AM. She washed any and everything she could. Trying to wash away something else she could not. She got out of bed and washed to escape the hour that the right side of her bed felt the emptiest. And she didn’t return to bed until the first rays of sun began to thaw that emptiness. When the first rays of sun rolled over and embraced her as he used to.

The image of her mother faded and the light of her neighbor’s kitchen switched off, jolting her out of her wandering trance. She looked at her husband and all that he meant to her. Warmth. Security. Company. Love. Everything her father meant to her mother. She pulled away from him and slid to the opposite edge of their bed. She turned her back and shut her eyes.

She made a decision as she began to drift off. She decided not to get so used to him. To leave all that he meant to her before it left her. Before she had to wake up at 3AM to wash away the pain.

I have a sharp chin.

That may seem like an effortless statement to type. It may seem a trivial thing to announce.

It’s not.

It’s taken me 23 years to get that out. Siblings mean no harm but can cause great complexes that take years to unearth… that is, once we learn how to shovel.

I have a sharp chin. It’s pronounced. It stands out. Demands attention. It gives my face a diamond shape.

Hidden underneath the flesh of it is a Michael-Jackson-like bone structure, a clef that is a family trait.

But it’s very hidden.

“Almost like Allah shaped it, then changed his mind at the last minute and decided to get a bit more creative,” said daddy regularly to make me feel better about it.

It juts out when I smile.

It quivers when I cry.

It would be what an artist starts with if sketching a caricature of me, followed immediately by my forehead.

It’s my father’s mother’s chin.

Kinda.

But more so, it’s mine.

And I finally learned how to own it.

And the way it gets sharper when I hold my head high.

And, finally, vice versa.

if you’ve ever attempted to create anything meaningful–anyting that will mean anything to anyone, at all–you are familiar with the devil. you’ve heard the voice that says your art doesn’t matter. you’ve felt the anxiety that voice induces as it creeps up your spine plotting to consume your mind with doubt. you’ve fought wars for your relevance, for your worth, for your mark on this space and this time. you bear arms, a sash of artillery and you’ve earned stripes for battles won. lost time and peace of mind for those lost. but the victory lies in the mirror. the day you awaken sweat-drenched and alert and catch a glance of that devil in your mirror is the day you realize that you are all that has ever stopped you. on that day you create.  on that day you earn your purple heart.

there are times when just a few words are enough. when no prose is required. when a million different thoughts can be condensed into three sentences.

there are times when i don’t feel like writing anything, at all–now’s one of those times; note: the all lowercase, read: my own portrayal of lack of effort–but i write anyway to keep the fire burning. because once it’s out it’s hard to get it started again. and i come to a place where instead of striking these keys to get a spark i’d rather just be cold. there are times when i write in my journal because the pen in my hand makes me feel like i’m accomplishing something more than typing. perhaps it’s the higher level of effort involved in drawing those lines versus pushing these cushion-y Mac buttons. (the ache in my index finger after a long string of ink-pressed-hard makes me feel like a warrior.)

the former design of my blog left me feeling empty and useless.* if i did not fill the blank page i felt unaccomplished. if i didn’t write right down to the bottom i felt ashamed of my public offering.

but there are times when just a few words will do. and this new design allows for just that.

welcome to the real. happy new year.

* the site is still under construction