Some bodies, in the way they hover over you, when reaching for something beyond and past you, shape a flesh coloured dome. Like the sacred arch of a mosque they beam with holiness, greatness, divinity. Some bodies, in the way they arch over you when reaching to grab something lying above where your head lies, summon prayer...and all you want to do being the body that lies under that holy arch of flesh that stretches and casts a shadow over your hazy eyes; is to come up, as in after a dive, as in from under water, and kiss it. You want to kiss it the same way religious veiled women kiss the over-kissed and over-touched metals of a shrine. You want to kiss it with closed eyes and pursed lips the way you get ready to blow out your birthday candles thinking of a wish to make. You want to kiss it while making a wish that you can kiss it longer, that this body would arch over you time and time again...that you can be home to the shadow it casts. Your dear flesh. Some bodies are both altars and prayer mats.
Saturday, January 30, 2016
I miss us. I miss us waking up in Reykjavik and walking to the Elf-school hand in hand. I miss the borealis and the black ground beneath our feet and all we have never seen and experienced together or separately in Iceland. I miss gasping in awe of the beauty of Faroe islands' coasts and the day we almost missed our plane to Stavanger. I miss liminality. I miss us not seeing how it stays light out all the way through and past midnight during the summers in Scandinavia. I miss us carrying a constant chill exposed to the softly cold summer breeze. I miss us jet-lagged and slightly tired all the time. I miss the things we used to say to each other and ways we used to touch each other. I miss writing. I miss writing beautifully. I miss you coming here. I miss you reading me religiously. I miss you reading me at all and ever. I miss switching word definitions...like nostalgia with desire. I miss being nostalgic for a desired experience we never shared...
Monday, October 05, 2015
He grabbed my head in his hands and pressed his thumbs on my canine teeth to see how sharp they are. he tilted my head back and pressed harder, till his thumbs started bleeding into my mouth. he said he'd do that with all his girls, to see how feisty they are. so that if things got messy, really out of hand, he'd know what to expect. "you're a wild boar" he said and groaned in pain and pulled back. He leaned against the wall, you couldn't tell if he was turned on or disgusted. He sucked on his thumbs one at a time, his eyes were bloodshot and so were mine. I ran my tongue over my teeth and wiped my mouth on my sleeve. I didn't speak a word through this whole check up. But the next day, he called me up to say I'd passed the test.
Sunday, October 04, 2015
Over 48 hours in bed and i feel like i've grown moss, its green and hard everywhere else on my body except for around my eyes where it feels clammy and cold like the top of the rocks in a tiny stream... It's fall again and almost that time of the year, precisely the time of the year i was in the midst of losing you. Despite having picked an october wedding day i'll perhaps forever associate fall with Your death...you synched with the trees' falling leaves, turned into all these different shades and were gone. Let's not blame these tears on my time of the month, or yours, lets not blame it on any significant dates, just that whenever i get sick, like that last time i wrote about you, i think of your hands , your hands carrying a tray, a glass, a towel, something to my bed, your hands stirring soup, squeezing lime, grating ginger. People like you are very rare, people with healing hands and spacious hearts. Since you left i haven't been all that good of a person. I guess i lost my motivation,. I shut my eyes and did things you'd never approve of. I did things you'd love me a little less for with wide open eyes. Like an orphan, i felt justified for when doing something wrong..like not having someone to look up to. Someone to make proud.. I felt free to go downhill. And down the hill i rolled, and at times i'd get violent and at times i'd crack open with love...maybe you've been here all along, in the sparkle of the diamonds of your ring around my neck, maybe the shadow of your beloved wrinkled hands are working the grains of my soul, making a mandala, balancing the love and hate, the joy and pain, the yin and yang in me.
Saturday, September 12, 2015
To the marrow of her bones!
reading Virginia on a rainy Saturday mid-morning , over a cup of sahleb, Ottoman drink, topped with cinnamon, scent of vanilla under my nose.
"what device for becoming, like waters poured into one jar, inextricably the same, one with the object one adored? "
My curls are disheveled and have sleep marks of a night of tossing and turning in response to blurry dreams and seconds of sudden wakes. My body smells like the sheets and a thin layer of sweat, unfresh. my gaze goes from the words to the gray outside back to the words to the gray outside. my mind drifts, sighs, and runs back excited, sits down, focuses, jumps back up again..and again, and again in a loop. The sahleb's sweet and warm, like the skin of my man, who sleeps through all this. Who I miss constantly, who lives with me by himself as I live with him by myself and we live passed each other, in two separate bubbles someone has blown into a cool breeze through a foamy straw. my heart is almost calm, almost light, as light as an uneasy heart can ever get. I'd like to engrave myself unto this couch, unto this life, unto thousands of moments of beautiful words and loved ones asleep in the next room. Grounding myself in thousand moments of everyone being where they should be , around me, close and far, living their lives, being well, in one piece, in perfect harmony as I factor myself out. As I grab the black eraser you gave me to wipe myself out and watch what would happen. As traces remain of something previously there. Signs of something unsuccessfully erased. but all those people will continue to hover around, in perfect harmony, i hope, to live their lives fully and have pleasant dreams at night. The dandelion floating towards me yesterday, the thin space between me and the car, with all the power to wipe me out in a second, If I wasn't here, would you please stay asleep next door, can I count on you to continue this legacy that is life? that's content-ness with these moments of gray and drizzle and sleepy mornings and not wanting to get ups? would you continue to love, to love with no shame and no fear "like waters poured into a jar" to want to take the shape of all that we inhabit...?
Thursday, June 11, 2015
...just wanted to check in on you and see how you've been all these years. Hoping your English is better than my Italian now and you get me, though regardless of language I know you get me. Just wanted to say that there are bullies on the playground. You remember that painting I did a few years back, with one figure in the tub and a black figure drinking her bath water with a straw? and everyone found that so weird. There are images like that, that pop into my head and no one gets it, because maybe they haven't had the experience of someone walking into their bath, someone trying to drink up all their bath water through a straw. They probably all take quick uninterrupted showers, that's okay, let them. Caro Michele, people have people who love them, and give them back rubs at the end of a long day, and they don't squeeze the bone marrow out of each others' brittle bones. on a playground where there is no bullies, someone holds your feet like it was a bouquet of flowers and they won't want anything back. They hold your feet because they are YOURs and if you are lucky enough they'll even walk them for you over bridges and planes. Into fairy tales or the imagination of crazy girls who'd like to imagine things like this actually exist. Cats who wait for their owners to come home. girls who wait for the cat owner to come home. hearts that you give out like free food (like nazri), hearts that end up on the ground here and there, like food containers after a picnic. like trash. Someone draws you a bath and you simmer in it, someone else comes and drinks from it through a straw and you let them and you watch them and you caress their forehead lovingly all the way through it.