the b-entry

To contemplate one’s existence in this mad world is a tad too tiresome, and at times, excruciatingly morbid. To factor in a significant amount of mathematics makes it even more dreadful. But once a year we are forced to philosophise and ponder with sugar and frosting. I suppose ageing is inevitable. However, I am not one to wallow in delightful thoughts concerning my mortality. Not today. Besides, according to society and its asinine rules, one must engage in frivolous affairs to celebrate the commemoration of one’s beginning. Since I do not find these things particularly pleasant, I shall, instead, honour this day by taking the time to immortalise in text the lessons I have learned so far from this voyage.

In this life, nothing is ever easy. The sea is vast and the wind is treacherous. You can never tell where you are travelling to. Sometimes, you have to fight the current to stay on your course. Sometimes, you just have to let the waters take you where it desires to go. Each of us must travel our own way. The people we meet along our journey are simply travellers who are, at the moment, traversing through a similar course. At some point, forks are going to appear ahead and different courses will make themselves known. Do not be fooled by other people’s paths. Your happiness does not exist in someone else’s journey. Unless you try to weave your way through on your own, you will never truly appreciate the road you are on. Hey, Frost says.

There is something utterly satisfying in realising achievements by means of hard work. There is value and meaning in soiled and bleeding hands. There is a sense of fulfilment in a weary body.  A truly accomplished person is a tired person. I do realise how astoundingly absurd I must sound but there’s no denying the truth about exhaustion. Thou must not fear fatigue, lest thou desireth a hollow existence. Nah. I made-eth it all up-eth.

Friendships are important. Look for a friend who is not afraid to disagree with you. Look for someone who is not afraid to tell you how big your arse looks in those jeans. In friendships, similarities are not important—honesty is. If you are looking for likeness, join a clique. If you want a good friend, then be a good friend. Friendships teach us the value of give and take. But be careful of false friends. They appear in the guise of sincerity and truth, but are truly clothed in foul garments whose odour reeks in moments when you are caught unaware.

Apologise to people when you have wronged them. But never be caught being manipulated to ask for apologies from people who have wronged you. ‘Forgive and forget’ is a whimsical idea. Forgetting is a complex act that can only be successfully achieved if one’s heart is true enough to sincerely forgive another.

Romantic relationships are fragile. I believe that friendship is a necessary step to a healthy romantic relationship. As time goes by, the fluttery feelings disappear. Roses and candles won’t do the trick. But people who are bound together by true love and friendship are able to surpass challenges that require more than just fluttery feelings. More often than not, love evolves from being a feeling to being a choice. Of course, you don’t choose the person you fall in love with, you simply do. However, as time passes, being with that person becomes a matter of choice. You choose to be faithful, you choose to be honest, etcetera, and you choose to be all of these things because you want to—not because you have to. Because you love that person, not because you love the idea of being with a person. Love is complex and each of our experiences is unique. There are no right or wrong ideas when it comes to love because love can never be an objective concept measurable by any standards.

In every journey, a map is a vital tool every traveller must have in order to successfully reach the desired destination. But in this life, maps, blueprints, and plans are not infallible. You can plan ten years into the future but there is no guarantee for follow through. Life does not come with a foolproof device or a manual. There is no autopilot button. A planned experience is not an experience at all but simply an enactment of a predetermined course of action. Where’s the fun in that?

The way I see it, there is no finality to life. The end is simply an illusion. But I could change my views about all of this in a day or so. I am, after all, awfully temperamental. We’ll see. I dare say the world sure is lucky to have such an enchanting creature—ahem, me—around. Here’s to another year of traipsing. Cheers!

ellipses

Her quick lithe steps sloshed about the newly formed puddles as she hurried towards her temporary recluse from the sudden downpour. The sound of the rain obscured by the menacing noise of the late afternoon traffic as cars honked with the air of impatience. People rushed past her, futilely avoiding getting drenched as their thick black coats shielded them minimally from the cold and the wet. She stopped just below the awning of a familiar French restaurant. She shook her wet umbrella vigorously before clasping it shut and turned towards the door. The restaurant was nearly empty except for a young man in a dark suit sitting at the far end of the room sipping coffee and reading the paper. She sat down her favourite table by the window overlooking the busy street. She hung her wet umbrella behind her chair and rested her bag on the floor beside her. She proceeded to run her fingers through her messy brown hair that hung limply down her shoulders, slightly drenched. Mozart was playing in the background and she was relieved that it was a slow hour. She could start her shift in two hours when the dinner crowd was to be expected. Young professionals like the young man sitting by the Kahlo, were their usual customers.

“Ah, you silly girl!” a familiar voice called out to her. She smiled warmly up that old wizened face of her grandmother. “Eet eez far too cold outside to be wearing zis kind of dress around ‘ere. And zos cute shoes don’ give much protection in a weazur such as zis. Ay, you are going to get yourself zeeck, yes you are!” she admonished in her heavy French accent.

“But it was warm out this morning grandmaman. I didn’t think it would rain. And you know how much I love my summer dress. It is summer after all.” She smiled apologetically, crossing her arms to keep herself from shivering. Her English devoid of any traces of a French accent.

“Ah, very well ma chérie. I shall go get you a coat and a cup of hot coco. Zat should warm you up.” The old woman left her sitting by herself.

As appearances go, the girl looked nothing like her grandmother. Perhaps the word girl would be inappropriate since she was in her early twenties, though her features wouldn’t have given her away. She looked young, possibly eighteen at the latest. She was petite with a frame that made her look more adolescent, a striking difference from her tall and willowy grandmother who had silvery blonde hair and olive green eyes. The girl’s face looked innocent and unassuming. Something about her made her look fragile, as if she had been broken once before and was merely pieced together.

Her grandmother came back from the kitchen carrying with her a warm cup of coco in one hand and a long brown coat slung over her other arm. She took the coat from the old woman and slid her fragile arms through it. Her grandmother sat with her as she sipped the sweet, warm concoction. The sweet scent of the chocolate reminded her of something that she could not put her finger on. It reminded her of home, but not of the French countryside where she supposedly spent her childhood, as she was frequently told by her grandmother.

“What eez eet zat you are thinking of ma petit chou?” the old woman asked her.

“Nothing grandmaman. Just wondering what this coco reminded me of. Home, I suppose? But somehow not exactly.”

“Ah, well... zat is charming. I need to get back before Antoine decides to experiment with ze menu again.” The old woman kissed her granddaughter atop her head before hurriedly heading back to the kitchen.

It wasn’t strange. Not even unusual. She knew it must hurt her to be reminded that she could not remember. Not the pain or the people. It wasn’t even an echo of a long forgotten memory. She had nothing but jogs of her senses every now and then. She doesn’t have a history, but she has now and tomorrow. And that thought comforted her. She unzipped her bag, took out her Proust and began to read. She had time and she was happy that at least she had that.

He watched her from his corner as he pretended to scan the business pages of his paper. “Some things never change.” He muttered silently to himself. He smiled sadly as he watched her turn the leaf of her book. The young man kept his paper in front of him as if to read it, yet his eyes were glued to her. He saw her from across the street hurrying towards the restaurant. His heart skipped a beat as her eyes seemed to look into his. He needed to remind himself that the restaurant had one-way glass windows, that she could not have recognized him or seen him at the very least. When she walked through those doors a few minutes ago, he was taken with a powerful urge to approach her and tell her who he was. He wanted to take her away with him. He wanted to hold her hand again the way he used to. He wanted to talk to her, make her laugh, the way he used to. He wanted things to be the way they used to. But the voice of that kind French woman woke him up from his reverie. He needed to see to it that things were as they should be. That was how it turned out. That was how it was supposed to be. He kept himself busy flipping through page after page not reading any of it, his eyes watching the girl who sat by the window immersed in her book.

The girl’s grandmother came out of the kitchen and sat with her, saying something he could not hear. The girl smiled and nodded and he looked away, the pain searing through him like a jagged knife through his flesh. The old woman walked out the door. She had her eyes on her book again as he bid his time, taking in as much of her as he could from where he was. He did not know if he would ever see her again. Not after tonight. After a minute or so, the young man folded up his paper and signalled to the waiter by the bar. He left a fifty-pound note then stood up and left not bothering to wait for his change. She did not notice him or the way he looked at her when he walked through the door. The pain masked ever so poorly in his eyes.

He walked hurriedly barely noticing the light drizzle that soaked everything in dull gray. He was at the train station before he realised it and he searched for her amongst the sea of people going about their late afternoon businesses. He finally saw her sitting by herself in the far corner of the waiting area. He went over and sat beside the old French lady with the silvery blonde hair to whom he owed so much.

“She looks well...” he said.

“She eez doing very well at ze University. Her professors speak very highly of her work. She eez a very intelligent girl.” The woman replied.

“She always has been. I can see that that did not change.” He smiled sadly looking out onto the throngs of people coming in and out of the station.

“Eet ‘as been two years and three months since. Don’t you want to let her know?” she said, her heavy French accent made it a bit difficult for him to understand. So he paused, thinking about how he would respond.

“Can she play the piano now?”

“Yes she does. She plays the piano beautifully. Zat girl is talented.”

“She is.”

“She loves to read. She would bring home many books from her trips to ze bookstores and read zem all in a day.” The old woman laughed as she looked down at her hands.

“I followed her once. I saw her reading at the park.” He replied. His smile fading as he remembered the day he followed her from one of her classes during one of his visits to her university.

“Ah, yes, yes. She loves going zer to read. Curious leettle thing she is.”

His agony was unfathomable. He remembered that day when he sat beside her at the park bench, wanting to reach out to her. Knowing that no matter how close he lingered she would not notice, she would not remember. He sat close enough that every time the light breeze would blow a strand of her hair, he would catch a whiff of her and it was as though pain and happiness could exist at the same time. It was as though torture and bliss were bound together by that moment. His moment. The closest he could ever get to her now. Or ever.

“Perhaps eet eez time zat she learned ze truth about herself and her life.” The old woman said.

“No. She is happy here. She is whole and well. If those people didn’t kill her, the truth will.”

“But zis is unfair. Zis is unfair for her and for you. You know so much yet she knows nothing..”

“You think that matters to me now? I don’t care how unfair it is for me. I don’t care that I am a stranger to her, that she no longer remembers me. I don’t care that she doesn’t know that I exist and that I am here. If it means that she does not fall apart then hell, I don’t care where this would take me.”

“I know zis must be difficult for you. I want you to ‘av a chance. I want her to ‘av a chance.”

“She has a chance. You gave it to her and for that I will be forever grateful.”

“She could remember you someday...”

“If it would mean that she would remember losing her family then I’d rather she never remembers me at all.”

“But you are her family too!”

“I always find time to be here for her that should be enough.”

“Eet eez not enough for you. Ze both of you!”

“It is enough for her.”

“But she does not know!”

“And it’s best that she doesn’t!”

He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the old woman.

“Here. Keep her safe. I will visit when I can.”

“I will monsieur.”

“Thank you Madame Solange.”

He walked out onto the late afternoon drizzle and hailed a cab. On his way to the airport and to his future, he thought about her and everything that he had to leave behind. His life, his soul, his heart, would forever be hers. He was now an empty shell, a broken man. The cab ride to the airport was dreadful but he was here and this was it for him. No more turning back.

He took his time walking towards the check-in counter, wanting to revel in the few minutes that he had, seeing her face in his head, when he was pulled back from his trance by a voice calling his name. He thought that he had imagined it but the voice kept calling him. He searched for the person who called his name wondering if it was really his name that he kept hearing. He turned around and he saw her standing a few feet away, soaking wet with tears streaming down her face.

lakbay

Beads of sweat were dripping down her face. Gulp. Quenched.

questions and marks

The Saturday afternoon air carries with it a tangible lethargy as the sun hung low somewhere above the sky. The heavy weight of this stupor bears down on my already weary soul. I sigh as I let them overpower me, my spirit already broken, further pulverized into nothingness. I listen to the sounds of conversation from a few blocks ahead. High-pitched voices crack the peace of my breaking but my mind refuses to acknowledge their words. My thoughts, momentarily distracted by the mental list of school work I needed to get started on, continued to wander as if no distraction shattered its concentration. Movement from inside the house made me wary. There are things I prefer to do without an audience. Contemplating my quasi-existence is one. The door closed signaling my return to pondering.

I expected more. I suppose that is the problem. But I was never complacent. On the contrary, I did everything that was asked of me. I climbed up steep mountains with the herd. My calloused hands grabbing onto ledges and rocks. I swam across oceans, legs and arms flapping against - and sometimes along - with the current. My lungs burned as I refused to give in to my need for air. The salt stinging my eyes. I trooped along valleys and plains with the sun hanging ever so brightly and hot above my head. Sweat dripping down my back, blood coursing through my veins desperately compensating my lack of whatever it is that keeps me from falling. I complained but I never wavered. I kept pushing. One foot over the other. Breathed in and out. There is something waiting for me, I've been told. This excruciating exodus will pay off and its end will signal the beginning of ambitions that will be fulfilled. My head was filled with these visions as I dreamed some more.

And then I got here.

I see dreams and ambitions, fulfillment and celebration, but they're not mine. I see animated chatter about success and progress, but they're not mine. I witnessed happiness and wishes coming true, but they're not mine. These people were part of my herd yet I don't have a patch of grass to graze on. My stomach grumbled as the anvil of hunger fell with a resounding thud crushing my body and breaking my soul.

And now here I am.

All I ask for is a chance. You are breaking me. And I don't know how much more of me there is left to break.

mistress mary and my ten-year-old self

That pink flowered dress with the pink slip and the black and white sandals. The denim jumper with the v-neck t-shirt that says "cuteberry" on the front with blue flowers shaped like a heart, the socks and the heeled rubber Skechers. And then there was this salmon, peachy coloured knee-length dress that had laces on them and turned slightly neon green in the light. And the braids with the very Crayola Pink lipstick. Some mistakes can be permanently etched in your history. I have photos to prove it. These were prime Kodak moments.

So, I had an epiphany.

I am not a very decisive person. I am very bad at decision-making and often, when I am given permission to go crazy and actually choose between A or B, I get a splitting headache. My life is ridden with these poorly made decisions that had a permanent effect on my sanity and could possibly be the reason for my charming personality. Or my lack of self-esteem. I find it quite difficult to express what I want because my life has been set for me. In the guise of suggestions and nudges, I am manipulated into doing something I would greatly regret. But I know what I want now and it doesn't seem to matter because I have this reputation for not knowing what I want.

I feel trapped. But I'm not Joseph and in as much as I'd like to think I can grow a tree in this dark, dismal abyss of mine, positivity and cheerfulness are not among my many adorable attributes. I suck. In a magnanimous sort of way.

And the image of me wearing that halter mini-dress with the beads and the rhinestones in it, in all it's beigeness, comes to mind. Hello bitterness.

ask

Doubt facilitates the ability to formulate a reason. Fear, however, often leads to acceptance of the status quo and those who dare doubt the foundation of what it is that they experience are often met with a very strong force of opposition.

It is in doubt that one can fully comprehend the complexity of a concept. It is in doubt that ideas are examined. The kind of doubt that facilitates progress and the accumulation of knowledge must always be nurtured. It is in nurturing the questions that we come about with answers that satiate our thirst of wanting to understand. This is how faith is nourished.

There are instances, on the other hand, where doubt is seen as a threat. Relationships are often threatened when one doubts. We are taught, perhaps by society itself, that it is extremely unacceptable for someone to doubt the truthfulness of one's feelings. To ask whether his or her partner is seeing someone else is often thought of as a poison, a very strong force of betrayal. To doubt one's faithfulness is deemed to be offensive.

This kind of doubt is like an arrow piercing through the depths of a relationship. This kind of doubt is often accompanied by a significant shade of green. But this kind of doubt also gives way to something more special. It gives way to effort. Effort is the icing on top of that red velvet cake. It is sweet, creamy, and moist. It is like honey and tea on a cold, rainy day. Comforting. Being pursued, being given effort, to quench that doubt, makes bonds stronger. This is how trust is strengthened.

Answers, favours, and things of great need, are generously provided to those who are not afraid to ask.

breakfast

Understanding is a big word. What does it mean to understand a story? Or perhaps a reason? There's something about understanding that we all, at some point in our lives, refuse to understand. But, admit it or not, we all want a sliver of it. A drop of whatever understanding the world could offer us. Kindness is rare. Understanding is even more so.

So here I sit, very darn early in the morning, wondering when the world would drop me a serving of a little understanding. I find it quite sad that when all a person needs is for someone to understand his or her plight, it is often met with strong opinions regarding the contrary. I feel slighted at how I am given very little of it when all I am asking for is an open mind to see the reality behind every word I am saying. 

I suppose it is easier for people not to understand because then, they wouldn't have to feel the stinging rejection I felt the day I dropped the phone to ask.

on being bright and shiny

If I have to dispense one advice to those seeking to create something, it is to never revisit your previous works. You will always find something ugly about it. These conceived flaws will be your downfall. Or, less dramatically, the errors you feel that you have committed will most likely keep you from ever creating something again. Whether it be a work of art, literature, a song, or an invention, things - or more accurately, the by-products of your imagination - will always seem brilliant at first thought.

In order to facilitate the conception of an idea, it is necessary for the artist to acquire that particular talent of acceptance and the gift of being solely preoccupied with the present. The habit of looking back creates a vacuum where both the desire to produce something, and the desire to produce something perfect collides. The person then, becomes too confused with wanting to build something and avoiding catastrophes with his subject.

The idea, is to create something. To appreciate the product of thought for what it is. Oftentimes, we become too preoccupied with the technicalities and the emotions tied to our inventions that when we revisit them, it becomes unbearable. Its tangibility is piercing.

The solution then, is to continuously create.

pitter patter

What have I been up to?

Saving the world - one victim after another. Towering skyscrapers. Hanging by a thin web. Spandex, tights, and blazing eyes. No, I haven't been out playing mutant vigilante but grad school sure has its effects on my sanity. Literary constipation is more like it. In the name of higher education and gaining upper ground against the flock of mad young people in search of opportunities like me, I subject myself to scholarly exploration that aims to strip me off of whatever sanity I have left. The only real thing I have gained is the ability to put everything off at the last possible second and come out of it victorious. Not exactly the achievement I have in mind.

In moments of idleness, I lose myself in deep thought. The future is a very scary place and discovering what lies ahead of now is something I'd rather not think about. I am well aware that I am losing the opportunity to wade in the present as my thoughts constantly travel forward in fear. I am trying to be brave about the possibilities and positivity is something I desire to acquire. Careful and with great caution, I tiptoe and walk ever so gently, trying not to trip over anything. But does it nullify the experience of the moment? I suppose to a certain extent, it does. I am missing out on things I shouldn't be missing out on, simply because I fear what lies ahead.

A duck should wade out into the water. The shore is for cowards. Turtles go forth at the beginning of life. I believe I should too...

two

I love you.

In a crazy, inconvenient, can't-sleep-can't-eat-can't-breathe-without-you kind of way. It's like finding out that a cloud is a soft smushy pillow and I am hovering way above them. It's like catching Santa delivering your presents under the tree on Christmas night. It's like the Easter Bunny and a basketful of eggs. It's like all those Disney movies right smack in my twisted reality. You are everything I hoped for. You are every piece of childhood dream I had for a prince. You are mine.

Until today.

When doubts and troubles are clouding my vision. When decisions have to be made. When my worth to you is the very essence of my question. When I am unsure and shaken.

All I want is for you to keep me still and steady, a sliver of reassurance, and perhaps even a whisper to calm me. Maybe I am making a very big mistake. I do not want to let you go but right is right and wrong is wrong.

Everything is now hanging in the balance...