Our Truth

The left over yarn we keep in a shoebox. The half onion we wrap in foil, and promise to use, only to rediscover three weeks later dry and shriveled in the fridge. The manuscript we give up on after so many rejections. The admiration we hide for someone we’ve just met, so as not to seem too ardent or desperate. The parts of us we keep hidden after the world told us they are madness. The potential we ignore because the world convinced us it has no value. The joyous belly laughter we suppress, until all humor dies inside us.

Our families strip us from our truth, when they tell us who we should be. Our societies rob us from our individuality when they mold us into something only useful to the collective.

From the very beginning, we set off in search of ourselves. We don’t know how we lost our selves or where. We look for our truth in superstition, in personality tests, in zodiac signs, in religion and spirituality, and worse of all in other people. We are afraid of being alone, because loneliness is the only mirror that reflects us, and we’ve never met us before. We are afraid of being alone, because in our solitude we’re forced to listen to our inner thoughts, the thoughts that don’t sugarcoat, or flatter us. They are sharp, plain, and honest.

Later in life we discover that our truth is in the things we are passionate about, the things that don’t necessarily bring us revenue, but bring us fulfillment. Our quiet moments when we choose to turn our backs to the noisy world outside. The courage we feel, when we learn how much ridicule, persecution, and isolation, the creatives we admire had to endure, fighting for their truth, being who they really are.

Listen to this vignette here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2_qmo-8PYsE&t=11s

We Met Online

You can listen to an audio of this memoir piece here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=treCJ9lhvAw

In a sea of photos, captured at flattering angles, every user on the site was suspicious. Did their photo truly represent them? Or was it taken a decade ago? Why did they cover their eyes with shades? Why did they use a filter? Why was their photo too dark? Or too far away? Why were they looking away from the camera? Why was it a headshot and not a full body shot? What were these men hiding? What’s wrong with them? Why were they here? But then again, I was here too!

I was only on the site for five minutes when LakeWoodBoy (Eric) sent me a message: “what color panties are you wearing?” followed by a winking Emoji, a kiss Emoji, and an Emoji with heart eyes.

The user names were just as ridiculous as the users. No one could go with their first name alone, there were too many Johns, Matts, and Davids, they used nicknames followed by their first names in brackets, or some random numbers. NoMoreTears (Ben), CoffeeGuy (Marcus), SacreCrow 225, Rahul-007, PipeFitter (Jim)! I mean I get that Jim is proud of what he does, but this was taking it to the next level.

Then there were the profiles, reading them made me scratch my head. Every profile said: “fun, loving man, seeking fun, loving woman”, and some were left blank. In the interest section HappyDude (Joe) wrote “food and water”, that’s what interests Joe; food and water, he’s a simple guy.

Meanwhile Steve-78, who was blond and blue-eyed, put down his ethnicity as “Native American”. This is how Steve described himself in his profile: “I’m such a lovely, sweet, caring, wonderful, trust worthy, faithful, honest, God fearing man. I’m also amazing in bed, I have testimonials.” Curious about those testimonials, I considered messaging Steve, but decided against it.

Alex, was a few years younger, he had nice hair, and his profile caught my eye because it said he likes poetry. We discussed literature, and hair maintenance. We exchanged numbers, and texted about our favorites poets. What we’d come back as if we we’re re-incarnated, the color of our tooth brushes, how we like our eggs, and which countries we’d like to visit someday. Then, when we finally decided where we’d meet for a first date, he told me he had a child with a woman he was no longer with. I paused; “but this wasn’t mentioned in your profile!” I said. The site shows you a user’s age, where they live, what they do, their body type, their zodiac sign, their social status, whether they have kids, whether they want kids, what kind of relationship they’re seeking; serious, or just casual dating, if they had pets, whether they’re religious, and whether they drink, smoke, or do drugs.

“It’s no one’s business” Alex argued. “If I found someone I’m comfortable dating, then I’ll tell her” he continued. “But that’s not fair” I wrote back, “you expect women on the site to be transparent with you about everything, but you keep something like this a secret? You’re not concerned about privacy, you wanted to seem like a better catch, you wanted to seem more appealing to the ladies. I could have lied about being a mother or about my age, I know that men prefer to date younger, childless women. No one could blame me, I specified on my profile that I’m seeking casual dating but nothing serious, if a potential partner argues I wasn’t honest, I could simply say ‘it’s not like we’re getting married’. But it’s a matter of principle, it about being a decent human being.” Alex said he was sorry and that I was right. But something in me already changed, and we texted our goodbyes.

ProfessorTodd-330 messaged me: “You remind me of a ruptured appendix, in that I'd like to take you out” I rolled my eyes at the lameness of the joke, then threw my head back and laughed for a whole minute. We exchanged messages for several days, and found we had a lot in common, and by this I mean ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ is not the only book he’s read, he’s an academic, interested in the arts, and can hold a conversation.

When we agreed to meet in person, for a short walk by the Rocky River, we both told each other we were looking forward to it, he joked that he’ll be the guy in yoga pants. The meeting was awkward, he was so much older than the photo, he couldn’t walk because of a bad knee, and had a tremor in his hands. I was mortified, my mind told me to turn around and get back in my car, while something like a conscious told me to be polite for fifteen minutes, then make an excuse and leave.

Back home, I sat in my car for an hour, I felt angry and cheated, I kicked myself for not requesting a facetime or a skype call, I fell for the most classic trick. Then, my anger melted into a deep melancholy, I contemplated this mammoth monster called loneliness that terrorizes us all. The lengths we are willing to go to, the lies we’re willing to tell, modified faces and bodies, inflated personalities and exaggerated achievements, to hide an ocean of hungry, hungry hearts. Mournful, gray rain began to roll sulkily down my windscreen, breaking and magnifying different parts of the tree outside. To the tree, my face was distorted, like carnival mirrors, the raindrops multiplied me, stretched my nose, doubled my chin, elongated my head, sliced my eyes into threes and fours, gave me a grotesque freakish mouth, then slowly pooled in the groove between the hood, and the wipers, before falling to the ground.

Laundry Room

 

7:00 am Saturday morning, the washing machines in my building’s basement, stand shoulder to shoulder, like weary looking soldiers with no weekend rest. Their one red eye flashing in anticipation, the word ‘start’ on their buttons pushed, and pushed to erosion. Their perfect circle mouths open, expectant. Like panting tongues, their soap dispensers drawn out, by careless users from the previous night.

The sickly yellow quiver and relentless buzz of the fluorescent lights above. Stiff bodies of dead flies, and dried up moths in dark corners of the room, where the cleaning lady trusts no resident will look.

The heads of family size Tide bottles, watch me, from the overflowing garbage can. Discarded laundry sheets, litter the floor, like dead seagulls.

Glazed eyed residents shove their week’s worth of weariness, disappointments, and grimy laundry, into the overworked machines, the rotten door seals, let out a foul smelling genie.    

They’re only a few feet apart, but there’s an invisible wall dividing the worn-out washing machines and the elite dryers. Like the invisible wall dividing a nice neighborhood, from a rough one. The hard working, abused washing machines, shudder, and whine exhaustingly, on and on, as they plunge red, blue, and yellow garments one way, then achingly start on the other, until they reach a noisy disturbing climax, before they come to a halt. The larger less abused dryers cost more, and made redundant by the summer heat.

An elderly woman reads her book on the immovable plastic seats that were once white, where an abandoned sock is always left for its owner to find, but never retrieved, the cover of her novel, illegible with veins.

Next to the card machine, that swallows money notes, and spits out topped up slick white cards, is a solemn vending machines stacked with bags of Cheetos, Doritos, and cream-filled cookies, a breakfast canteen, for the nurses and the baristas, hurrying to their 5:00 am jobs. The row of Snickers, always empty

Desperate notes pinned on the bulletin board; “pay less for insurance”, “baby sitter $5 an hour, “cupcakes delivered to your door”. And an poetic note “The balls fondling anal queef who stole my laundry basket, I hope you get butt raped by a pack of Koalas – Finn”

A fire took it all last month, we weren’t told how, but I believe one of the enslaved washing machines finally gave in and blew up in fiery rage. I did my laundry at Fairview Laundromat for a whole month, where the shiny chrome framed faces of new machines sparkled with youth and appreciation.

To listen to an audio of this, click this link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmCsdRwHfeY&t=77s 

The Voices in my Head

 

To listen to this audio https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_8F_w39cJFE&t=26s

Only the Whole World

There isn't anything in particular that saddens me..

listen to the audio https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PiG-ESoJav4&t=1s 

From the Cat's Point of View

The big one took me from my mommy when I was four weeks old. She was nervous, she brought a basket with a blanket inside it, to put me in, but the basket was too big, so she held me very gently as if worried I’d slip out of her hand like water.

We drove home. She kept looking at me worried and saying that It will be okay, that she and the little one will take good care of me, “you miss your mommy” she asked me, her eyes welling up.

At home, she hid me behind her back and called the little one. The little one was so surprised, her eye went round, she took me in her arms, smiling, and breathless “where did he come from mommy?”, when the big one told her that I was gift me for her, she began to tremble and cry, and held me firm, but careful not to squeeze me.

The little one put me in bed with her at night, I pooped on her covers. I slept in the little one’s bed for a week, but I kept jumping off the bed, and they were afraid I’d hurt myself, so I slept on a warm blanket on the floor.

The big tried to feed me cat’s milk, but I didn’t like it. So she started feeding me meaty kitten food, which I loved.

They both gushed over me, they pulled a string of yarn around the house, and I tried to catch it, they got me a little stuffed toy mouse, and a bouncy ball, they gave me lots of cuddles and kisses. I was a naughty kitten, then I grew up and began to be calm and lazy. I slept most of the day and demanded food and treats. The big one rubs my belly when I order her to, she coos sweet things to me “you’re the most beautiful cat in the world” which I know of course, she gets on my nerves, so I scratch and bite her.

The big one and the little one, have been my family for almost five years. Everywhere they traveled they took me with them, we’ve been on the plane several times, I don’t like it on the plane, it’s cold, and I don’t like being put in a crate.

I like it when the big one paints, when she comes to her easel and her oil colors, I lie at her feet and purr, she is calm and content when she’s painting. She always plays an audio book on her computer, and I like audio books, I like being told a story, so I lie at her feet, and listen, I like the smell the oil paints and linseed oil. I used to jump on the table where she’s working, to get a closer look at all the colors, but she always tells me to get down, she’s afraid I’ll ruin the painting. I don’t know much about art, but sometimes when a human comes to fix something, they say they like the big one’s art, and she’s happy, for an hour or two.

When the big one has tuna salad, she’s forever trying to lose weight, I sit and stare hard at her while she eats, until she does the right thing and gives me the tuna. I lick it, then leave it.

When the big one and the little one leave the house I miss them a little, when they come back they tell me they miss me, but I just give them a dirty look and go back to napping.

I know where to go to the toilet, but every once in a while I go on the carpet in the living room, just cause!

The big one is a very emotional human, she yells a lot, and cries a lot, she’s frustrated with the little one, she’s frustrated with herself, she’s frustrated with me. I hide under the sofa when she yells, I don’t like loud noises, when there’s thunder, I hide in the kitchen cupboard. The little one is sad, the big one is crying, I go to the little one, when the yelling is over, she ignores me, I go to the big one, she cries, and holds me, I struggle, to get out of her grip, but she holds me tighter, it’s painful and uncomfortable, she cries, and rubs her wet cheeks on my back, and my fur gets wet, and she whispers “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”

I squirm and wriggle to get away from her, she lets me go. I walk away with swagger, I take my time, I show her how indifferent I am to her suffering, how I disdain her for grabbing me so tight and messing my beautiful fur, I take a final pitying look at her as I walk away, unmoved and aloof.

She cries and then she sleeps. 

Here's an audio of this vignette: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL59IzyC5VM&t=6s

For Fred Holland

 

The Ship of Death

 

Now it is autumn and the falling fruit

and the long journey towards oblivion.

 

The apples falling like great drops of dew

to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.

 

And it is time to go, to bid farewell

to one’s own self, and find an exit

from the fallen self  - D H Lawrence, The Ship of Death

 

We talked of trivial things. Triviality the only safe thing to say in such a place. Shrouded in white, his face gaunt, his breath rasping. The intimacy of the curtain drawn around the bed, made us shy of each other, but drawn back, other patients’ visitors gawked at us awkwardly.

I saw the long zigzag shaped scar on his chest, the normality of stitching and re-stitching of flesh as if it were nothing but an old rag. But I spoke to him of the weather, rather than his heart surgery.

I asked him if he’s read anything, and he pointed at a pile of books brought by thoughtful friends, who also struggled to fill the silence. He said he couldn’t read, it required too much energy, too much focus. I asked him if he wrote anything, he shook his head “I tried writing a letter yesterday, but the words looked circular and foreign”.

If I was brave, I would’ve asked him right there and then “are you afraid?” “is there anything you’d like me to do for you, after you’re gone?”. But I kept rummaging in my head for something pleasant to say, and had nothing.

“Could you check my e-mail? I could give you my password” he said, through labored breathing.

“Yes, of course” taken a back. It was a bad internet week for me. My wifi was down at home. My laptop was getting fixed, and I had one of those flip phones, it was 2009. But for him to want to know whether a piece of his got accepted by an unknown online magazine, baffled me. What does it matter now! I couldn’t understand it, but I didn’t understand what dying is like.

I brought more books, I knew he was too tired to read. I brought audiobooks and a CD player, I printed out poems I thought he might like and read them to him, while he clutched at one last shot of immortality. Once, I told him funny little things my four-year-old daughter said and did, trying to make him laugh, straining his breathing further. He said “if you’ll excuse me now” and turned his back to me, and I had the audacity to feel hurt.

After he was gone I found out that he had asked John to read The Ship of Death, by D. H. Lawrence at his funeral. And spoke to Pam about gifting his unpublished writing to Coventry’s public library. Had I been braver, would he have discussed something of importance with me?

Before his illness he encouraged me to read D. H. Lawrence’s work. To him Lawrence was a literary genius; he spoke fervidly of his talent. But I was doing my PhD then, and had too much mandatory reading, to read anything for pleasure. When I finally made time for Lawrence, I began to see his work through Fred’s eyes, the depth of his novels, the complexity of his characters, Lawrence’s courage to fight for his work in a society hostile to his beliefs. I wanted to talk to anyone who’d listen about the beauty of Lawrence’s books and poetry. I wished I could talk about Lawrence’s works with the one person who appreciated him the most.  

You can listen to this memoir piece here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LO3kTnWeOuE&t=29s

 

Fucking is so basic isn't it?

Fucking is so basic isn't it? It's like shitting, Amari said.

listen to this memoir piece here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_IB3I5CD8wI&t=18s