Smith & Wesson

I bought a new drill today and you were the first person I wanted to tell. I wonder when that urge to tell you something will go away. Memories of you are like neon signs in my brain flashing images of cuddles, smiles, smells, cars, radios, texts. But you're my past tense now and I'm struggling to accept that. I know it isn't fair that I reached out to you in an effort to be comforted. Truthfully, I needed attention from you because it was the only way I could feel relevant. Like I mattered or that you cared about me. That you loved me. 

It's quiet since you've been gone. Screeching silence. The sound of you not texting me good night before you go to bed. The sound of you not calling me after a meeting--it visits me every night. The sound of your silence is haunting. 

You fill other rooms with laughter. Rooms occupied with other people. Rooms where I am no longer welcome. Do you cuddle her on the same couch you fucked me on? Does she know or care? What do you say about me? Do you tell her I was crazy? That I'm a nutso basketcase? It would be fair if you did, but I hope that's not all you say. Maybe you could mention that I hate dancing but sometimes I squiggle. Maybe you could tell her I hate chicken but I eat it for the protein. Maybe you tell her I love poetry. 

But why focus on her? You do enough of that so I certainly won't. I'm surprised is all. That someone else is your girlfriend. Other girls played the role in your past, I know, but I really identified with it. Some days it was a difficult role to play. Like when you never asked me questions or tried to get to know me. Or when you kept forgetting that I love cherries but hate cherry fizzy water. Or when you'd get mad but wouldn't communicate it. I know I was hard, but you were hard too. Your life philosophy that "if you don't mind it don't matter" was idealistic but inaccurate; you are the most uptight and serious person I know. As Aristotle said, "you are what you repeatedly do". Our actions form other people's opinions of us, not our thoughts, not our intentions. Your actions were hard sometimes. 

Despite this, I never for a million years thought we wouldn't be friends. Maybe it's inaccurate to assume the loss of our friendship based on your failure to respond to my text. But how else am I meant to take it? Truthfully, I've been seeking counsel--asking for advice from anyone who will listen. I feel like a fucking teenager giving play by plays of events and showing text messages. But it makes me feel like I have a semblance of control in the situation. Yes, I broke up with you but you sealed the nail and made it dunzo. I don't blame you for that but I can still be mad and disappointed about it, but you didn't do anything wrong. You just moved on is all. It's a tough jagged little pill to swallow.

It's not that I wanted to get back together, but I wanted you to want me. That's all I've ever wanted. I've been starving for your attention for years. You were so hot and cold that it felt refreshing to get it. Did you know that you're moody? You should know that about yourself. I'm moody too, but I admit it. I don't hide behind a cowboy hat of bravado and self-righteousness. 

I thought about you a lot today. Every time I got a text notification I had hope that it was you, but it's not fair to want your attention anymore. You're not mine. Even when you were, your attention was hard to get. You know what's weird? I had grown so accustomed to your emotional unavailability for the first 7 years of our relationship that when you finally let your guard down, it was weird as shit. Like this thing that i'd been waiting years for finally arrived and it was so fucking eerie and misplaced that I didn't know what to do with it. I felt so alone and lonely in that relationship that when you finally decided to show up, it felt like there were too many people involved. Because it was too late. You kept yourself kempt in a fucking fortress high above reality and when you finally came down I didn't know what the fuck was going on. 

Could we have made it work? Do you think? I really don't know. All relationships have issues, but ours were too quiet. We never fought. Which means we never worked out our differences--we just buried them further and further down. I guess taking the risk and seeing how our future played out just didn't make sense. The logistics made it impossible. Yesterday someone told me that if we really wanted to make it work we would have found a way. I honestly can't see a path that led to us staying together forever, at least not happily. We were on cruise control, which is fine, and easy, and comfortable but it's also stifling. We weren't headed anywhere. Even if we got engaged or married, it would be like, ok now what. Where do we live? What do we do about my sister? And what about all your stuff? Your garage is a thing of nightmares. No, we played it out as long as we could. But it's still fucking hard to accept. That you're not in my life anymore. That you're not my boyfriend. That I can't call you and come over right now. Not that I could anyway. You had the cigar meeting tonight. It was always something. 

So you're really gone? It's over? I need to let you go? OK. I'll do it. I know it's hard but not impossible. It just takes time. That was how you got through it, right? See, I wouldn't know because you didn't text me back. 

I'll leave you now, but not before I say...

• You're dreamy

• You're really smart

• Your job is fucking hot

• Your taste in movies and TV is shit but your music selection is fantastic

• I only want you to be happy and fulfilled but I don't think I could handle seeing you ever again

• Sometimes I felt like you didn’t like me

• Your reactive nature scared me sometimes and I often walked on eggshells around you

• I appreciate that you finally welcomed me into your family

• You work hard, not smart. It's infuriating because you could literally be as successful as some of those guys you admire 

• I loved holding your hand

• I think your childhood really damaged you and by not addressing that pain and trauma, you are unable to be emotionally present 

• You have great hair

• I love how connected you are to your Mexican culture

• I relapsed last year because I didn't know how to not be your girlfriend and felt lost. It was for 2 months at my dad's house and only on Saturday nights...our night. I would text you sometimes. I had fun but it needed to stop.

• I love how you treated Abby

• I miss your smell

• I regret that we never had break-up sex and would still do it if you were game.

• I considered us an AA power couple

• I hate that I can't call you right now

And on and on and on and on...

That’s it. It’s time to let you go. Goodbye my sweet Baboo. I hope they make good banana bread on your side of the break-up. oxox

 

Alchemy

You even shatter the sensations of time and space into split seconds and instant replays.

- Max Schumacher, Network

Wizards tried for years to convert stone to gold, a “science” called alchemy, which essentially attempts to create something valuable from something shitty and worthless. The futility is laughable and almost embarrassing for those bearded warlocks, until recently realizing, while staring into the cold truth, that I do this every day. My less avaricious but just as futile gestures-- instead of changing tin to gold--attempt to process awful things from the past into a positive present; I try to glean wisdom from recurring and unpleasant thoughts.

Did you know I do that? As I retell our stories, relive our adventures, and rehash our journeys? I tirelessly manipulate our time together to make it educational. Something to learn from, grow from and apply as a warning with the next boy?

It’s a criminally easy act, “entertaining” thoughts, and I don’t know what else to do when they arrive. I provide so much time and energy to keep the fuckers around. As of last week, a freshly ended relationship tirelessly stops by to say hello. Although it leaves when I ask, it keeps returning with new stuff. Last night, it came over with vacation photos and a bottle of vodka. This afternoon, it brought a warm blanket and some food. And now it came with funny stories and ice...making the vodka more palatable. I hadn’t thought about him in a few hours, so when it came, I knew what to do: we sat together for hours and had tea. We’ll drink the vodka later, I’m sure. 

Sadly, I can’t turn this into gold because alchemy is hard. I have failed like those stinky medieval doctors and warlocks hundreds of years ago. Maybe I let it stay too long, but instead of having a positive outlook, I’m actually wallowing more. Is there a version of alchemy where metal converts into a shittier metal? That’s what’s happening. The dark thoughts have become destructive, and every visit leaves me more empty. Like a dirty aluminum can.

I wrangle my inner cowboy to lasso the ghosts out, but thoughts can be relentless guests; they never get full. And its slow, reluctant, almost turtlelike exit gives me plenty of opportunity to pour another cup of tea and have it stay a bit longer. Also, if these thoughts leave, others will just take their place, and I don’t have the wherewithal to entertain another guest. At least I know what to expect with this one. As with all thoughts, I know it will eventually depart on its own, maniacally leaving destruction in its wake and stealing my good china on the way out.

Hunting Season

Stir not my dear, 
Please!
Sleep soundly while I plan,
Because you don’t have to be awake to be my man;
Nobody needs to know—not even you—that it’s all in my head,

Madly drawing, drawing 

on the perfect words we could have said.

Check my notes, 
because I've made sure our story ends 
with "happily ever after,"

Our fairy tale is oozing 
with mountains of fucking
love and laughter.

Because, you see sir, 

When forced to fill in those glaring empty slots and blank spaces,
Etched by unringing telephones and unkissed faces,
I must do my best to create a story that deters my tears,
One I can tell in my twilight years--
That you and I talked of love and read great poetry,
Sitting together, at that summer’s end, reciting Yeats, maybe?

Ah, yes! In our world I’m always smooth-skinned and tan;

Nobody can see the cut on my leg—at least I hope they can’t.

My hair is the perfect curly and smile so white;
Don’t worry, I don’t need you for this part--
You've been drawn in the perfect light.

What took me so long anyway? Oh, yes…
I hoped we’d do it together,
No bother at all though; I’ve created a better story in my letters.

So love me, or leave me, 
Just dim the lights when you go;
I crafted more lines for us to play out in our epic one-man show.

We Are Not Tall

Maybe today I'll be perfect,
And there are only a few days to be perfect;
But, I'll do it better than everyone;
and be perfect at it.

But all of these restrictions! 

In truth, I can't control that my body 
stopped growing
at the five feet and
reluctant five inches following them;

And I can't make my chubby fingers perfect;
no matter how skinny I get.
I can't get them right--

Hair! Why must you be curly?
Smile--Why so surly?
And dear teeth, Won't you chew something more healthy?
Brain--please, oh please, think of something to make us more wealthy.
Heart: start trusting...but not too much. When will you learn to trust just right?

I'll continue to fight perfectly perfect and win this perfect fight. 

Mrs. Lincoln Slept Alone That Night

I want to begin with Yeats,

There's not a woman turns her face

Upon a broken tree,

And yet the beauties that I loved

Are in my memory;

The next line is profound;

The next line explains why I wanted to begin with Yeats.

40 years old; in 2 days, I will be 40 years old. 

And I can’t help but remember that 40

Is Was my suicide age. 

When I decided that I would drown myself in the ocean at age 40

I was only 27. 

At the time, it seemed like the right decision. 

Time.  

Most of life was lived, I figured. Would have been lived. 

Should have been loved. Hasn’t been lived. 

Suppressions creep out on my birthday;

The expectations and pressures and hopes that I never 

Let myself think about. They come to play on May 14. Every fucking year. 

All of the other days, my unadorned finger and childless womb are just fine by me;

I want to be alone most of the time anyway. 

But today, 
all I hear is the silence of the non-baby. 
And all I feel is the loneliness 

left by the man who never wanted to marry me. 

All of those men. 

All of those bars. All of those beds...

I accept nothing. 
I expect nothing. I am profoundly sad. Blue. 
A case of the gloomies. 
Eeyore. Charlie Brown--All the pathetic ones. But,
God don't make no junk, right?

And me. I’ll companionize with those pathetic ones. 

There: I just turned companion into a causative verb. 

And through a crudely placed squiggle below my brilliant creation, 
spell-check says I’m wrong. 
Fuck you spell-check. This is all I have. 

Words.

I can create words--so forget the babies. I’ll make the words. 

They’ll keep me warm in my 2 score. 

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how was the play?

How we got so small

You’d want me to start by thanking you so

I’ll obey. Thank you,

For tucking us in with pomegranate-scented sheets,

And lining our cribs with imported expectations;

For hiding your inflated hopes 

Under our pillows, 

As they seeped into our soft skulls 

To guarantee:

They will be perfect.

Under the guise of tradition

You protected like wardens, 

You predicted like witch doctors, 

You brainwashed like imams.

We learned that good Persian daughters are small. 

With tiny waists and tiny hands, 

Clasping the tiny paint brushes you handed us,

Meant to color your bleak lives vibrant--

Is that why you made our cribs so small?

We grew only as big as our cages.

The paint brushes were your weapon… or your tool:

Cover the picture of mother,

Before she sagged into her gowns. 

Hide the image of cuckolded father,

The one mother created with broad strokes.

We painted over it with our chastity;

Taking cover, but no husbands.

While eagerly wondering,

Are we perfect yet?

Now, we are only part of a person.

Sadly for us, the remaining part--

The adult part, 

Our part

Was the part you stunted;

Sadly for you, that might have been the perfect part.

So, I won’t say

Your brushes were coated in failure.

I want to, but I won’t.

You taught us to be more obedient than that.

 

Liger Rides

If desperation were a cat,

I would be a tiger. 

If eagerness could play pretend,

I would be a liger. 

If waiting is like eating

Then my daily bread feeds ten,

If dried fruit is all you’ll offer,

Best to hydrate before then.

If loving you means scorching pain,

Self-flagellation occurs daily;

Like a Muslim during Muharram,

My devotion is unfailing.

Because I drink from our cup every night,

Thirsty lips jut from my face

This lying liar lies to herself

Riding ligers in a daze.

Seven Phones

When I drank, I clung to men. When I drank, I refuted religion. When I drank, I surrendered to any carnal whim.

The particular night I’m going to describe is when I drank and took my primitive understanding of feminism too far and called him….but I couldn’t reach him--instead I got a hold of his aloofness...and it broke me. When he hung up, I stared at the dot matrix screen on the Nokia thinking it would ring any second because maybe he’ll call back? He really wants to see me...he just needs to check his schedule. 

When your self-worth is based around a phone call, things can get pretty dark, pretty fast. I’d been waiting for weeks. Had he thought about me even once since my hangover and I crawled out of his dirty bed in this dirty desert town? Of course he did! We had so many laughs, right? Every second looking at that puke green screen waiting for it to light up slathered hurt atop another layer of hurt...so, I hurt the phone back. I responded to its abuse by taking my power back and broke it into 7 spiky pieces of plastic--each piece telling me, in a very specific way, what a fantastic piece of shit I am. 

When I reached for my phone the next morning to check the time, my nightstand only held the sleeve of an unwatched Netflix movie (it’s weird to think about DVDs). Where’s my phone? Oh yeah, I broke it. The clock in the kitchen told me that I had hours before my teaching job (I was a doctoral student in the Middle East Studies Dept and I paid my tuition by teaching Persian 101 to a bunch of Iranian jack-offs who wanted an easy A). The day unfolded as usual; while on campus, I futilely reached for my phone to check the time, went to class and gave those dickbags their lesson on the Persian past continuous tense. 

Because of my untiring habit of checking the time, I realized the primary function of my phone: to display how many anxiety-filled minutes remain between “now” and “the next thing”. I appeased/contributed to this anxiety by asking strangers on campus for the time—scary and peculiar strangers. I hate strangers. Yet, when I walked away from each of them (three total) I liked it. 

It was like we shared something--our world space interacted with our shared world time; right now, in this location, we are both here. You stand in front of me and I see you; I can touch you (but won’t), you can touch me (but don’t), if there was a flood we’d be washed away at the same time, if there was a car accident we’d probably see the same thing, if it started to hail, we’d feel it at once, and if someone was baking bread we’d smell it at the same time. I can’t explain the solace I felt in that moment...or in those three moments, but they were there. Shaving layers of the ennui away. They were there connecting me to people, even though we were just exchanging common minutiae. And I realized that THIS was the source of my ennui. Isolationism. I needed others and I only looked for them at the bottom of bottles or fleeting and flittering men. I suddenly realized how lonely I had been and how filling it with dick and whiskey was making it worse. 

But the encounter turned sour; once the stranger told me the time, the power dynamic shifted. It was like I could sense their pity--like they were offering some paltry thing called “time” that meant nothing to them and everything to me. They had something I didn’t have: information; it belonged to them and it was in their control to offer it and because of how little it meant to them and how much I needed it, it felt like charity. And i wanted to stop feeling this way. Then I wanted my phone back.

I didn’t buy a new phone for nearly two days. I liked the quiet and felt lighter. Those seven spiky shards of plastic were stepping stones...to a new me? I'll fall in love with myself now! Nah, I didn't buy a new phone because if it didn't exist, I wasn’t forced to see the zero missed calls on the screen from him, breaking my heart upon every screen unlock. I was able to delude myself into a power shift with the mindset that he called me back that night and I’m too busy to talk. With no phone who’s to say I was wrong? It gave me relief, so I guess the demolition was worth it. And for a minute, it was. 

When I got the new phone a few days later and saw two missed calls and three texts my heart jumped a bit with hope, and immediately plummeted with disappointment when I saw my father, sister, and former college roommate’s names on the Missed Call screen. What a funny little brain fuck is this thing we call perspective. Despite the lovely tone of my best friend’s voice or my sister’s dry wit and compassion, nothing but ugly and dark stomach aches circled my belly when I saw their names on the phone screen instead of his. In the company of my phone, I’m ugly, undateable, unmarriable, unwanted, and boring. That’s why I took a hammer to it, but then I bought another one and repeated the cycle, eagerly giving away my power...like a modern Mrs. Havisham...cell phone collecting dust next to the wedding china in that cobwebbed room. 

x

Bouncing off the dive bar

What we did at the bar was dumb--
(the floppy dancing and the singing,
the sloppy kissing then the fingering.)

I went outside
After learning your little name;
the sky in its Eeyore-gray,
was more interesting
than any stupid words you had to say.

You followed me out--
Mumbling something with your gin-laden mouth,
About small dippers and major bears;
While your salty fingers flailed about,
Making a poor man’s classroom of the starry sky.

I settled on Capricorn
when you wanted me to guess your goddamn sign...
No? Maybe Leo? Is Cancer streaming within?
It was definitely worming its way
In this conversation
So, I headed to the knotty-pine walls of the bar
To drink more gin

But before I got inside,
Other creepies emerged from your mouth,
Closed-minded creepies creeping about--
Keep those little creepers out!
Yet, you held them so close while outside,
Kissed them and offer them a ride.

Your fledgling world trumped
the tiny bit left of your flickering light.
Your mouth was, indeed, so stupid that night.

Why did I keep you around after that?
Watching you visibly molest
your ignorant creepers
In...
Plain...
Sight…

Book review: Native Son

Native Son by Richard Wright
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Not since Anna Karenina have my conceptions about a book been so mistaken (one that I definitely judged by its unwelcoming and intrusive cover). This went beyond a story depicting race relations in 1940's Chicago; Wright posthumously speaks to what poc deal with on a daily basis today, this one included.

I realize that as a Middle Eastern woman in the Bay Area I don't face the level of oppression as I would/did in the south, but there remains a haunting sense of self-loathing which penetrates the bridge between my olive skin and the white skin of others. A self-loathing captured in Native Son's jarring and disturbed main voice, Bigger Thomas. Wright's masterpiece is self-conscious without stuffing it down my throat; I relate to Bigger, even feel for him at certain points, all the while disgusted by his abject behavior. Zero sympathy, mild degrees of empathy. These are landmark feats.

Here are a few of my favorite quotes:

-The car sped through the Black Belt, past tall buildings holding black life.
-His being black and at the bottom of the world was something which he could take with a newborn strength. What his knife and gun had once meant to him, his knowledge of secretly murdered Mary now meant.
-This white man had come up to him, flung aside the curtain and walked in to the room of his life.
-Why this black gulf between him and the world: warm red blood here and cold blue sky there, and never a wholeness, a oneness, a meeting of the two?

Not Plath's Metaphors

I've drawn a picture….metaphorically speaking, 

Of the man who claimed my poetry 

was ‘neither good nor bad,’ 

and wrought 

with ‘typical metaphors.’
According to him,

I managed to say nothing

that 'hadn’t already been said.’

So, here are a few words about him--

That may not have already been said. 

He’s like...

A cigarette: I fixate on pressing my lips onto him, and make a worthless vow to stop once I do

A pillow: I can’t stand other people touching him

One old sock: I keep him around, even after realizing that the defects from years
of wear-and-tear may deter his primary function of comfort and warmth...
hoping that his softer and lesser-used half may show up and create a whole 

Hands: I can't get him soft enough. No matter how hard I try

A telephone: Provides an outlet for exchanging communication,
but incapable of conveying actual feeling

A telephone call: I was excited by the noises he was making and the promise that
it delivered when I first heard it, but disappointed when I heard what it had to say

A tear: He seemed cathartic, but just made my eyes red and puffy

A bruise: A destructive and painful event in my past that lingers on my person
That’s why he remains in my life

The Italian language: I don’t understand him, but I’m convinced that
my previous experiences and former training will assist me to do so (they don’t)

The province of Xu Xi: He’s distant and intangible

Hair gel: He seems like a good idea, but always ends up making me look stupid

Plath did this better

Doesn’t matter anyway.

According to him, 

I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.