The Trail of Tears

Men have been known for their unique ability to repeat past mistakes, so this is my jeremiad.

Trail of Tears
I speak in hidden law of speech
experience the ghost of the “I” in me;
Oh, the misdeeds of that Peculiar Institution,
whose black hands obliterate the rays of the sun
and feet stomp upon the humanity of short-lived men
that wait on the sky that shines onyx, and lament the
careers of meteoroids.
I called on the Oversoul,
to penetrate the conscious of men
who’ve forgotten Original Sin –
have dived to party with the Leviathan
who’ve shunned the prayer,
who’ve walked by side of the Trail of Tears
with their hearts not pierced.

Happy Birthday Special one!

Marilda,
First off let me just start by saying that it deeply saddens me that I’m not able to celebrate the rite of passage that is your 21st birthday with you. Now it’s the time for some words of wisdom.
Marilda, this is perhaps your most important birthday yet if not most important, because this is the age both natural as well as cognitive that I’ve seen you grow beyond your years. Your childlike charisma and easy going demeanour don’t take away from the model woman you’ve become. In fact, they are an extension of that amazing self, signifying your own confidence in who you are as a human being and your lack of fear in being yourself, something that is sometimes hard to be in this world we live in. Honey, this past year I’ve bared witness to events in your life that could have completely as well as permanently demoralized a weaker person, and yet in you the damage ricocheted and instead gave bloom to this wild flower full of zest and passion for moving forward and ahead of any strife. Congratulations, your birthday should have been right at that moment. I wouldn’t tell you then because I knew that you derive encouragement inherently, but I still feel it’s nice to hear the words nonetheless. Marilda, I stood in awe of you from last summer and on as I watched this you adapt to a set of circumstances that seemed so terribly abysmal at first. You ceased that moment and turned it into an opportunity, an opportunity to bring to life this Marilda that I wasn’t acquainted with. You gave birth to that part of you that is deeply compassionate with killer nurturing instincts – a true mother. I’m not going to be dishonest with you and tell you that was what I was expecting from you from the start, because I was quite sceptical about your resolve and underestimated your gumption. I apologize for that my love, and hope to make allowances for that lapse by telling you that you’ve proved me wrong and that I have a renowned hope in you. I overestimate you completely now, so watch out!! Hhahaha.
Some people respect things such as financial stability, good family bonds, and a great educational background. I’m not saying I don’t, however, I’d trade the independence you’ve created for yourself any day for those former things; because with that you’ll have the will to have that and much more in abundance. I’m not talking out of my ass here, who wouldn’t be drawn to such a woman? Seriously!!! Like my personal hero Shakespeare would say, you took arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing them you ended them (Hamlet, Scene 3, Act 1).
Marilda, whenever you’re in doubt of yourself or don’t feel up to par with the rest of the world, take a crucial look at Jarrell and I trust you’ll find all the necessary answers there. I only expect from now on to watch you continue to blossom and expose us all other secret talents and traits you’re hiding in there, I’m sure you’ll exceed those expectations. In you I have a strong faith and admiration. I salute you my cousin.
With love,
Longie.
P.S you know how I’m words person and all, so I find it’s the best medium for me to express my feelings. So here is a poem, one of my favourites, which I’m dedicating to you:

The Rose that Grew from Concrete
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk without having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.
Tupac Shakur
P.S.S. My cousin, it’s time you forget about that present that never happened (LOL), my words should suffice as they are only used on the things and people that matter. Oh, do party and drink up!

A letter to you

You know I originally planned to write this down as a reflection to myself so that I could upon it later, when my head was clearer and far more objective. Then I thought what the hell? I mean it’s sometimes better to simply share those thoughts that keep us pensive in the weary hours of the night when sleep becomes an unlikely oblivion.
I had what can only be aptly described as a type of enlightening epiphany yesterday night, when I sitting on a the couch with Merry, watching her breast feed her child while looking down him with one of the softest expressions I’ve ever seen a person bestowing on another. It was love, clear as night and day and could not be taken as something else. It was beautiful really, gee, I’m becoming a sentimental twit. But anyways, back to what I was saying, we must have been sitting on that couch for about half an hour and yet I could probably count on my fingers the number of sentences that transpired between us in the duration of that time. It’s sad really; I can tell that she is one of those inherently good people – the type that cares and makes up for people’s mishaps – sort of like mother. And yet, while sitting on that couch in the middle of that imposing living room I found that I could not feel anything but an extreme fondness for her, it was weird, frankly disturbing to think that one can harbour feelings that seem so minuscule when put in proportion to what our relationship dictates. However, with her I feel that we can skip that whole stage that takes place when you’re reacquainting yourself with a dear lost friend or family member, going right past the pleasantries and into loving the person wholeheartedly – remembering what it is about them that made them so instantly likeable. I felt a longing for a more binding relationship with Merry when I sat there with her, watching her watch her child – nurturing it with timeless care, but then that feeling was replaced an ache, for the years that were stolen from us because of more than mere physical boundaries.
I realized that in some sort of unconscious self-preservation I’ve become extremely observant and very sensitive to the undercurrents around me, to the people, specifically. I notice their little shifts in mood, the tone in which things are said, and inconsequential inflictions in people’s voice. Due to that heightened sense of awareness I’ve been able to understand some people better than I would have thought possible to, considering the short time I’ve been here.
For instance, Marcia, I start with her because I’ve spent more time with her than some of the others I’m going to be talking about. In my mind, I refer to her as the disillusioned dreamer. When I look at Marcia, I see a reluctant cynic in her, a young girl that possesses eyes that were made to be complemented with lights, because if you look hard enough at her you can see the specks of it in the depths of her stare. But all that potential light has been replaced by something a little disconcerting, I don’t know exactly what though, but I get a hint from the types of comments she makes and the thing she asks me. She found me looking a picture of Neusa and I during New Year’s eve and said, “you guys must have a lot of fun, you look happy. I bet Canada is good.” She said the former in such a wistful tone that I found myself wanting to play fairy God mother to her desires and farfetched dreams. After that innocent comment I began to think more of Marcia’s plight, it must have been hard to her to be so young and stranded in a place she’d rather not be and with a baby. And if that was not enough to cause for that brooding expression I catch on her face when she thinks she’s not being observed, we can add insult to injury when she finally gave birth to a still born child. I’m assuming that when she first discovered she was with child, she was scared shitless and probably less than excited, judging from her personality and her tender age. But I also imagine that once that baby started growing inside her and when he would occasionally kick at the most inopportune moments, she in turn was getting a kick out of the prospect of becoming a mother – like I said, she was once a dreamer. I’m sure that was not the consummation she had in mind for herself. All in all, she sort of reminds of Emma; the less resigned version. By the way, Marcia is eighteen.
Naoomy is quite different though, I genuinely like her. She’s one of those easy people to talk with, with her sarcastic wit and her eagerness to share something funny. She also has smart eyes, someone you need to be a bit more cautious around, I know it sounds contradictory in the context of what I previously said, but I hope you get my meaning.
I would talk more about the others if I didn’t have more pertinent things to discuss with you, the real deal. Sorry if my letter lacks a certain type of coherence but my head is in overdrive. One minute I’m thinking about the red dust in the wind and of moments I’ve never experienced but would have liked to. And the next minute I’m thinking that the ground I walk on here has too many holes, in need of asphalt to levigate it – to keep in intact. See, I’m all over the place!
Funny in one of my unguarded moments I told mother that I felt like an interloper in this house, and this bewildered look came across her face, like what I was saying was of the most ludicrous nature. Hahah, same thing different place, she simply doesn’t understand. I think I’ll quit trying to explain it, my attempts yield little. It’s okay though, I understand her far better than she does me. Mother’s reactions sort of remind me of Coleman Silk’s mother in The Human Stain, when she would lightly scour through her son’s obvious difference with a complacent and even indulgent smile, but would equally cease trying to understand the enigma that her was her son. In my case, the obvious difference is that I’m the adopted daughter, something that everyone has always known and has never been able to get past it. It accounts for the matter in which my aunts – in my dad’s side – have treated me. This distant politeness, something that has a class of its own, indifference mixed with kindness. I’m not saying that my mother doesn’t care about all these things, because she truly does. However, the architecture of her mind and how it processes things simply disables her from comprehending me. You might think that I’m underestimating her capacity for being in tune with my feelings but that’s not the case, she’s created this cocoon around herself because looking too closely into things might make her feel as if she has failed me. I’m walking on shards of glass here, I’m not easily cut though, and I’d like to think that I take it all in stride.
I’m beginning to learn about my father in this trip. Not knowledge that is gained through questioning or idle conversations with that bear no real meaning, I feel that this is deeper. My learning stems from an unshakable curiosity that was brought on by a fascination I have developed for a man that during hard times, took on the responsibility of caring for another man’s child. My parents have been together for 20 years now and yet they haven’t a child of their own. I find myself wondering if he has ever pondered that when holding me as a child or had he simply smiled down at me and thought that I was enough to make up for that disappointment. I’m awed by how much of me has been shaped by him, the temperament, the resilience. I feel like while my parents are my parents there’s still there is so much I need to learn about them, have you ever felt that way? Are you parents more forthcoming about what they were and who they are?

Get Away

While my mind consented to my heart's request to accept an offer at a University away from home awhile go, I know that my heart only gave its go ahead yesterday. This was by far the hardest decision I've had to make in my life but one that I believe is not only necessary but the right one. I know in wake of my decision I've deeply left some loved ones speechless, wanting me beside them but at the same time understanding my need for autonomy and trust. I'm left so completely sad everytime I broach the subject of university with my mother because I understand that she'd rather me stay home with the family and study in Toronto, she wants her only baby as close as to her. Coming to this conclusion was an exercise in thought, I went through all the pros and cons and in the end I ended up with a list proportionally balanced - no disparities. That came as a shock as I thought that once I got down to writing out everything the benefits of Western would outweigh those of UOFT. However, there was a big difference, one that's rather personal and only spoken to the people that truly understand me - my bestfriend as well as cousin - Neusa. This last year and past year has been scarring for me, perpetual disappointments and blows beyond my scope of comprehension. It's simple enough, I need to get away.

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being

One of my favourite poems by my favourite poet, Pablo Neruda.

Perhaps not to be is to be without your being,
without your going, that cuts noon light
like a blue flower, without your passing
later through fog and stones,
without the torch you lift in your hand
that others may not see as golden,
that perhaps no one believed blossomed
the glowing origin of the rose,
without, in the end, your being, your coming
suddenly, inspiringly, to know my life,
blaze of the rose-tree, wheat of the breeze:
and it follows that I am, because you are:
it follows from ‘you are’, that I am, and we:
and, because of love, you will, I will,
We will, come to be.

Departure

In all my young life I've never been put in a position where someones emotions were entirely controlled depending upon the words that would come out of my mouth. Let's just say, there's a first time for everything. My brother's mother passed away today, April 26th 2011, which coincidentally happens to be the birthday of my sister - this will be a day to remember. My mother and I had the responsibility of delivering this heart wrenching news to my brother. My mom uttered the words while I could do nothing but spread my arms wide open for my brother so as to physically let him to know that I would be there for him henceforth. When I shut my eyes I still remember his face so clearly right before he broke down - a semi dazed as well as glazed look crossed his face, it was disconcerting and I was completely taken aback by it. When he left to go to his room to find some solace in the photographs and memories of his mother, I still didn't believe it was entirely safe to let him be on his own, so I followed him. I sat down on his bed and let cry on my lap until his sobs subsided to mere hiccups and finally lead him to a somewhat peaceful slumber. Even though he was snoring lightly and fully gone, the vestige of his pain was present in his quivering body.

May you rest in peace Laura.

Cogito ergo sum.

I seem to be living a seemingly never ending cycle of deep contemplation and trying to rationalize beyond a point where things become irrational. The statement above holds an inherit truth for me, a type of unconscious memoir, one of those phrases that may be found in a climax of a novel that deals exclusively with identity plots. For me the quote, "I think, therefore I am," does mean that I believe that my ability to think serves as a testament for my existence on this earth. That's the inconsequential part of it, I already know I'm there. Instead, when placed in the context of my personal story, cogito ergo sum is summoning the will to reshape myself - something that I've been constantly doing. Moving from one absolute to another, that moment where mere thoughts - at times dangerous thoughts - become your truth. The only truth you want to accept, the only truth you can accept.

Blase

Dissapointments are sadly perpetual. I don't know how I've come to master the art of indifference, the resilience I've built astounds even me. I keep waiting to snap, but it never comes, I think maybe I subconsiously await for the duplicity - the deceit. The extents people will go through to harm someone, to get the worst out of their carefully crafted characters, have reached new heights. Unprecedented heights, Jesus.

A Memoir

Thursday, January 14 2011.
As I laid wide awake staring at my mother’s serene figure, exhausted from exhaustion, an eerie sense of foreboding filled me. Maybe it was the raspy breaths that she was taking that alarmed me, or the three distinct pill bottles sitting on top of the mahogany desk, just within arm’s reach. Whatever the feeling was, it compelled me to reach out and stroke my mother’s head, and feel its prickly stubble – the proof of a steady recuperation. Or so I thought. Except for the soft neon green light being cast by my timer, the room was dark, it was six a.m. I had about an hour before I left for school. I got up, went through my hygienic necessities, and dressed in a daze – quite reluctant to leave. A worry that was semi- dormant in the back of my mind resurfaced, distracting me. The same worry followed me throughout the day; I was about half absent in all my classes.
I’m a creature of habit, so when I arrived home from school I did what I regularly do. I went to the kitchen to go greet my mother with a customary kiss – she’s usually cooking dinner at this time, however, my mother wasn’t there and for some strange I wasn’t quite surprised. I went to the living room and asked my cousin where my mother was and she suggested that I call her because she was at the hospital. I knew that this wasn’t a good sign because since my mother’s surgery back in June, she has only returned to the hospital for required check-ups and to receive her chemotherapy treatments. The chemotherapy has been on hold for a couple weeks now because my mother’s system can’t handle the drugs, her white blood cells are too low. I called my mother to see how’s she’s doing and told her that I’d there as soon as possible, but in her soothing voice she told me not to worry and to stay home. She was running a 40 degree fever and was receiving intravenous drug therapy, and I was being advised not to worry. I guess my frazzled nerves made me listen her, I don’t think my presence at the hospital would have calmed down anyone; I’m always all over the place. But a clear image popped up in my mind, that of my mom propped up in an intuitional bed trying to maintain a semblance of tranquility, for my sake. Perhaps my stay was for the best.

When something like this happens, I’m reminded of how sensitive human beings actually are. We are tremendously vulnerable creatures that rely on the sanity of others to remain sane ourselves. I always see a little bit of myself in the way my mother deals with adversity; she’s headstrong and resilient. We need, we love, and we always hope – hoping that the ones we are care for are being cared for.

Birth

Over the last few months, I've cultivated a love affair with The Memoir. It understands me, dares me to bring my emotions to the surface, and by the time I done doing the former - I'm happy. To be able to think in hindsight is both nostalgic as well as cruel - not all our memories are ones we wish to relive. Up until I began writing journals which in fact resonate with memoirs, I was suppressed with fears of getting too deep into my own mind. But it turned out to be a relief, a way to deal. It still is.

I've always secretly longed for a little sister, someone who could count on me and vice versa, and who I could take out my frustrations on.
On February 23rd, 2005 my niece was getting ready to enter this world full of surprises. I remember getting ready to go to school – I was in fifth grade at the time, then my mom showed up and told me that my sister’s water just broke. She gave me two choices, I could either go school and spend the bulk of my day in anticipation, or I could go to the hospital with her and wait. I chose the latter and it turned out to be one of the most mesmerizing experiences in my life. We showed up at the hospital and I remember seeing my brother in law in law walking back and forth in the hallway, a bundle of nerves. I was particularly giddy and excited because I already felt a deep connection with the baby, since my sister spent the duration of her pregnancy with us. I used to play with her protruding stomach and wonder whose habits Jizzianny would borrow from, I fiercely wished that she’d take after me in spirit.
For hours we stayed at the hospital just wandering and waiting, I slept and woke up and still there was no sign of fresh life around. When I decided to take another nap, my brother in law woke me up and told that the baby was finally born. In retrospect, I couldn’t very well gauge the depth of his emotion, but now I can. I could remember how supremely happy he was, he’s not one prone to big displays of feeling, but he was nonetheless quietly content to be a father for the first time.
We were admitted to my sister’s room, and I recall passing right through my sister and searching for my niece. I bet everyone was thinking I was quite humorous. My sister told me to look to the left of her bed and there she was. Cushioned in a soft yellow blanket, a tiny thing eager to fully open her eyes and judge her surroundings. I tried to figure out her skin colour, a perplexing endeavour since I still could not understand why her skin was pink. Everyone started chuckling when I inquired about that small detail, and my mom told me that that was what the doctor wrote on the hospital’s birth slip. Skin: Pink. She had a soft mass of curls on her head, and long lashes they made me jealous. I stood there staring at my niece, desperately wanting to hold her but afraid I’d do something wrong. So I settled for cooing at her, making funny faces, my efforts were rewarded when I saw the tiniest curve of her lips. Just like the rest of the family, I was absolutely besotted, suspended in a moment of extreme warmth and pleasure. This child had my heart.
That was about six years ago, but the memory is just as poignant. I think I heard a quote in a movie some time ago, it was: live for the moments that take your breath away. And that’s what I’m reminded of when I remember this; to chase captivating moments.

Where's My Map?

Where's My Map?

Shrunk like a disillusioned child, I rest with burdened legs.
In search of an unattainable canopy, I trudge and stumble.
My eyes depress, and I see.
Her mouth carved like an incomplete yawn;
pleads for the unrest, for vengeance that ricochets.
Naked fingernails protrude from under sedimentary rocks -
a token of strength. Perhaps they composed a peace song,
yesterday, when she laid against a cork tree.

I think of a wife, a wishful son – waiting.
A husband’s honour, a father’s strife; detonation,
cited on a leaflet.

I picture home,
to capture the trail of burnt toast -
there’s only the loitering smell of burnt cordite.
I shut my eyes; the maple leaf has little stains of grain dust.
Maybe opened, they will seek children running in a rye field;
or eyes like glistening saucers that cast gentle smiles,
or innocence lost in throes of pubescent laughter.
Part of a poem is recalled, “There is no greater sorrow
than thinking back upon a happy time in misery.”
Cavum in spirit is the only reality.

With bleak eyes I stare down at my boots;
I see them – exhibited, a major reciting its great adversities;
an awestruck bunch.
They are wise shoes, experienced shoes – desolate owner.
Panic driven thoughts reverberate a chant,
Where is my map?
Where is my map?
Where is my map?

My Highness

My Highness

My Highness told me,
“your lips are cold”
she took upon herself the task of moistening them.
My mouth, a drain awaiting the poison,
like an eager tongue panting for a masochistic pleasure.
My throat tightens at her bitter entrance,
my insides churn, a fight for immunity.
But why must I fight her?
She’s the perfect antidote for my convulsing body,
the therapeutic tool for riot that’s my mind.
I feel careless when she’s inside me,
but I also get careless when she’s inside me;
two totally different things.
She smirks an approval;
her ruby promise winks at me.
The grip on my wheel firms – tires squeal,
she has her own moral code; nothing idle.
She likes misplaced euphoria and the sounds of things crashing.
I hear a ringing in my head, maybe two shots fired –
three bodies scattered.
That’s why she is right beside me,
while I choke on a pool of warm red liquid,
breathless, disjointed.
She always endures, but her victims don’t.
And that’s My Highness.

The Trial

What I enjoy most about writing poetry is its lack of inhibition. It's a genre that's boundless, with endless possibilities and chances for creativity. You can mix and match too; bringing narrative to a poem to paint a story or rhyming couplets that have you composing a song. I also appreciate the subjectivity of a poem, the interpretive element it what truly makes it unique.


And so I sent some men to fight, and one came back at dead of night.
Said he'd seen my enemy. Said he looked just like me.
- Same Mistake, James Blunt

The man inside your head bears a cyclone –
flashes of unyielding self- reprimand.
He thinks of time when his eyes shone from the bliss of ducats,
shudders because of unrealized virtue; a phantom noble.
Drawing in clogged oxygen; he prepares for The Trial.

January 1st, 2011

So fortunately enough I was able to spend my new year's eve with people that I absolutely love and who know how to have a good time. So here's an interesting story about my bittersweet night:
So the girls and I get ready at my aunt's condo downtown - completely stoked for the new year's eve single's party at Sheraton, only to get dumbfounded by the whole "single's" concept of this particular party. We get to the hotel and there's a load of people all dressed to a tee, the gentlemen looking great in their suits, and the ladies looking hot in their fitted dresses. That of course, was a completely different party - New York, New York. Apparently the single's party was sponsored by some Lavalife ripoff organization. Most of the people that I was not so discreetly gawking at resembled my friend's parents; I was completely lost. When I heard single's party I was expecting to see some good looking people around their twenties, not some near middle age persons carrying expressions of wanton desperation, it was beyond sad. I was pissed off and had the task of calming dow
n La More and Tata, those girls are a force to be reckoned with, pheww. I convinced them to make the best out of this senior party and wipe away the surly looks, and that was when OUR party began. Turns out that upstairs was a completely different scenario, we came across people laughing and enjoying themselves in a very classy and sophisticated atmosphere. The hoeurs d'ouvres reception added a certain elegance to the party, and the Dj was just great. There was the occasional eye candy here and there to entice a healthy distraction and bubble up our spirits. I'm not one to sit and observe at parties, neither are my sisters, so in our best moods we made January 1st, 2011 an evening to remember :) It was just great!