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!