O Where?

There can be no peace of mind in love,

Since what one has obtained is never anything

But a starting point for further desires.

-Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

O, where is my heart, beloved? Where has that spoilt thing gone, with its fickle measure, and sullen frown?

O, where has it gone, beloved? And what is this fluttering thing that fills up its empty space?

O, tell me, where has it gone, and why doth this queer emptiness that is so full, overflow my throat, and lungs, and stomach, instead?

O, do tell habibi, where has that wicked creature gone that you have taken?

Is that it? That sweetness of light that flows ‘twixt the rising suns unveiling your laughter?

Or was it in the tender curve of your mouth, twisting to gentle bemusement?

O, tell me quickly where I can find that pesky thing you have taken with your laughter, and your soul, and your eyes,

For it is quite difficult to fathom what I must do with all this queer glow that beams from my chest like wolf’s moon at dark.

O, beloved, do tell where I am to find it–

That lost organ whose home has been stolen by a possibility so bright, I have not yet had chance to teach bespectacled orbs to not see the burn of flickering stars, still long from burning cold.

O, habibi, tell my ears before they forget reason’s voice–

Where is that organ you have taken, and what dread glory habits its caves?

 

K.N.O.W. Thursday, March 24, 2016. 5.30-6. a.m.

😐 I just really needed a reason to use a pretty quote from that journal I never touch. That’s the story I’m sticking with.

All In The Family

I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and the only reason I haven’t touched on this yet, is because I’ve grown so accustomed to a blog filled with “cryptic” poetry, that it seems far too revealing to have this dialogue with myself. I’ve never felt that it was one that needed to be had, but in the last few days, it came to a rather funny conclusion (well, funny for me since I have a warped sense of humour), and I think it will also be helpful for those who feel like they’re the odd one out so to speak, in how they interact with…certain…people.  (Trigger warning for those proceeding.)

Anyone who knows me, is at least remotely familiar with the fact that I have a “complicated” past with my father’s younger brother. I suppose you could say it bothers me on occasion, but for the most part, it’s a blip on my radar that I really don’t pay attention to. Has it altered my life irrevocably? Well, yes, but that’s another situation all to itself, and anything I have to say on that would probably disturb a few psychologists:)

akjfnd

The above is a comment from my uncle, posted on the new profile picture I’ve uploaded to Facebook. When I logged in, and saw the message, I was a little flabbergasted. Mostly because I had spent a few days prior thinking about the very disturbing trend that governs our social media relationship–I mean the man poked me on Facebook (pun unintended obviously -____-) a few years ago, and I ignored it. And while that did get my goat; all in all, it was a mostly hilarious thing that I did not take seriously, and I figured that would be the first, and last, of our social media interactions…until the above occurred. Now some may ask why this fellow is even on my Facebook friends’ list, and I would say that this gets to the heart of my post.

To have grown up in a society where family is first, and foremost in your interactions, is not something I’m sure everyone will understand. You are trained to be respectful towards your elders, to mind your manners around older adults, and to only be “boisterous”, if you are of a precocious nature. There is no “I don’t want to go there.”, or “I don’t feel comfortable around so, and so.” For the most part, that is something that you grow accustomed to. Uncomfortable hugs, awkward pats on the back, the usual. It doesn’t lessen the irritation, or discomfort, but with age, you learn to mask that, and appear less uncomfortable about the whole affair. In my case, this has had little impact on my day-to-day relations with actual relatives because I was never much for physical interactions, but it did make me appear to be a rather queer sort to extended family, and family friends who were raised to expect specific types of greetings.

I am sure there are many who can relate to the above, and if they have had truly traumatic pasts, I can only empathise with just how upsetting that may have been. It’s a delicate balance walking the line between holding your life together as you know it, and wearing the right masks, and attitudes for appropriate social events, and whether it be from your social media interactions (“Why haven’t you responded to your uncle?” *Insert bland smile*), to (“Why don’t you ask him for help with your Math homework?” *Finds self going to do so*) or not, in time you find yourself falling into a “comfortably uncomfortable” relationship with the person who has altered your life completely.

Those looking in, who are aware of the past, or have heard stories from you, are often confused by the type of reticence you seem to have about the whole relationship. They find themselves unable to comprehend why you would have an amicable enough relationship to one day make the life-changing discovery at 21 that you just so happen to share musical tastes, handwriting styles, and stationery preferences with this person. (Like…what?) And for some, it is even harder to comprehend that you can have perfectly normal trivial conversations about school, “Hey, how are you doing? What are you studying now? Have you improved in Math? You’re a smart girl, you know, you’ll get it eventually.”, while wondering, “How was my family so blind? How are they not remotely concerned that the person I once accused of such, and such, continued to be my occasional babysitter when they still considered me too young to stay at home by myself?”

It’s complicated. With family, especially in certain cultures, you are expected to act, and be a certain way in their presence. You hover between wanting approval from an elder family member, like any normal child, while a completely different part of yourself steps back, and eyes the very disturbing fact that you, and your (former) molester(?) have an uneasy understanding. There are the “Do you remember anything?” flashes across the face, while you look back, and return a “Remember, what? The information that could upturn both our lives as we know it, and possibly distance me from my actually awesome other family members?” And in all of this “confusion”, as you age, and reach the age where you look around, and realise that there are other friends in what amounts to abusive family relationships that have also found this “uneasy” balance between being the daughter, the niece, the grandchild, the cousin of some person who also happens to have screwed their lives up, you arrive at the conclusions that no one ever really explores. No one talks about those fringe-land people like three of the friends I care about a great deal, who are compelled by the laws of nature to look at, and seek approval from parents who can, and would be defined as having been “text-book” described abusive, except as a footnote, or offhand comment. They only speak of the souls who have been taken away from dangerous situations, from lives that felt normal (until they learned what the healthy, untouched others were blessed enough to have), and looked back on the horror of their past experiences with all the emotional range of a tornado, a hurricane, and an earthquake put together. They don’t speak of the complexity of forgiving a molester, or abuser (whether sexual, verbal, or physical), and how “easy” it can be to fall into walking the tightrope of “This won’t happen again…But wait…if it happened before, what makes me think it won’t happen again?”. They definitely don’t talk about hanging out with, playing basketball with, being thrown together with, or some other such totally “normal” relative to relative interaction happening on a weekend, or having tattoo conversations with, that person. So instead, we find, well, at least, I have found, that there are all these fringe-land people who have internalised that it is “all in the family”, while looking at another situation, and thinking, “My God, how horrible! But my life is nothing like that.” not realising just how troubling their every day interactions can be to those who have healthy, normal, perfectly untraumatising familial relationships.

It can be extremely dissonant from the inside looking out, and realising that somehow you are not normal, and while I haven’t had the terrible misfortune of actually loving this particular family member–thank God for that, although I’m not sure I love any family member–I can look out, around, and across from me, and acknowledge that there are a population of people who are not so lucky. They are encumbered by years of parenting, and emotional attachments. They have been left to feel that something was wrong with themselves for having had any emotional attachments at all–whether the emotional attachments existed prior to, during, or after, someone became an abusive prick–rather than having been reminded that there is very little wrong with them, but instead, it is the people they have had the misfortune of being emotionally attached to, that are clearly the sick, unhealthy ones.

Don’t confuse this with Stockholm’s syndrome, or assume that people who are genuinely terrified of their rapists, abusers, molesters, etc., are secretly harbouring some kind of love, or affection for the person(s) who destroyed their lives. And don’t assume that this conversation is about people who have had difficulty understanding just how (*insert appropriately descriptive adjective*) their past experience(s) have been. While it is possible to love, and fear someone at the same time, this is not a discussion of those types of relationships, and it is not a discussion about grasping the severity (How severe is severe?) of a traumatic past, and how it should colour the relationship you now have with a relative, or some other close individual. This is a discussion of the complexity between growing up, and having to answer questions like, “How is your uncle? I heard he’s doing such, and such now?” while thinking, “Will I ever get away from having to act like all this is normal?”, and for those who have lived day in, and day out with someone who eventually became an abuser, or performed an act (in some instances, a one time act) that can be considered abusive, during the course of their interactions. Is this a completely in-depth discussion? No. Does it really go into the myriad of complex feelings that exist about all of these things? Hell, no. But it is a snapshot for those friends, psychologists, therapists, etc., etc., who think it’s fine to trivialise certain  situations because you have done so (Don’t. Leave that to the person dealing with the situation.), or are always caught on the “WTF?” loop when trying to understand how someone can yo-yo between “I need to get the hell away from this/these person(s)”, or “I can’t be around so and so without having this horrible pit of fear in my stomach.”, to cracking awful jokes about past situations, and saying things like, “I just had so and so drop me off at the copy shop.” (Like what?)

Kittya.

Author’s note: I live nowhere near my uncle at this time, and I definitely am no expert on the psychology of…any…of this.

GirlHood

Girlhood is an elusive thing,

Not quite as present as Boyhood.

Where our men, and little boys are taught to be themselves,

To climb high, and dive off bridges (No, don’t try that at home),

Our girls are given aprons, and pink pots,

Shown how to hold a needle, or what a flame looks like

On the edge of a tiny stick, hidden too high for ‘girls’ to reach in the end.

 

Girlhood is a fragment of childhood.

The anti-thesis to ‘shoulda-woulda-coulda’;

The “no, you may nots”, and the “put those shoes right back ons”,

All stacked against a landscape only Cristobal Colon

Ever received a licence to ransack.

She is the lesser half of childhood,

The snapshot of young girls by the river,

Washing trivial pieces of cloth,

While a brighter, gayer* figure,

Leaps from beneath the surface,

To splash his unsuspecting sister.

 

Girlhood is the best-friend of ‘No’.

The, ‘no, you can’t ride that bike’,

And the ‘no, you can’t become that,

have you considered how (leans in closer) hard it will be for you?’

She is the “make sure you’re wearing those clothes”,

And the “be careful before you can’t have any children”

warning called out before a game.

The best-friend of no…until a no means…yes?

 

Girlhood is the beautiful girl walking along the road,

Who is not yet 13, or 14, or 15, or…you know what, so what if she’s thirty?

Who will flinch when she sees a group of men a few feet ahead,

Or cross the road when she passes the house where the gate’s a little too dark,

Because her mother warned her ‘well’.

She is also the less than pretty girl

Whispered about because she will never “find” herself a man,

Who must be ‘grateful’ for every smile, and leer, and gift,

Because she will never earn it with her looks.

 

Girlhood ought not to exist.

She need not be the partner to Boyhood.

It is her right to be as she pleases,

And say what delights her,

To flip from treetops into creeks while splashing her erstwhile brother,

She deserves her ‘Girls will be girls’

Just as much as Boyhood flies ‘Boys will be boys’

Over his wild, ‘untouchable’ landscape.

She demands her right to ‘ooh’ at babies,

But not create her own,

And to dance when she wants to, because she bloody well can.

 

Girlhood says, ‘No, you may not watch me at pageantry.

Tonight is a baggy pajamas, and t-shirt kind of night, and

If I wear them to the market, and back, you’ll say good morning,

Like I’m human, and have not lost my mind.’

 

Girlhood eyes retirement, and is in counsel with Childhood.

She seeks to convince Boyhood, that he too, must retire.

She tells them both that it is ‘okay’ to not split,

That womanhood, and manhood, may perhaps be better served,

If they were given more room to grow,

Rather than window boxes, perched precariously on a shelf.

 

 

K.N.O.W.

Sunday, March 6, 2016. 19:41 hrs.

 

*Gayer: happier–For those confused souls who may have never read old literature, once upon a time ‘gay’ only meant happy. And no, I’m not trying to be snippy about it.

Note: I wrote this a few minutes ago because it struck me (yet again), just how much we sexualise our young, specifically our girls. Childhood is laughter, and play. And whether that be pretty dresses, and toy cradles, or campfires, and ‘creepy-crawlies’, there is a difference between letting our children become who they are meant to be, versus creating a box that is so stifling, every new generation of children struggles with who they are, when compared to who they are told to be; and/or cannot reach the age of 30, without having some traumatic incident occur because we don’t draw a thick enough line between childhood, and adulthood, since we’re too busy drawing the line between boyhood, and girlhood.

 

 

 

Falling Off the Edge

She no longer knows ache, or pain, or true fear,

For where there was once only a slightly battered something,

Sits a grey stone.

It is worn, and cracked, an anamorphic structure lost between

red, and white,

Cushioned in a cavity that is now truly unshakeable–

A gift to formerly good things that were rooted there.

 

She is not quite so pleased by the disfigured greyness–although she never takes her

fingers from its fissures–and between its crumbling, microscopic

grains of destruction,

She finds glimpses of a rusty red that sometimes morphs to a glowing,

pleasing crimson, swirling in a comforting jelly sac.

It is there, with her watching the ghost of the stone,

That the visions grip her:

A girl who walks with her shoulders back,

Laughter in her eyes, and a steady step on the quivering ground;

Her words are warm, as she moves with calm to the pounding rhythm

of her effusive heart–

 

She trembles, vision clearing, and massages the stone with a disappointed

frown.

She always wonders, once the sights are gone, and only grey remains,

How close she can come to being her again;

Would it help at all,

If she held the greyness true, and proper,

And searched until she found the right kind of fall.

 

It is there new vision finds her,

Of a girl on an edge, keenly, curiously, looking down.

The water rumbles, as it roars all around her,

And the tender sound of its joyous roar,

Makes the cavity shake, ‘though she fails to feel it.

When she finally steps off,

All she can hear,

Is the whistle of the wind, and the shout of the skies;

Then the breaking begins, and while there is snapping,

What she really hears, is the gentle crumbling of the cold,

grey stone;

There is water in her lungs, and an ache to her bones,

But she sees the girl with the laughter in her eyes, and the steady,

rhythmic step;

Then she’s her again, and her heart is warm, her soul is kind,

And her grin is magnetic;

Her words are fire, while within her glows,

A soft, squishy thing, pounding red beneath her open hand.

 

K.N.O.W.

Sabbath, Friday, February 12, 2016. 22:43 hrs.

 

 

On The Edge

Standing on the edge of normalcy,

With the perfect smile, and the perfect words.

Don’t look too long, don’t ask too much,

Look away, and pretend you don’t see the secrets there.

 

Waltz blissfully along, and laugh at the jokes,

With the perfect smile, and the perfect words.

Grin a little wider, don’t frown too much,

Don’t question all.

 

Smile a little wider,

Wear the perfect dress, and the perfect crown.

Don’t fail. Don’t fall. Don’t cry. Don’t call.

Be the friend that’s perfectly calm.

 

Stand on the edge of normalcy,

Glaze the mask, and shine the crown.

Send a smirk to the murmurs,

Quirk a brow for the others,

Don’t fail. Don’t fall. Don’t cry. Don’t call.

 

K.N.O.W.

Thursday, February 11, 2016. 20:55 hrs.