Sunday, June 8, 2008

Impromptu (fragments)

undressing is still sexual to me. even when alone. there lies a potential eroticism to it that i find particularly potent... a latent brutality.tenderness, the tempestuousness of the body; there are moments: i cannot decipher soul from body, body from body, or soul from soul-did you think your body was soo different from a winter cloud?, only that it (the body's) lightning is softer.

and i always find it distressing to see pianos sitting in homes that i cannot be alone with. it is a miserable flirtation. i walk over- the conversation is boring to me, and the conversation finds me boring to it; so i walk away, into the next room. it's brown, and it does remind me of honey colored eyes i in love with. i put that thought aside (in its special mausoleum i've constructed for all those broken memories). i don't dare sit at the piano, my mother has a stern eye and an austere ear. i tremble. i can hear her (her is the piano). I can hear her lift her lips to my ear. she whispers to me. i have not heard that in too long. a lonely man is not immune to these charms. i drop the hand at my side and rub it across a high A, not depressing it. she's tickled- but she likes my restraint. i rub her a little more, then select B-natural to press. I hear her sigh. I press again, A and B naturals together. a slight dissonance- my mother's ear is piqued. a wondering displeased look finds its way across a kitchen table, a cup of tea, a handful of pistachios, some inane conversation, a hallway, a family photo hung on a scratched wall, and finds me. i shiver with anger, and walk away.

i have been practicing my clairvoyant faculties. i sit and stare at the air (you can do this by letting your eyes shift out of focus, so you are not looking at anything in particular, and are thus focussed precisely between yourself and an object, and that is to say, you are looking at transparent air). Whenever I do this, a list of exactly two names comes to mind. Gol and Monz, and their insistence that this year is the year of miracles. (either that or year for miracles, i could never decide on which was the more appropriate title). I address myself to the air:


__"are you?"

__[some wind passes by]


__[a blur of color passes me, miracle or taco-stand patron i cannot tell]

__"can you please be?"

__"it's not too late you know. __we could just start now."

I don't know. Perhaps I need to try another trick. I stand, put my hands firmly in my pockets, and start walking aimlessly towards nothing. (somewhere between here and nowhere, something will happen, that something will trigger something else, somewhere along this, I'll meet Circe, I'll go to Hades and chat to Achilles, I'll blind Polyphemus the Cyclops, I'll dine in the hallway of a King that is really myself- dressed as a mendicant, and haggard as the wayfarer i am, and eventually, slaughter everything that stands between me, Penelope, and Ithaca).

Some Answered Questions:

__- If I could be trapped in one movie for the rest of forever, it would be Baz Lurman's Romeo and Juliet
__- The single saddest song I know is: Don't Smoke in Bed, by Nina Simone
__- If I could be trapped in a pop-song it would be: Brown Eyed Girl, by Van Morrison
__- I am simple, straightforward. I prefer vanilla icecream to all else, plain white oxford shirts (no cuffs), and to end meals with black tea.
__- Here are a list of things I am becoming slowly terrified I'll never achieve (sometimes: achieve again) in life because I'm always struggling to juggle 4 heavy universes: learn French well enough to read Flaubert for myself, and Le Petit Prince to my children. Play the Appassionata on the piano. Bench press 100 kilos again. Sit alone in a dimly lit room and memorize a map of the world (with a silly grin on my face), continent by continent (I had it half done last year), followed by memorizing ancient maps- Judea and the borders of the tribes of Israel, Greece at its prime, etc. Orgasm together.
__- I have compiled a list of the books I will read my children. also, the music they will listen to when they're babies.
__- I have the white macbook

In a novel I wrote, a man turns slowly transparent. in his invisibility, he takes his hand and places it within himself, he can cup his own heart. I wish i could do that. my heart needs a hug, and a long rest.

i thought this was a 'transition phase'. now i am becoming worried it is actually my life.

i have only ever seen one shooting star. When Eman's car broke down, we were running in the streets with Ilya. I was jumping and dancing. I saw it. It is one of the miracles of my life. Perhaps one of the only memories i have of me as a child- and i remember everything. I am tempted to list out the miracles i have seen in my days- but i will wait till the end of this potentially auspicious year. perhaps there is a latent miracle in it i dare not hope for (deeds cannot dream what dreams can do- Cummings has said everything I want to say better than me)

if gravity lets go: i would float slowly away, somewhere between sleep, rainbow, and that pleasant monotony of sitting on a train... i would nestle in your lap again, your fingers in my hair, and fall asleep in the way that rocks sleep- hearing the ocean, and loving the sound so much, they'd never interrupt her.

the highest compliment i've ever given someone is: when I'm with you, i feel alone.

if using blunt, sharp or other object, you were to deflate me, i imagine you'd find: three quarters water, a bundle of acute angles defining love, several browny-colored-organs, precisely 8 notebooks filled with dreams i lived or lost or saved or moved away from (ps when I cannot write I listen to Damien Rice's O album, usually I can think of something if I'm listening to that) and I've moved away from everything, so you'd find an endless list of names, places, lovers, friends, roomates, menus i've memorized, train and bus schedules (4:04 after school everyday but Tuesday- Tuesday was my piano lesson)(I met you on the 345),

in other continents, the boys and girls i grew up with are slowly forgetting who i am... they look at my pictures and have decided i was an apparition. Some anomaly in light and focus that isn't really there. Sometimes I hear them in my head saying: who is this email from? Q? Anyone remember him? I still have a card he wrote me on a birthday... i can't place him though. It is only sad because there is no new life to welcome me. i am lost in the cracks.

Amongst the things I've achieved in life are included: discovering I have.had.sometimes a soul. Falling in love, twice. Discovering electricity. Deconstructing history to accommodate myself. Seeing once, when I was a child, a shooting star, while jumping up and down in the middle of a road on a hill by a beach where Eman's red sportscar had stopped working. Once crying on a train because snow was... unparalleled in beauty. And dying more frequently than anyone else I've ever known.

(the future is coming on
is coming on
is coming on

is coming.


alex_and_ra said...

"i thought this was a 'transition phase'. now i am becoming worried it is actually my life." -- i feel this too. often. and its scary.

also. i commented on that post "a sleep with no dreams"
and the one that compares a staff of music to a wire of birds..

Laila said...

I hope you take no offence because none is meant. Sometimes, when I read your blog, I feel like you're a woman. In fact, for me this is a compliment. It's as if you're capable of sensitivity most men don't even realize they can have. The way you describe things reminds me of the seperate world I live in a few days a month (and am in now), which is probably why the sensor that would make me stop writing this is shut off...

Again, I hope you don't get offended, although, if you get offended by being compared to women then I don't really care if you get offended. sorry, no sensor.

a penny for the old guy said...


you're not the first to suggest it; i don't take offense.

(i think it's worth note that there is a tradition of the androgynous male as heroine that goes all the way back to Shakespeare (Hamlet), and is most comprehensively dealt with by Joyce (Ulysses)- who hated the overt machismo of his Nowadays the idea is not quite so revolutionary, and I know several very 'sensitive' and conscious men that I admire very very much (certainly as men, but more importantly, as humans)

Monday's Child said...

like the "Life goes on in Tehran" guy (or girl... I am still not convinced)