Friday, November 11, 2005
Fascination
It is a Sunday evening and the reels skips ever so slightly. He is bent over, intently watching the image before him, devouring every inch. He has watched the reel relentlessly for the past 10 years. Her image is etched in his mind. He lives in this reel, his eyes closed he can see each image, each angle of her body, each curve. What is love but an unending fascination?
New York New York
New York Cabs
Yellow Flush
Screaming Horns
Urging us on
Last sight
Forever in flight
A beautiful goodbye
A traveller's ramble
Hello One and All,
Thanks for all your well wishes. I am back from one of the most amazing experiences of my life, intact. Whilst my parents heave a sigh of relief, I thought I’d take the time out to share some of my memories with you all. I warn you that after two months of meandering this will be a long email. So if you’re at work and need to procrastinate, read on. I will also be enclosing some pictures, though I will save you the pain of seeing all three hundred of them.
So let us start with London, the motherland. I walked through many of the British Museums in sheer awe of the size and quality of their collections, and couldn’t help but feel indignation rise up in my throat, the ordasity of these pompous fools, displaying our (India’s) treasures as if it were their own. Overall London is a beautiful and expensive city. I almost died of shock when I realised that everything I purchased was triple its price in Canadian. I think the most exciting part of my visit to London was seeing David Blaine, infamous TV magician, suspended in a glass box at the side of the Thames River for no apparent reason. Funny Brits kept throwing assorted vegetables at poor David, one fellow screamed, wake up you lazy Sod, we travelled two hours to see you.
Next we jetted into Amsterdam or rather took a rather time consuming train and boat ride. Amsterdam is a city for the odd and the curious. It is home to the oddest-looking people, imported from all over the world and Japanese ‘Digi-camera’ businessmen, eagerly snapping away in the Red Light District. I have honestly never seen so many men cramped together in one space before. The women in the red light district are on display like in a mall, except here the Mannequins talk, wiggle and shake, as you gawk in fascination. The funniest part was sitting around watching various negotiations take place. Since we were unable to find a place to stay in Amsterdam city, we ended up travelling two hours out of the city to Hurun, spending the night in small inn. Here we found postcard Amsterdam, complete with blossoming tulips, bike riding citizens and windmills!! The next night, we once again found ourselves unable to find shelter, emboldened we decided to tough it out and stay up all night, shifting from pub to pub, taste testing Amsterdam’s finest product, losing endless hours.
Our journey to Copenhagen was interesting. You take a train, which at one-point ends up in the belly of a ferry for an hour and half, until it resumes its journey on the other side. Our digs in Copenhagen deserve a special mention. We innocently arrived at 8 pm, guided to the "Sleepy Haven" by our trusty Lonely Planet, to find ourselves sleeping in a huge cellar type room, divided by large pieces of chopped wood. The washrooms, inspired by cattle feed designs, were equally horrendous and cold. The staff seemed to consist of runaways and druggies. The city is (much like Amsterdam) filled with bikers. So much so that the government offers free bikes on the streets, for anyone to ride. You can drop them off anywhere too. I attempted to ride one of these bikes, but after 10 years of dormancy, I became the town idiot but constantly falling into oncoming traffic.
Berlin, my favourite city, is a Mecca of modern history and culture. On our train there from Copenhagen, we met a girl whose apartment we ended up staying in for five days. The city itself is lively, yet overshadowed by a hint of sadness. A must do in Berlin is "The Brewer's 9 hour walking tour." Don't let the name fool you, the tour has nothing to do with beer, as some of my companions had hoped. Instead it is a nine-hour stroll through Berlin's historical streets to see remnants of the famous wall, the place Hitler's died (an innocent looking parking lot,) Checkpoint Charlie and other quirky idiosyncrasies of the city. For instance, all through Berlin, rich and poor areas alike, are large pink pipes. They are water pipes, which siphon out extra water preventing flooding. Berlin's water table is close to the surface and flooding is a major concern. So they’ve got these large ‘Pepto bismal’ inspired pipes running through the city. Also Berlin is the only place in Europe where the Christian Churches outweigh their Catholic counterparts in both grandeur and size. The Reichstag, historical house of the German Parliament, burnt down during World War I and II, has a see-through dome at its head. You can walk in the dome, circling your way to one of the most amazing sights in the city. Seeing the Berlin wall was a real learning experience. The wall itself went through many changes. It did not consist of only one large block going through the city. Instead the wall consisted of an outer wall and a more fortified inner wall. Between these two lay a passage of terror, in which the Soviets planted mines and tanks, mercilessly killing any would be escapees. Nevertheless museums all over Berlin are filled with countless escape stories. Berlin is a museum city; in total they have almost 150 big ones. There is an island, aptly named Museum Island, filled with them. Setting time aside just to visit a few is important.
We had the chance to visit the first concentration camp erected by Hitler, a mere hour and half train ride out of Berlin. What is most eerie about the place, is its size. The camp stretching out for miles is caped off by tall watchtowers, from which they used to terrorize and shoot the disobedient. The place is cleaned up and any innocent passer-by could easily mistake it for an abandoned summer camp.
But not all of Berlin is sad; the people are lively and fun. Almost all Germans are tri-lingual or multi-lingual, speaking English fluently. The clubs are amazing for live music.
Next off was Vienna, Austria. Our first trip was to the Grand Viennese Opera, where we managed to get standing room tickets for one euro. A steal! Dressed up in our grandest, we elbowed our way through the crowd in a vain attempt to get a place to stand. The opera was amazing. Though in my opinion there was no way a fat woman like that could get a gorgeous Argentinean man to fall in love with her. It was a Hindi movie in reverse. The rest of our stay in Vienna was confined to our hostel, where a lively bunch of nomads from around the world kept us in splits all day long.
Venice the city of lovers is so for a reason. After meandering through the streets for four hours, losing yourself in the endless hobbled maze, you begin to realise that there isn't much to do in Venice besides visiting Churches (all named Santa something or the other) and window-shopping. What is amazing are the many costume shops that replicate masks from Shakespearian days. The houses seem to grow out of each other, Bombay style. Overall the city is beautiful for a day, but real Venetian’s live twenty minutes out of the city in houses and streets as unromantic as ours. You can walk Venice city in three hours tops, or if you want to splurge 75 euros, you could do it in a gondola in forty-five minutes.
Our journey into Greece was an experience in and of itself. On reaching Ancona, on the southern tip of Italy, we happily boarded an impressive looking cruise liner. Anticipating a luxurious ride, we practically died of a shock to find that our overpriced Europass only guaranteed us an outdoor seat for the nineteen-hour journey. Furious I complained to the head steward, who nodded sympathetically and offered us a bunk for 40 euros. Grudgingly we accepted, and after a clean shower, nice clothes, and heels, we headed out with a fellow Aussie traveller for a gourmet meal and dancing at the disco. Needless to say we were the only women onboard and the main attraction of the night. George a very nice 'waiter on water' deserves a special mention, got us free drinks and food.
We finally arrived in Patras and were astounded by the sheer beauty of the place. The drive into Athens was equally breath taking. Stopping off for a swim, we found ourselves in a scene out of a movie, lazing in crystal clear water, surrounded by islands. Heaven must look like Greece. Athens is a busy city. It is filled with a strange blend of beauty, history and stupidity. Take the subway system, brand new and beautifully constructed, but to our frustration only half built. For some strange reason only half of most train stops have been constructed therefore to get around, one has to go through a strange loop. Whilst we didn't have a chance to visit the islands, I have to say Athens was my favourite place. Gorgeous and busy, I loved every inch of it.
On entering Rome and walking through the underground station, one doesn't really get the sense that they are in some sort of holy land. But a stroll into Vatican City changes all that. The Vatican Museum is by far the most enchanting museum on earth. It is lined with frescos and gold, and is a real feast for the eyes. The Sistine Chapel, whose image is currently owned by a Japanese firm for the next 10 years, is breathtaking. St. Peter's Basilica, is humongous, but doesn't really feel so. Rome is also filled with the ancients. The Coliseum and the Roman ruins are all must-sees. Though at some point you do begin to wonder why someone doesn’t just build something already.
Florence is a pretty city. We stayed at Osca Dela Campe, an ex monastery in the middle of nowhere, with the most amazing view of the city. The hostel was funny, had a curfew of 12 o'clock, at which time an old priest would yell over the loudspeaker, "GO TO SLEEP NOW EVERYBODY." The Tuscan landscape is gorgeous. The Duomo, Florence is most famous (and only real) landmark is visible from almost everywhere. Florence is renowned for its art. The most impressive of which is the David, which resides at the Academia. The Ufitizi its most famous gallery home to greats like Michelangelo, Bottecheli and Raphael, consisted of poorly displayed pictures and depilating walls, made for an unimpressive visit.
Geneva, Switzerland, home of the UN is filled with suited men and well-dressed women, so much so that even eating at Mc Donald’s in jeans makes you feel out of place.
Barcelona...where do I begin. Lets just say my days at Barcelona gained me more wisdom in four days than reading a hundred Deepak Chopra books ever could. Filled with Gothic art, Barcelona is a tourist city. It is simply wonderous to walk down a street and see structures plucked from Dali’s imagination on the street before you. What was outstanding was the place we stayed at "the Hostel Goya." A small pension just off Catalyana its run by a sweet brother and sister team and its like staying in a non expensive hotel, (always ask to stay on the second floor.) An interesting festival in Barcelona is called the Feast of Catalyana, where teams of men attempt to form the highest castle by standing on each other's shoulders. It’s a perilous stunt, especially when they send small children to the top as the crowd.
Our last stop was Paris. I am proud to say that lazy me, walked all the way up the Eiffel Tower and it was well worth the journey. The Louvre is way too big. We spent all day there and saw one half of a wing, on one floor. The Mona Lisa is non impressive. In fact my stamp album's cover is more inspiring. Also of note was the weather. Paris and London are colder than Toronto. Croissants in Paris are like ordering pastries from paradise. Umm Umm Good!! What was most interesting in Paris was trying to figure out how all their water saving gadgets worked.
So overall, my conclusions are this. For boasting first world status, Europe has two main problems which I think puts them in their place, equal to our vibrant "third world" cities. First washrooms are expensive to use and crappy. Most are a small left over spaces, cramped and smelly. Second, food. For all its the fanfare I heard on going to Europe, some of my best meals consisted of grocery store pasta and fish fingers. Pizza in Rome was thrifty with a slice consisting of one onion, one ham, one piece of cheese, but oh so many herbs. To that end, Mc Donald’s a place I loathe to visit in Toronto, has become a universal guarantee of free and clean washrooms, cheap and filling food. All hail the golden arches.
So now I find myself home, loving my beautiful city more, marvelling at our large roads, spacious bathrooms and comfortable cars, whilst also yearning for the beauty and art that preoccupies Europe. Job hunting, paying bills and deciding on how to construct the rest of life make me long for carefree days where my most important decisions were where to eat and sleep for the day.
I hope to see you each of you all soon, to bore you with more tales of adventure and my enormous photo album. To all those thinking of traveling but put off by the cost, I say Go!! On this journey I met travellers of all ages and incomes, and found that if there is a will there is a way. Plus the experience, good and bad, is irreplaceable. Our motto for this Journey was “GOOD LUCK US,” inspired by our Berlin tour guide. To that end, I bid thee farewell and “GOOD LUCK YOU” in your endeavours.
Love
Cranky Putz
Thanks for all your well wishes. I am back from one of the most amazing experiences of my life, intact. Whilst my parents heave a sigh of relief, I thought I’d take the time out to share some of my memories with you all. I warn you that after two months of meandering this will be a long email. So if you’re at work and need to procrastinate, read on. I will also be enclosing some pictures, though I will save you the pain of seeing all three hundred of them.
So let us start with London, the motherland. I walked through many of the British Museums in sheer awe of the size and quality of their collections, and couldn’t help but feel indignation rise up in my throat, the ordasity of these pompous fools, displaying our (India’s) treasures as if it were their own. Overall London is a beautiful and expensive city. I almost died of shock when I realised that everything I purchased was triple its price in Canadian. I think the most exciting part of my visit to London was seeing David Blaine, infamous TV magician, suspended in a glass box at the side of the Thames River for no apparent reason. Funny Brits kept throwing assorted vegetables at poor David, one fellow screamed, wake up you lazy Sod, we travelled two hours to see you.
Next we jetted into Amsterdam or rather took a rather time consuming train and boat ride. Amsterdam is a city for the odd and the curious. It is home to the oddest-looking people, imported from all over the world and Japanese ‘Digi-camera’ businessmen, eagerly snapping away in the Red Light District. I have honestly never seen so many men cramped together in one space before. The women in the red light district are on display like in a mall, except here the Mannequins talk, wiggle and shake, as you gawk in fascination. The funniest part was sitting around watching various negotiations take place. Since we were unable to find a place to stay in Amsterdam city, we ended up travelling two hours out of the city to Hurun, spending the night in small inn. Here we found postcard Amsterdam, complete with blossoming tulips, bike riding citizens and windmills!! The next night, we once again found ourselves unable to find shelter, emboldened we decided to tough it out and stay up all night, shifting from pub to pub, taste testing Amsterdam’s finest product, losing endless hours.
Our journey to Copenhagen was interesting. You take a train, which at one-point ends up in the belly of a ferry for an hour and half, until it resumes its journey on the other side. Our digs in Copenhagen deserve a special mention. We innocently arrived at 8 pm, guided to the "Sleepy Haven" by our trusty Lonely Planet, to find ourselves sleeping in a huge cellar type room, divided by large pieces of chopped wood. The washrooms, inspired by cattle feed designs, were equally horrendous and cold. The staff seemed to consist of runaways and druggies. The city is (much like Amsterdam) filled with bikers. So much so that the government offers free bikes on the streets, for anyone to ride. You can drop them off anywhere too. I attempted to ride one of these bikes, but after 10 years of dormancy, I became the town idiot but constantly falling into oncoming traffic.
Berlin, my favourite city, is a Mecca of modern history and culture. On our train there from Copenhagen, we met a girl whose apartment we ended up staying in for five days. The city itself is lively, yet overshadowed by a hint of sadness. A must do in Berlin is "The Brewer's 9 hour walking tour." Don't let the name fool you, the tour has nothing to do with beer, as some of my companions had hoped. Instead it is a nine-hour stroll through Berlin's historical streets to see remnants of the famous wall, the place Hitler's died (an innocent looking parking lot,) Checkpoint Charlie and other quirky idiosyncrasies of the city. For instance, all through Berlin, rich and poor areas alike, are large pink pipes. They are water pipes, which siphon out extra water preventing flooding. Berlin's water table is close to the surface and flooding is a major concern. So they’ve got these large ‘Pepto bismal’ inspired pipes running through the city. Also Berlin is the only place in Europe where the Christian Churches outweigh their Catholic counterparts in both grandeur and size. The Reichstag, historical house of the German Parliament, burnt down during World War I and II, has a see-through dome at its head. You can walk in the dome, circling your way to one of the most amazing sights in the city. Seeing the Berlin wall was a real learning experience. The wall itself went through many changes. It did not consist of only one large block going through the city. Instead the wall consisted of an outer wall and a more fortified inner wall. Between these two lay a passage of terror, in which the Soviets planted mines and tanks, mercilessly killing any would be escapees. Nevertheless museums all over Berlin are filled with countless escape stories. Berlin is a museum city; in total they have almost 150 big ones. There is an island, aptly named Museum Island, filled with them. Setting time aside just to visit a few is important.
We had the chance to visit the first concentration camp erected by Hitler, a mere hour and half train ride out of Berlin. What is most eerie about the place, is its size. The camp stretching out for miles is caped off by tall watchtowers, from which they used to terrorize and shoot the disobedient. The place is cleaned up and any innocent passer-by could easily mistake it for an abandoned summer camp.
But not all of Berlin is sad; the people are lively and fun. Almost all Germans are tri-lingual or multi-lingual, speaking English fluently. The clubs are amazing for live music.
Next off was Vienna, Austria. Our first trip was to the Grand Viennese Opera, where we managed to get standing room tickets for one euro. A steal! Dressed up in our grandest, we elbowed our way through the crowd in a vain attempt to get a place to stand. The opera was amazing. Though in my opinion there was no way a fat woman like that could get a gorgeous Argentinean man to fall in love with her. It was a Hindi movie in reverse. The rest of our stay in Vienna was confined to our hostel, where a lively bunch of nomads from around the world kept us in splits all day long.
Venice the city of lovers is so for a reason. After meandering through the streets for four hours, losing yourself in the endless hobbled maze, you begin to realise that there isn't much to do in Venice besides visiting Churches (all named Santa something or the other) and window-shopping. What is amazing are the many costume shops that replicate masks from Shakespearian days. The houses seem to grow out of each other, Bombay style. Overall the city is beautiful for a day, but real Venetian’s live twenty minutes out of the city in houses and streets as unromantic as ours. You can walk Venice city in three hours tops, or if you want to splurge 75 euros, you could do it in a gondola in forty-five minutes.
Our journey into Greece was an experience in and of itself. On reaching Ancona, on the southern tip of Italy, we happily boarded an impressive looking cruise liner. Anticipating a luxurious ride, we practically died of a shock to find that our overpriced Europass only guaranteed us an outdoor seat for the nineteen-hour journey. Furious I complained to the head steward, who nodded sympathetically and offered us a bunk for 40 euros. Grudgingly we accepted, and after a clean shower, nice clothes, and heels, we headed out with a fellow Aussie traveller for a gourmet meal and dancing at the disco. Needless to say we were the only women onboard and the main attraction of the night. George a very nice 'waiter on water' deserves a special mention, got us free drinks and food.
We finally arrived in Patras and were astounded by the sheer beauty of the place. The drive into Athens was equally breath taking. Stopping off for a swim, we found ourselves in a scene out of a movie, lazing in crystal clear water, surrounded by islands. Heaven must look like Greece. Athens is a busy city. It is filled with a strange blend of beauty, history and stupidity. Take the subway system, brand new and beautifully constructed, but to our frustration only half built. For some strange reason only half of most train stops have been constructed therefore to get around, one has to go through a strange loop. Whilst we didn't have a chance to visit the islands, I have to say Athens was my favourite place. Gorgeous and busy, I loved every inch of it.
On entering Rome and walking through the underground station, one doesn't really get the sense that they are in some sort of holy land. But a stroll into Vatican City changes all that. The Vatican Museum is by far the most enchanting museum on earth. It is lined with frescos and gold, and is a real feast for the eyes. The Sistine Chapel, whose image is currently owned by a Japanese firm for the next 10 years, is breathtaking. St. Peter's Basilica, is humongous, but doesn't really feel so. Rome is also filled with the ancients. The Coliseum and the Roman ruins are all must-sees. Though at some point you do begin to wonder why someone doesn’t just build something already.
Florence is a pretty city. We stayed at Osca Dela Campe, an ex monastery in the middle of nowhere, with the most amazing view of the city. The hostel was funny, had a curfew of 12 o'clock, at which time an old priest would yell over the loudspeaker, "GO TO SLEEP NOW EVERYBODY." The Tuscan landscape is gorgeous. The Duomo, Florence is most famous (and only real) landmark is visible from almost everywhere. Florence is renowned for its art. The most impressive of which is the David, which resides at the Academia. The Ufitizi its most famous gallery home to greats like Michelangelo, Bottecheli and Raphael, consisted of poorly displayed pictures and depilating walls, made for an unimpressive visit.
Geneva, Switzerland, home of the UN is filled with suited men and well-dressed women, so much so that even eating at Mc Donald’s in jeans makes you feel out of place.
Barcelona...where do I begin. Lets just say my days at Barcelona gained me more wisdom in four days than reading a hundred Deepak Chopra books ever could. Filled with Gothic art, Barcelona is a tourist city. It is simply wonderous to walk down a street and see structures plucked from Dali’s imagination on the street before you. What was outstanding was the place we stayed at "the Hostel Goya." A small pension just off Catalyana its run by a sweet brother and sister team and its like staying in a non expensive hotel, (always ask to stay on the second floor.) An interesting festival in Barcelona is called the Feast of Catalyana, where teams of men attempt to form the highest castle by standing on each other's shoulders. It’s a perilous stunt, especially when they send small children to the top as the crowd.
Our last stop was Paris. I am proud to say that lazy me, walked all the way up the Eiffel Tower and it was well worth the journey. The Louvre is way too big. We spent all day there and saw one half of a wing, on one floor. The Mona Lisa is non impressive. In fact my stamp album's cover is more inspiring. Also of note was the weather. Paris and London are colder than Toronto. Croissants in Paris are like ordering pastries from paradise. Umm Umm Good!! What was most interesting in Paris was trying to figure out how all their water saving gadgets worked.
So overall, my conclusions are this. For boasting first world status, Europe has two main problems which I think puts them in their place, equal to our vibrant "third world" cities. First washrooms are expensive to use and crappy. Most are a small left over spaces, cramped and smelly. Second, food. For all its the fanfare I heard on going to Europe, some of my best meals consisted of grocery store pasta and fish fingers. Pizza in Rome was thrifty with a slice consisting of one onion, one ham, one piece of cheese, but oh so many herbs. To that end, Mc Donald’s a place I loathe to visit in Toronto, has become a universal guarantee of free and clean washrooms, cheap and filling food. All hail the golden arches.
So now I find myself home, loving my beautiful city more, marvelling at our large roads, spacious bathrooms and comfortable cars, whilst also yearning for the beauty and art that preoccupies Europe. Job hunting, paying bills and deciding on how to construct the rest of life make me long for carefree days where my most important decisions were where to eat and sleep for the day.
I hope to see you each of you all soon, to bore you with more tales of adventure and my enormous photo album. To all those thinking of traveling but put off by the cost, I say Go!! On this journey I met travellers of all ages and incomes, and found that if there is a will there is a way. Plus the experience, good and bad, is irreplaceable. Our motto for this Journey was “GOOD LUCK US,” inspired by our Berlin tour guide. To that end, I bid thee farewell and “GOOD LUCK YOU” in your endeavours.
Love
Cranky Putz
The Statute of Liberty
I am the statue of liberty for wayward men. They look deep into my eyes and hear the proclamation, ‘send me your losers, simpletons, commitment phobic, cheaters and drug addicts. I will welcome them into my bosom and shelter them from harm.’ Like the statute of Liberty I have seen many waves of progression.
In life we are always waiting for a second chance. As each day goes by, I cannot help, despite all the madness, imagining when I will see you again. After all I loved you so passionately once, it cannot have totally disappeared. What will I feel when i see you, living the life we were supposed to have? Will I envy your wife or pity her? Will I look at your children and wonder what our combination would have been like? Will I look into your eyes and still love you? Will we have a passionate love affair? A wild romp in some forbidden manger; with lust, rage, desolation gripping our hearts, consuming us?
Probably not. Probably you will look at me and then away, as you did in real life.
In life we are always waiting for a second chance. As each day goes by, I cannot help, despite all the madness, imagining when I will see you again. After all I loved you so passionately once, it cannot have totally disappeared. What will I feel when i see you, living the life we were supposed to have? Will I envy your wife or pity her? Will I look at your children and wonder what our combination would have been like? Will I look into your eyes and still love you? Will we have a passionate love affair? A wild romp in some forbidden manger; with lust, rage, desolation gripping our hearts, consuming us?
Probably not. Probably you will look at me and then away, as you did in real life.
Gold Fish are Guaranteed to Die
Gold Fish Are Guaranteed to Die
Thoughts flood my head, tsunamic waves crashing into my membranes, carrying along with it shards of wood, memories of things meant to be buried. Hospitals, TV masses, lies, the debris goes on and on. I reprimand the divine, I have been careful after all, safe, perfect, good. Then the next wave hits, to know or not to know? The hypothetical: ignorance is bliss, or is it? My mind floats over to you. You are wild; a foreign and exotic creature whom I have no hope of keeping at my side. What can I expect from you? Expectations are not your forte, nor are responsibilities. I look around at the flood, the floating barks and debris; I reach out to cling on. After all if I do not save myself, who will?
*
You make love to me. A consolation for what is to come. I love the way you suck on my breasts. You kiss me gently and then bite. That is our pattern, gentle then vicious.
Here comes the hypothetical. Commanded, you answer ignorance is bliss. With one statement, our lives are severed.
*~*
Now here I lie, swollen, large, and fat. My breasts are distorted into two unrecognizable creatures. They are heavy. Where am I in this huge new body? What am I becoming? Am I now fulfilling my most human purpose; to procreate? The line of my vertebrate is a river of sweat. The fan fails miserably to perform its only function. I tap on you, and you kick. No matter how many times you do it, I am always filled with the wonder of this first sign of life. To feel another heart beat within me, to know that you are completely and utterly dependant on me for survival. My back bends with the responsibility of it all.
As you fight your way out of me, something is released within me, another crashing wave; a titanic flood. This time it is nothing I have experienced before. It seems like love, yet it is in an unrecognizable form. Instantly this new wave ties me to you. You are more than my creation, our creation. More than a symbol of a love that did not exist, more than an extension of me, more, more. They thrust you towards me, bloodied, slightly hideous. No pink, draped in white, powdered baby here. I gaze down and there it is, the unmistakable wildness. Again I reprimand the divine, where is the fine balance? Why does it always tip toward his side?
*~*
Your absence is larger than your presence ever was. You call every now and then, leave unrecognizable messages. You are in New York, flying high, on the flip side.
In my imagination, you are always at the beach. Your perfect body stretched out curving to the bark of the tree.
*
When you left, the world deserted me. First the people I loved the most, confused by their inability to comprehend the unusual, abandoned me for my failure to repent. There were days when I wrote you, long meandering letters filled with promises and plans for compromise. One begged you, yes begged you, to come back. I could not send it for when I looked down I found mine are not the knees of a beggar.
*
Mr. Wild inherited your hair. It drives me insane on a good day. Today I want to take a hedge cutter to it. Mr. Wild has also inherited your love for the nude. Like you he is a Mogli, restricted by societal garment demands he simply cannot understand. It takes ridiculous amounts of coaxing to keep his pants on.
As I adjust Mr. Wild’s pony tail, I see you across the street. You are crashing into us, and I have no where to run. I throw Mr. Wild into a seat, as you canter over. I feel your appraising gaze. Boldly I meet your eyes, ready for judgement. Mr. Wild looks perplexed. As you gaze into his face, he mirrors your stare. I see it click, here comes another wave.
At first you are confused. I am irritated by the time it takes you to digest the scene before you. You smile at me, and like a fool I feel relieved. I politely answer your questions and commiserate at the fast paced life you led in New York. You are back in Toronto. You point to Mr. Wild, casually ask his age. I see your inner calculator come to life, subtracting, adding, subtracting again, check, revise, check.
I begin to back away, Mr. Wild in hand. Stubbornly Mr. Wild kicks you. I almost laugh; I have spent so many months wanting to kick you.
You grab my hand, which edges Mr. Wild’s kicking on. He is firm in his loyalty.
*
Por que? Porque. (Why? Because.)
*
You insist on meeting later. There is urgency in your voice.
We sit at star bucks (your choice, not mine,) and I gaze into my mocha crappa frappa, as you wait in vain for an explanation. I see the seething anger under your eyes. I recognize the indifference. The nerve of you, conveniently forgetting that our ‘relationship’ was nothing more than a maze, confusing twists and turns leading nowhere. How could I ask you to be a father, when you had such a putrid reaction to being a boyfriend? I would not force you to be tied to me.
And so you begin your litany of love, the pretense that there has been no one like me, since me. Yet it was you who let me go, with the ease of a child releasing their favourite balloon, letting it drift into the sky, further and further away, till it is a mere blimp in hind sight.
I assure you that Mr. Wild knows who you are. The kicking was just a spontaneous reaction, I maintain innocence. I welcome future interaction. Let’s leave our maze behind, let’s progress. After four years, we finally agree on something.
*
Once a week you visit Mr. Wild. He returns full of babble. He begins to pick up your phrases. He practices Tae Kwan Doe. As you drop him off, I wonder, white or black Calvin’s?
Thursday’s turn into Tuesdays, Fridays, Sundays and so on. Every free moment you have now belongs solely to Mr. Wild. I am jealous. He is mine. You are showing off and Mr. Wild is a sucker for it. I reprimand the divine, why are you still the charming one?
*
Once on a boat floating on the murky waters of Lake Ontario, I told you I loved you. You had just finished dancing with an old lady. I couldn’t help myself; my mouth opened and out flew, 'I love you.’ You didn’t hear me, or perhaps chose not to. I did not know how to be with you and not love you. You came with a set of rules and demands foreign to me. I grew up with parents who were lifers, met when they were twelve, together to this day.
*
It is Sunday night. You are dropping Mr. Wild off. Mr. Wild is cuddled into a cotton ball, snoring sweetly on your shoulder. As you place him down, you kiss his forehead. I drip with hallmark-like emotion.
*
The days, months and years meld together into a collage of floods and droughts. We have our moments, too many to count, yet we cling on to our individual barks, unable to take a chance and find one that can sustain us both.
Mr. Wild chatters incessantly now. He is awed by the creations of science, but not nearly as impressed with Nietzsche. As Mr. Wild blooms, he becomes a walking image of you.
*
I sit in an office, which is overly cool. My nipples begin to take shape between my sheer dress. The man before me looks weary. Day after day, he hands out death sentences to the unaware, lacking the comforting foresight of the divine. The hollowness of the words ‘everything will be okay,’ rings in his ears, a Promethic lie. I want to reach out and comfort him. Assure him I am stronger than the rest, able to share and bear his burden.
My body is engulfed by rebellious cells. Cells that are too lazy to perform their necessary functions. The cells are every where. Inch by inch they claim new territory, setting up house, planting flags. My lungs have been seized which explains the suffocating nights.
My mind swirls to Mr. Wild and you. This time I rage against the divine. What is the higher purpose? Where is the balance? I am not ready for divinity. I want to see my son grow into a man. I want to experience his future. I want more than this.
*
As I drive home, I feel inebriated by life. A wave washes over me and I realise that this is the last time I will feel whole.
*
I sit Mr. Wild down. I want to be firm. He is eight, and in my opinion old enough to handle this like a man. Children lose their parents every day I tell him. Most of the children in Africa have never met their parents. You are lucky.
Mr. Wild looks at me with his moon eyes and scraggly hair. His expression is confused. Mr. Wild knows nothing about death. We have never had a living pet, relative or friend pass from us. I curse myself for not getting him a gold fish. Gold fish are guaranteed to die.
I look desperately to you for help. You promise Mr. Wild that you will take care of him, keep him forever and that one day he can come meet me. You squeeze my hand and I break.
Mr. Wild goes off with Maddox for his play date. Tell your kid that you are dying and then send him off to watch Barney. I am angry now. The divine is merciless, unkind and unfair. With anger comes the water. Like the Ashram Dam breaking apart I come undone. You sit across from me and watch. Your back arches but your hands seem suspended, mid movement. What can you say to me, the damned?
*
As the cells conquer with the zeal of Alexander the Great, my body begins to wither. I am unable to digest anything solid. Over time I take to my bed. Unlike Frieda I do not have the luxury of painting my toes. Instead my mind works ferociously to pen every last thought I have to convey to Mr. Wild. I provide him with useful and practical advice about cleaning, cooking, picking universities; philosophical advice about love and life; and anecdotes of his grand parents and family he’s never met.
Mostly I lie defeated.
Then I begin your letter.
"My bed is a sea of different bodily fluids. I bounce between waves of nausea, hunger, pain and defeat. My body has betrayed me. How can something that brought forth life now condemn it?
I remember the days we knocked boots, in your humongous bed, the late afternoon sun pouring in. I see our bodies heaving and rocking against each other, your hands cupping my bottom, legs holding me down.
You are a snow flake to me. Floating into my life, with your beautiful intricate pattern, there for a moment and then gone.
Forgive me for not telling you about Mr. Wild. I was brave then, fearless. I wanted to be loved with the full force of the universe. Your way was not enough. I did not understand then that love is a fleeting emotion, not something to hedge ones bets on.
Now I have days left, oh I know the doctors say months. But my bones assure me it is days. You are with me in ways I never fathomed. Your strong limbs gather me up mid changes, comfort me on painful nights and hold me when the shaking won’t stop. I look into your eyes and I see a tsunamic wave. I reach out to you and hold on. "
*
I look down at Mr. Wild and you, sombre in black coats of death.
Tears stream down your face, the indifference washed away.
Thoughts flood my head, tsunamic waves crashing into my membranes, carrying along with it shards of wood, memories of things meant to be buried. Hospitals, TV masses, lies, the debris goes on and on. I reprimand the divine, I have been careful after all, safe, perfect, good. Then the next wave hits, to know or not to know? The hypothetical: ignorance is bliss, or is it? My mind floats over to you. You are wild; a foreign and exotic creature whom I have no hope of keeping at my side. What can I expect from you? Expectations are not your forte, nor are responsibilities. I look around at the flood, the floating barks and debris; I reach out to cling on. After all if I do not save myself, who will?
*
You make love to me. A consolation for what is to come. I love the way you suck on my breasts. You kiss me gently and then bite. That is our pattern, gentle then vicious.
Here comes the hypothetical. Commanded, you answer ignorance is bliss. With one statement, our lives are severed.
*~*
Now here I lie, swollen, large, and fat. My breasts are distorted into two unrecognizable creatures. They are heavy. Where am I in this huge new body? What am I becoming? Am I now fulfilling my most human purpose; to procreate? The line of my vertebrate is a river of sweat. The fan fails miserably to perform its only function. I tap on you, and you kick. No matter how many times you do it, I am always filled with the wonder of this first sign of life. To feel another heart beat within me, to know that you are completely and utterly dependant on me for survival. My back bends with the responsibility of it all.
As you fight your way out of me, something is released within me, another crashing wave; a titanic flood. This time it is nothing I have experienced before. It seems like love, yet it is in an unrecognizable form. Instantly this new wave ties me to you. You are more than my creation, our creation. More than a symbol of a love that did not exist, more than an extension of me, more, more. They thrust you towards me, bloodied, slightly hideous. No pink, draped in white, powdered baby here. I gaze down and there it is, the unmistakable wildness. Again I reprimand the divine, where is the fine balance? Why does it always tip toward his side?
*~*
Your absence is larger than your presence ever was. You call every now and then, leave unrecognizable messages. You are in New York, flying high, on the flip side.
In my imagination, you are always at the beach. Your perfect body stretched out curving to the bark of the tree.
*
When you left, the world deserted me. First the people I loved the most, confused by their inability to comprehend the unusual, abandoned me for my failure to repent. There were days when I wrote you, long meandering letters filled with promises and plans for compromise. One begged you, yes begged you, to come back. I could not send it for when I looked down I found mine are not the knees of a beggar.
*
Mr. Wild inherited your hair. It drives me insane on a good day. Today I want to take a hedge cutter to it. Mr. Wild has also inherited your love for the nude. Like you he is a Mogli, restricted by societal garment demands he simply cannot understand. It takes ridiculous amounts of coaxing to keep his pants on.
As I adjust Mr. Wild’s pony tail, I see you across the street. You are crashing into us, and I have no where to run. I throw Mr. Wild into a seat, as you canter over. I feel your appraising gaze. Boldly I meet your eyes, ready for judgement. Mr. Wild looks perplexed. As you gaze into his face, he mirrors your stare. I see it click, here comes another wave.
At first you are confused. I am irritated by the time it takes you to digest the scene before you. You smile at me, and like a fool I feel relieved. I politely answer your questions and commiserate at the fast paced life you led in New York. You are back in Toronto. You point to Mr. Wild, casually ask his age. I see your inner calculator come to life, subtracting, adding, subtracting again, check, revise, check.
I begin to back away, Mr. Wild in hand. Stubbornly Mr. Wild kicks you. I almost laugh; I have spent so many months wanting to kick you.
You grab my hand, which edges Mr. Wild’s kicking on. He is firm in his loyalty.
*
Por que? Porque. (Why? Because.)
*
You insist on meeting later. There is urgency in your voice.
We sit at star bucks (your choice, not mine,) and I gaze into my mocha crappa frappa, as you wait in vain for an explanation. I see the seething anger under your eyes. I recognize the indifference. The nerve of you, conveniently forgetting that our ‘relationship’ was nothing more than a maze, confusing twists and turns leading nowhere. How could I ask you to be a father, when you had such a putrid reaction to being a boyfriend? I would not force you to be tied to me.
And so you begin your litany of love, the pretense that there has been no one like me, since me. Yet it was you who let me go, with the ease of a child releasing their favourite balloon, letting it drift into the sky, further and further away, till it is a mere blimp in hind sight.
I assure you that Mr. Wild knows who you are. The kicking was just a spontaneous reaction, I maintain innocence. I welcome future interaction. Let’s leave our maze behind, let’s progress. After four years, we finally agree on something.
*
Once a week you visit Mr. Wild. He returns full of babble. He begins to pick up your phrases. He practices Tae Kwan Doe. As you drop him off, I wonder, white or black Calvin’s?
Thursday’s turn into Tuesdays, Fridays, Sundays and so on. Every free moment you have now belongs solely to Mr. Wild. I am jealous. He is mine. You are showing off and Mr. Wild is a sucker for it. I reprimand the divine, why are you still the charming one?
*
Once on a boat floating on the murky waters of Lake Ontario, I told you I loved you. You had just finished dancing with an old lady. I couldn’t help myself; my mouth opened and out flew, 'I love you.’ You didn’t hear me, or perhaps chose not to. I did not know how to be with you and not love you. You came with a set of rules and demands foreign to me. I grew up with parents who were lifers, met when they were twelve, together to this day.
*
It is Sunday night. You are dropping Mr. Wild off. Mr. Wild is cuddled into a cotton ball, snoring sweetly on your shoulder. As you place him down, you kiss his forehead. I drip with hallmark-like emotion.
*
The days, months and years meld together into a collage of floods and droughts. We have our moments, too many to count, yet we cling on to our individual barks, unable to take a chance and find one that can sustain us both.
Mr. Wild chatters incessantly now. He is awed by the creations of science, but not nearly as impressed with Nietzsche. As Mr. Wild blooms, he becomes a walking image of you.
*
I sit in an office, which is overly cool. My nipples begin to take shape between my sheer dress. The man before me looks weary. Day after day, he hands out death sentences to the unaware, lacking the comforting foresight of the divine. The hollowness of the words ‘everything will be okay,’ rings in his ears, a Promethic lie. I want to reach out and comfort him. Assure him I am stronger than the rest, able to share and bear his burden.
My body is engulfed by rebellious cells. Cells that are too lazy to perform their necessary functions. The cells are every where. Inch by inch they claim new territory, setting up house, planting flags. My lungs have been seized which explains the suffocating nights.
My mind swirls to Mr. Wild and you. This time I rage against the divine. What is the higher purpose? Where is the balance? I am not ready for divinity. I want to see my son grow into a man. I want to experience his future. I want more than this.
*
As I drive home, I feel inebriated by life. A wave washes over me and I realise that this is the last time I will feel whole.
*
I sit Mr. Wild down. I want to be firm. He is eight, and in my opinion old enough to handle this like a man. Children lose their parents every day I tell him. Most of the children in Africa have never met their parents. You are lucky.
Mr. Wild looks at me with his moon eyes and scraggly hair. His expression is confused. Mr. Wild knows nothing about death. We have never had a living pet, relative or friend pass from us. I curse myself for not getting him a gold fish. Gold fish are guaranteed to die.
I look desperately to you for help. You promise Mr. Wild that you will take care of him, keep him forever and that one day he can come meet me. You squeeze my hand and I break.
Mr. Wild goes off with Maddox for his play date. Tell your kid that you are dying and then send him off to watch Barney. I am angry now. The divine is merciless, unkind and unfair. With anger comes the water. Like the Ashram Dam breaking apart I come undone. You sit across from me and watch. Your back arches but your hands seem suspended, mid movement. What can you say to me, the damned?
*
As the cells conquer with the zeal of Alexander the Great, my body begins to wither. I am unable to digest anything solid. Over time I take to my bed. Unlike Frieda I do not have the luxury of painting my toes. Instead my mind works ferociously to pen every last thought I have to convey to Mr. Wild. I provide him with useful and practical advice about cleaning, cooking, picking universities; philosophical advice about love and life; and anecdotes of his grand parents and family he’s never met.
Mostly I lie defeated.
Then I begin your letter.
"My bed is a sea of different bodily fluids. I bounce between waves of nausea, hunger, pain and defeat. My body has betrayed me. How can something that brought forth life now condemn it?
I remember the days we knocked boots, in your humongous bed, the late afternoon sun pouring in. I see our bodies heaving and rocking against each other, your hands cupping my bottom, legs holding me down.
You are a snow flake to me. Floating into my life, with your beautiful intricate pattern, there for a moment and then gone.
Forgive me for not telling you about Mr. Wild. I was brave then, fearless. I wanted to be loved with the full force of the universe. Your way was not enough. I did not understand then that love is a fleeting emotion, not something to hedge ones bets on.
Now I have days left, oh I know the doctors say months. But my bones assure me it is days. You are with me in ways I never fathomed. Your strong limbs gather me up mid changes, comfort me on painful nights and hold me when the shaking won’t stop. I look into your eyes and I see a tsunamic wave. I reach out to you and hold on. "
*
I look down at Mr. Wild and you, sombre in black coats of death.
Tears stream down your face, the indifference washed away.
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