where does Beast begin?

this is a thought that has surfaced many many times. i say many many times because unfortunately many many times, we as human beings let out our claws our fangs. and every time a killer is killed in order that justice is served, i flinch.
so it is, today, a rapist was beaten by an angry mob. a sick- in-the-head pedophile, raped and killed a 4 year old girl. hence, the beating. he succumbed to his 'injuries' a few hours later. there is anger, hurtful anger in the air.and talk goes around.. how he had it commin', he must be made a lesson of(for future rapists.how absurd!).
here are some thoughts from a generally apathetic creature(i dread calling myself a human BE-ing at this moment):
is reason and logic involved in rape?
do rapists think things through before they rape? do they think...what if i get caught? will i be jailed, gaoled, shackled? will i be beaten black and blue? will i be hanged electrocuted? will i be raped in return for my rape?
do rapists think these thoughts?

does anyone have the right to take someone else's life? no? so is that why we have prisons? to cage the ones that dare to claim a right, to a person's life(and death)?

but if we do it to stake some sort of moral justice, it becomes ok? condone-able?

let THIS be a lesson! let this death, of this 'beast' be a lesson! really?

my grandfather died of asthma. he smoked. let this be a lesson.my father was a borderline chain smoker. i smoke. let this be a lesson.

your fellow rapist has been bludgeoned to death. beware. be aware.rapists of the now.rapists of the future!

i say to you, torch bearers of an ideal, how will you sleep at night, days from now, weeks from now, months from now, years from now?
the rapists will sleep, the murderers will sleep. reason does not guide their choice.
what guides your choice, you men that dole out moral justice through the jabs of your fist, through the kicks of your feet?

a killing is never made ok by a killing. and if i live in a world where that has become an inevitability, i do not wish to live in it.

21 things i want in a lover

do you like babies
do you like dogs
can you dance like there's no tomorrow
do you like meat and are you an any sports fanatic
do you have big hands that will correspond with my small ones
will you think that surrendering is actually freedom
do you enjoy poetry even if you do not write
are you a voracious reader and can hold your own with the best of them
do you enjoy comfortable silences as much as laughter
can you be silly on occasion
are you strong really strong and not be bent by adversarial circumstances
can you adapt
do you believe and does that belief spur you on
do you possess prowess
can you USE that prowess
are you patient and accommodating
can you read minds
can you anticipate me
can you speak to my fears
can you love me on the condition that i love you and nothing else

the bus

i ride an hour on the bus the ride is bumpy and swerves and throws you sideways left and right and if you dont know the person sitting next to you you feel uneasy its not your intention to push into their space
but i have a seat i always get a seat the two days ive 'travelled'
the drive i savour with every riff that plays on my music player today i wished singing out loud suddenly in public places(buses) wasnt considered off kilter i wanted to sing along with paula cole about how my baby's got me feelin love
i love how the view is the same but not the houses some grand some not the lives our bus passes by
i love the hour bus ride
i hope i always get a seat.get through my daily playlist. crane my head sideways the whole way to see the outside as i sit in the inside of the bus

I want your hands

I want your hands
Your fingers to messy themselves in the dark tangles of my hair
I want your hands
Your fingers to chart territory on the compass of my body
I want your hands
Your fingers to fit with mine
Like
Key
To
Lock

choice

i pleaded God to give me my object choice
God said:my greatest gift to Mankind is free will
that was the end of it

them

She butchers tropical fruits
Cuts her own hair.
Seen and done too many things

He sits like a girl at times
Crossing legs
Yet she is rendered limp when he moves his mouth

punctuations

My feel for you boy is consuming my insides like wildfire and I am scared to death of what I will be capable of if you retreat.

There was too many magic happening too many likes and similarities and coincidences to not think the meeting was fated

A day without a talk spent in paranoid obsessive assumptions leading to deletion of certain frames of an identity

Not in the inside though not in the inside

The wait is long it seems and lonely and excruciating and there seems no reprieve for hours still the connect is felt to have been lost

How frantic a grasp should be exercised to get back the what was almost had so it becomes a real possession a something to cherish and hold on to and fight for come what may

Death makes angels of us all

today we went to pay our condolences to one of our student's family whose dad had passed away. he lived with oesophagus cancer for close to a year. and died of it. various people spoke of the occassion of the bereaved family and of the deceased.mostly of the deceased. i had tears brimming when the new widow got up to say how she dreads going to sleep and when she did sleep how she dreads waking up. in our culture, it is said that the pain of losing one's spouse is akin to hacking one's shoulder off(or something to that effect). personally i think it MUST be more painful than that. personally i dont think the loss(death) of a spouse(if love is shared) is NOT akin to any other pain in this world. and therefore shouldnt be compared to any other pain.
that said
the other thing that crossed my mind is this
'death makes angels of us all'
what was Jim thinking of when he wrote this? because i feel its truth. when people come forth to speak at funeral wakes, it is only the good in them that they speak of. never he/she was: petty/deceptive/contrary/shallow/narrow. i dont mean to take anything away from the memory of dead people(pardon my crudeness) but i find it strangely amusing that we,that are alive, feel the need to make angels of those that are gone. not before they are gone. but. after they are gone. hmmm.how contrary.
my father died when i was sixteen. and by all accounts(after his gone state), my father was goodness and kindness incarnate. like i said, i was sixteen, too consumed in my own existence to really know or even want to know anything about my father save for what he stood for, for me, ie a father. so i never knew what kind of person my father really was. not really.
and all the years hence, when people(his friends/acquaintances/colleagues/subordinates etc) realise that i am my father's daughter, the most i can infer from their accounts of their time with him is what an angel he was.now, this is all fine and dandy.because what daughter wouldnt want to hear that her father was a good man?!
but sometimes, someeeetimes, i wish someone would tell me who my father REALLY was. his 'exits' and 'entrances' so i could know what about me in me is a living part of my father.

and i look at the student and think...young person, henceforth, you will only ever know that your father was good and kind and steadfast and true. will you grow from this knowledge in this knowledge.

i requote The Lizard King: Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.

edit: i also just remembered this one time i was at YMA night for the deceased in our neighbourhood and when one of the YMA 'hruaitu's' got up to speak loftily of the deceased, a drunk a few seats behind us mumbled,'why didnt he say all these nice things to him when he was alive?' LOL

a la precious illusions

this landscape is so barren and dry
devoid of joy and life
it was just a while ago lush and green
thriving on newness and all that that entailed
limp limbs ensues
the innards feel wrecked
by them big wrecking balls

THE DEATH OF PINK

‘The Shop Around The Corner’ had been there as far back as I could remember. Funny, now that I think about it, it is not so much around the corner as it is ON the corner. But ‘around’ gives a magical feel to it, like candy floss that melts in your mouth, when you roll it around the tongue, washing your insides with the sugary sweetness of childhood and innocence.

I remember buying my first book from there. A library full of books later, I’m back to Mrs. Edie Bloom and her tiny shop. Time has stood still. People walk by. New people, who cant know or feel the end of an era for the playground-full of children whose lives have been shaped by the slight little lady who is no more. My generation is indebted to Mrs Edie and others like her who looked hard enough to recognize the preciousness in children.

Story-time in The Shop Around The Corner lured every kid crazy for ice cream and soft-ball, to the small dark nook under the stairs where she sat, waiting for us to curb the restless excitement of play that dusted us dirty and grubby. Lemonade in tall glasses, with drops of water running down the sides. Condensation, a word I learnt one such afternoon, thirty something years ago. I have been condensed too, from a world much too weary to carry me weightless on its shoulder.

‘ So, we’re finally here, huh.’ My daughter looks out of the car window at the shop with intense concentration in a kind attempt to recapture my enchanted childhood. ‘Yes, we’re finally here.’ The finality of the moment envelops me in poignant calmness. As we proceeded up the steps, I hear a familiar voice, now adult, and I turned round to see my old neighbour, Alison Knobb. ‘ Just like old times’, Alison remarks and immediately realizes the inappropriateness of her words. A silence hung over our heads and I sensed I must rescue Alison from her well-intentioned slight so I took her hand in mine. Elizabeth’s eyes expressed confusion mixed with complete comprehension of what the holding of hands revealed. Children can be a lifetime wiser than adults and Lizzie’s wisdom made me love her more, if that was possible.

The shop, as we enter, is people-filled. Faces known and long forgotten suddenly become friends again in an instant. Old, young, middle-aged. Friends, family, strangers. Mrs. Edie had called us all together under one roof to become a community of like-minded companions, sharing one thought, indebted to one person.

I hadn’t worn black, as was customary, nor had I dressed Lizzie in black. As I look about the room, I see people in a rainbow of colours. It seems more like a wedding or a celebration of a happy occasion than a funeral wake. People were mourning, and at the same time, they were not. Conversation passed itself around the room like cake, and everyone seemed to savour its bittersweet taste.

My own sense of tranquility, I believe, came from the fact that I’d grown to look on death not as an end but rather as a beginning. I am not religious. The whole Heaven and Hell thing seemed to me a concept, an idea too distant to relate to. All I know is that human beings are bigger than Death. We are much more companionable and friendly. My father died when I was sixteen, and I remember feeling shattered and raped by death. I also remember Mrs Edie standing on our doorstep with a plate of pink Jell-O. Somewhere in my teenage mind, I recall thinking how grotesque anything pink would look against a black back-drop. I did not like the colour pink then and my feelings towards it have not changed. Thinking back though, looking back, I found it strange that Mrs Edie had chosen to bring me pink Jell-O, considering I was already too old to even mildly appreciate candy, unless it came from a boy. Yet in that moment, her inappropriate gift consumed my sadness and my father became a pink memory, nestled about in a halo of stars.

Im suddenly assaulted by a ridiculous thought, sweet in its absurdity. ‘Everyone must be thinking pink.’ I could not explain the comfortable tranquility of the mourners otherwise. As my daughter trails patiently behind me, I recognize faces, and I associate each one with a memory. Amanda Waters who had wanted to be Rapunzel. Brian Cooper, the prince who kissed Snow White( Alexis Minton). Tom ‘Jumbo the Elephant’ Silver. I see Amanda’s got Rapunzel’s golden tresses and Brian’s Snow White is beside him. We are all intertwined by afternoons at Mrs. Edie’s, with lemonade and fantasy.

Someone behind my back inquires about the fate of the bookshop, now that the ‘lil old lady’ was gone. ‘Her niece is putting it up for sale’, is another voice’s reply. My ‘Think Pink’ calm slowly dissipates like cigarette smoke, creating chaos in the air.

My callousness chokes me suddenly. Why had I never known that she was all alone? Most every single day of my childhood wrapped up in her world of pink and every other happy colour and I’d never thought to venture beyond the bookshop. Mrs. Edie had begun and ended with the bookshop. She was all of it and it was her. Now it was going to some corporate giant without a face, without a body, and my childhood haven would be torn down. Helplessness seized me and all the colour was wiped out of my head.

We live our entire lives trying to outrun inevitabilities that will never defer to us.



A month or so later, I’m back on the same street, watching the demolition men set up their equipment to tear down ‘The Shop Around The Corner’. I hold my daughter’s hand as we watch in silence the last of the beams fall. I realized at that moment that this was the way it was supposed to be. She must have known it too, Mrs Edie, the inevitability of things and places and people. Continuity is merely a word we like to play with to tell ourselves all is not lost. And indeed, all was not lost because memory remains, safe from the lepered hands of time.

As we drive away from the place that once housed my dreams, I finally understood a poem Mrs.Edie used to read to us:

“But she and Death, acquainted,
Meet tranquilly as friends,
Salute and pass without a hint-
And there the matter ends.

he said he would be proud as punch to be her fella
she smiled
and they wait for the feelings to settle

to really write about the present

what i am doing right now
writing a personal letter
at the tail-end of 27
i strive to walk hallowed halls
for posterity's sake
for expectations' sake
for ambitions' sake
for Tori's sake
for hapiness's sake
for spirit's sake
for an existence-void-of-non-existence's sake

home the geography is a difficult territory
necessitating pushes and shoves
and back-against-the-walls

this strive can fall through
founded on yo yo resolve
there's a time frame
can/might/will still shimmy through
do
DO!
polly
DO!

What it feels like for a girl

When I do the work and the work
When I watch my hemlines and my necklines
When I watch my mouth and what I put in it
When I go to church and when I pray
When I get good grades and over achieve
When I sever ties to make way for purported new ties
When I don’t get on a plane to see the hills every morning

Why is it not enough?
Why am I not ‘perfect?’

Back backwards bending
Just so I can accommodate my heritage
I cherish my heritage
Not so much, that I break.
Thank you.
No perfect daughter/sister/wife/woman.
I pledge my allegiance to sin woman

the frog prince

he has a thing for russian girls
them long legged blondes
perfect prototypes of Occidental Eve

truth-1

So here’s to you
My yo yo love
We wound each other up
Nice and tight
Snug and happy
Then the let go-ing
We become unwound
Farther and farther from the center
With each rotation,
A shedding:
Want
Care
Longing
Need
Love.
The distance is stretched to its limits
There is much clenching, gritting, gnarling, clawing and scratching

Do we roll back up?
Will the nice and tight-ness be the same?
Can there be snug happiness again?

If we decide to roll back up and find our things altered
May we kill each other with much letting of blood,
That our next lovers will feast only on our scraps

my winter is here with lots of rain
it is cold and unfeeling
like breaking up over the internet

on a sunday evening suddenly

when will i be rescued?
when will i realise i dont need to be rescued?
when will i be content?
when will i have what i want?
when will my thoughts bounce back inspiring me to let them out again?
when will there be a really strong hand to hold the weight of my shapelessness?
when will my new clothes fit me and when will i wear my old ones again?
when will i find direction?
when will i write perfectly and not search for words?
when will i stop trying to allude to strange ridiculous things
digging out archaic words
when will i learn to play guitar?
when will i write my first song?
when will i take a good picture?
when will i be happy with the person i am with?
when will i stop desiring the unattainable?
when will i learn to let go of old loves?
when will i appreciate my present?
when will i think only good thoughts for a whole day?
when will i stop silently obsessing over my skinny legs?
when will i read all the books i tell myself ill read?
when will i have my own house
and children
and grandchildren
and be a wise old woman doling out stories of my crazy wild ridiculous youth
to my grandchildren?
when will my mother be a grandmother?