Where are my people? Where are those riotous in colour and rambling in words? Where are the fragmented, the mended, and the fragmented yet again? The equivocation of old voices, lost in the trappings of memory -- I do not hear them. The young, the new, the footfalls of those wandering in strange hallways, opening doors to rooms even stranger -- where are they? Where are my people?
All I see are fluff, cotton, wisps of gossamer and down. Beautiful as summer blossoms; beautiful as only wraiths can be beautiful. Eggshell fragile and floating in the wind. These are not my people. They speak not my tongue.
Their skin, ephemeral as air, as time -- not like my skin. The skin of our people are thick carapaces of resilience and remembrance. Our skin are the crusts of earth, eroded and made perfect by a force only the seas and the oceans can muster. Our skin are the barks of trees, of rocks, of stalagmites and stalactites -- diamond and mineral of rough and irregular geometries. Our skin is the skin of histories -- blood-drawing, juices-flowing. Where are my people?
This is my call. Hear my voice, and hear it thundering in your chest. You will know if you are mine. Answer, and I will know if I am yours.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Thursday, February 04, 2010
Say, Yes
I'm cutting them all loose. All of it -- words in my head, crawling all over my scalp like tiny little ants gnawing at my skin. Words writhing, wriggling up and down my throat, clawing at my chest, running, leaping, dancing, a pirouette, a dip, a screech, rising, falling, crashing to and through my body. Every particle, every fragment of memory -- real or imagined, embellished truth, or visceral lies. I'm letting them go, and fuck what anyone thinks.
They will be shikigami as I walk around the city. They will be helmet and hauberk, gorget, breastplate, tasset, greaves, and sabaton. I will write when words barrel through me like ten thousand rivers. I will write when words supernova in my mind. I will write even if there is nothing to write about.
The past two months at work has taught me the world will never run out of words. A single object will have as many different words as the number of of eyes that will look upon it. Every day I work, I try on a multitude of eyes. Work has taught me there will always be something to write.
I used to be afraid of the word, "writer." I shy away from it, a burning brand to my skin. I used to feel I wasn't worthy of the pain, the burden, and the responsibility it entails to be a writer. After the fear came the shame. Then self-pity. Yet, I find myself going back -- a pitiful supplicant to an intangible divinity.
Ultimately, it's a conscious decision. The Universe is a strange and patient benefactor, and we are timid little animals who do not know how to say "Yes." That is, until we learn to say "Yes," -- and actually say it.
So, "Yes."
They will be shikigami as I walk around the city. They will be helmet and hauberk, gorget, breastplate, tasset, greaves, and sabaton. I will write when words barrel through me like ten thousand rivers. I will write when words supernova in my mind. I will write even if there is nothing to write about.
The past two months at work has taught me the world will never run out of words. A single object will have as many different words as the number of of eyes that will look upon it. Every day I work, I try on a multitude of eyes. Work has taught me there will always be something to write.
I used to be afraid of the word, "writer." I shy away from it, a burning brand to my skin. I used to feel I wasn't worthy of the pain, the burden, and the responsibility it entails to be a writer. After the fear came the shame. Then self-pity. Yet, I find myself going back -- a pitiful supplicant to an intangible divinity.
Ultimately, it's a conscious decision. The Universe is a strange and patient benefactor, and we are timid little animals who do not know how to say "Yes." That is, until we learn to say "Yes," -- and actually say it.
So, "Yes."
