He was Stakhanovite in his dedication to this cause, the winning over of her hand.
To him she was the most perfect angel who walked this earth: she seemed benevolent and generous and kind hearted.
He made his fortune trading the grains produced in this bucolic country for radios and televisions when he was perhaps her age. Back then he had no interest in women, only in making his bank account even fatter. She changed his mind so late in the game; he is old enough to be her father.
But what does it matter?
She moved into this part of the world with her widowed mother and young daughter. She herself was a widow, because the war with the socialists was long and tragic and claimed the lives of a lot of family men.
He was spared the wrath of war because he was an economic advisor, something that brought him a tinge of embarrassment. He was able bodied and at the prime of his life but he was not fighting in the front line. He was here, in the comfort of his home away from the shrapnel and the missiles and the bombs.
He has never spoken to her; she does not know what he looks like. But every day, for the past two years he sent her missives of his longing for her. He never sent gifts, although he very well could, because he wanted to be loved for himself.
She had a small enterprise, selling lace and ribbons to the ladies of the country, which thrived without his help. But he helped her anyway, sending hordes of visitors on their way to her shoppe during lulls in negotiations or meetings.
He bumped into her once, at the market. He simply stared into her eyes, the frog in his throat keeping him from speaking.
He could have very well been Stakhanov himself in trying to win her heart.
But one day, he woke up and she was gone. He heard her daughter drowned in the well. And it broke her heart so she couldn’t bear to live with the memories this country brought her of her daughter. She intended to stay with the parson at the next country.
He hastened to be at her side that very same day. But when he arrived she herself had expired, having taken hemlock to ease her broken heart.
He was in such pain; he never spoke a word again for the rest of his life.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
God's House
It is said that it is better heard from the person herself, the story, how it really went.
But I was in the dark for a long time, so this story is not what I would call mine.
My husband is gay, I knew it before he did, I just never knew the things he did with how he was until it is too late. I am HIV positive and the virus will become AIDS in a few months. My body is giving out and I can’t do anything to stop it.
Today is my husband, Johnson’s funeral. He was a practicing homosexual, unbeknownst to me. I have nothing against it, I just wish he left me out of it.
They say you can’t die of AIDS anymore, not in this day and age, but I am among the few who are not lucky enough to respond to treatment. There are a number of us who’ve been left out because people thought AIDs is no longer a public health threat.
But it is. I exhausted my insurance and my life savings trying to get better. When I die I will be buried in a pauper’s grave because all I have left is the shirt on my back and grocery coupons to get me by.
I heard it said once that HIV is God’s way of cleaning house. That He sent it to the human race to wipe out homosexuals. I cried when I heard that, because I was diagnosed at that time and I wasn’t homosexual. I was an accomplished woman, a loving wife and mother, someone society would be proud of.
But my dreams went kaput because the man I trusted wasn’t totally honest with me. He treated my trust like a trivial toy, something that can be assigned value or denigrated without thought for the person who bequeathed it.
Upon his death, I learned he had twelve affairs behind my back in the five years we were married. I dread to know the number of his one night stands.
So am I part of the scum God wants to be rid of by letting HIV infect the human race?
I don’t want to think so. I believe in the benevolence of God. I believe I am the collateral damage of a person’s bad choices. I just wish Johnson was honest with himself, but most of all me. Had he been so, I don’t think he would’ve needed to sneak behind my back and tell me lies, but most of all pull the wool over my eyes so that I wasn’t able to make informed choices for myself.
I wish he was honest about what he wanted in his personal and sex lives. I wish he was man enough to admit that monogamy bored him, that he wanted variety so at least he’d have found likeminded people, people who don’t mind risking their entire lives for a few minutes of sexual pleasure. I wish he didn’t have to involve the sanctity of marriage and the security and health of other people in his twisted decisions.
Had he been up front about what he really wanted, I wouldn’t be in the poor house unable to take care of my three children, who will be orphaned within the year.
I don’t believe, as I die, that God is cleaning house. I am dying because a man was too selfish to accept how different he is from other people and was too much of a coward to admit this difference.
But I was in the dark for a long time, so this story is not what I would call mine.
My husband is gay, I knew it before he did, I just never knew the things he did with how he was until it is too late. I am HIV positive and the virus will become AIDS in a few months. My body is giving out and I can’t do anything to stop it.
Today is my husband, Johnson’s funeral. He was a practicing homosexual, unbeknownst to me. I have nothing against it, I just wish he left me out of it.
They say you can’t die of AIDS anymore, not in this day and age, but I am among the few who are not lucky enough to respond to treatment. There are a number of us who’ve been left out because people thought AIDs is no longer a public health threat.
But it is. I exhausted my insurance and my life savings trying to get better. When I die I will be buried in a pauper’s grave because all I have left is the shirt on my back and grocery coupons to get me by.
I heard it said once that HIV is God’s way of cleaning house. That He sent it to the human race to wipe out homosexuals. I cried when I heard that, because I was diagnosed at that time and I wasn’t homosexual. I was an accomplished woman, a loving wife and mother, someone society would be proud of.
But my dreams went kaput because the man I trusted wasn’t totally honest with me. He treated my trust like a trivial toy, something that can be assigned value or denigrated without thought for the person who bequeathed it.
Upon his death, I learned he had twelve affairs behind my back in the five years we were married. I dread to know the number of his one night stands.
So am I part of the scum God wants to be rid of by letting HIV infect the human race?
I don’t want to think so. I believe in the benevolence of God. I believe I am the collateral damage of a person’s bad choices. I just wish Johnson was honest with himself, but most of all me. Had he been so, I don’t think he would’ve needed to sneak behind my back and tell me lies, but most of all pull the wool over my eyes so that I wasn’t able to make informed choices for myself.
I wish he was honest about what he wanted in his personal and sex lives. I wish he was man enough to admit that monogamy bored him, that he wanted variety so at least he’d have found likeminded people, people who don’t mind risking their entire lives for a few minutes of sexual pleasure. I wish he didn’t have to involve the sanctity of marriage and the security and health of other people in his twisted decisions.
Had he been up front about what he really wanted, I wouldn’t be in the poor house unable to take care of my three children, who will be orphaned within the year.
I don’t believe, as I die, that God is cleaning house. I am dying because a man was too selfish to accept how different he is from other people and was too much of a coward to admit this difference.
A myth
In the sorrow of solitude
I write invisible letters
Send them through the sea
Wait for the sun to burn
Infinity into a capsule
Held captive by these
Lonely hands
Imagine my breath
Upon your breath
Building enigmas
And conundrums
With hands intertwined
You are never mine
As long as I am yours
This belonging
A one way street
A cul-de-sac
A dead end
A flower in my hair
Fed by fires
Too weak to consume
Your spirit
A portent of heaven
My tongue
The staff to your serpent
It is Biblical
The way this love is pure
Untouched by ego
Fortified by desire
When will you be mine
The stars dared to answer
I dared not listen.
I write invisible letters
Send them through the sea
Wait for the sun to burn
Infinity into a capsule
Held captive by these
Lonely hands
Imagine my breath
Upon your breath
Building enigmas
And conundrums
With hands intertwined
You are never mine
As long as I am yours
This belonging
A one way street
A cul-de-sac
A dead end
A flower in my hair
Fed by fires
Too weak to consume
Your spirit
A portent of heaven
My tongue
The staff to your serpent
It is Biblical
The way this love is pure
Untouched by ego
Fortified by desire
When will you be mine
The stars dared to answer
I dared not listen.
Wonder
It would’ve been better had she heard it from me.
Joanna’s death, it was unexpected but it was no surprise for those of us who knew her.
She suffered from liver cirrhosis because she was an alcoholic, she had her first drink at age five and never looked back. It was a crazy life but nobody told her so, and if somebody did I doubt if she would’ve listened.
I was her cleaning lady. It broke my heart to see her life so cluttered with the unnecessary pain she brought upon herself, all the while unable to perceive her own brilliance.
Joanna’s parents died young and they left her an estate that though modest, provided adequately for her modest needs. Unfortunately alcohol was a huge part of it. She’d have toast with gin and tonic at breakfast at age nineteen, the year I started working for her, and end her day with vodka. There was a lot of wine and rum and whiskey in between.
She did not listen, never listened to anyone. Maybe that was her problem.
During her lucid moments she scribbled, scribbled a lot. And she wrote good shit.
One day while I was cleaning her townhouse, Joanna’s accountant came knocking. He was alarmed by the rate she was burning away her modest fortune. He asked me if I knew if Joanna knew how to make a living. I told him she wrote in the times she wasn’t drinking. I gave him the notebooks that I organized according to date. The accountant said he knew a book editor, he could show her Joanna’s work.
By the time she was thirty, Joanna was a millionaire many times over. Only I never told her for fear that she might use her money for her further descent into depravity. Some of her work was turned into movies and plays and she got invitations to join the glitterati in their lavish parties.
I never passed them on. As she was, Joanna was already a handful. I did not want to imagine how she would be with bad influences in her life.
At 43, she kicked the bucket. I found her in the living room clutching a gallon bottle of gin in her death. I wonder now, if she knew people admired her work, would it have made a difference to her? If she knew just how much her mind was appreciated, would it have given her a sense of purpose? Would she have found her direction?
And I wonder: should it have been me who had the courage to help her find out?
I guess I’ll never know.
Joanna’s death, it was unexpected but it was no surprise for those of us who knew her.
She suffered from liver cirrhosis because she was an alcoholic, she had her first drink at age five and never looked back. It was a crazy life but nobody told her so, and if somebody did I doubt if she would’ve listened.
I was her cleaning lady. It broke my heart to see her life so cluttered with the unnecessary pain she brought upon herself, all the while unable to perceive her own brilliance.
Joanna’s parents died young and they left her an estate that though modest, provided adequately for her modest needs. Unfortunately alcohol was a huge part of it. She’d have toast with gin and tonic at breakfast at age nineteen, the year I started working for her, and end her day with vodka. There was a lot of wine and rum and whiskey in between.
She did not listen, never listened to anyone. Maybe that was her problem.
During her lucid moments she scribbled, scribbled a lot. And she wrote good shit.
One day while I was cleaning her townhouse, Joanna’s accountant came knocking. He was alarmed by the rate she was burning away her modest fortune. He asked me if I knew if Joanna knew how to make a living. I told him she wrote in the times she wasn’t drinking. I gave him the notebooks that I organized according to date. The accountant said he knew a book editor, he could show her Joanna’s work.
By the time she was thirty, Joanna was a millionaire many times over. Only I never told her for fear that she might use her money for her further descent into depravity. Some of her work was turned into movies and plays and she got invitations to join the glitterati in their lavish parties.
I never passed them on. As she was, Joanna was already a handful. I did not want to imagine how she would be with bad influences in her life.
At 43, she kicked the bucket. I found her in the living room clutching a gallon bottle of gin in her death. I wonder now, if she knew people admired her work, would it have made a difference to her? If she knew just how much her mind was appreciated, would it have given her a sense of purpose? Would she have found her direction?
And I wonder: should it have been me who had the courage to help her find out?
I guess I’ll never know.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Pit
I get the heebie jeebies just thinking about it.
Eating a mango pit, imagining its rough fibre on my tongue is enough to make me pee in fear. But I have to because I want to impress this boy from the poor side of town.
His mother is what is euphemistically referred to as a “cultural dancer” who works in Japan, his Dad is a married Japanese auto executive who doesn’t want to acknowledge him because it would cost a pretty penny to pay for his upkeep.
His mom was in Japan that summer. I met him through the boys in the neighborhood that I play basketball with in the afternoons. Some of them were his schoolmates.
My Dad brought home sweet mangoes that he buys from an export firm where we supply T-shirts manufactured in our factory. Yuji (that’s the boy’s name) thought it abominable to leave out the pit in the consumption of the mango.
So I will eat the pit of my mango, even if it kills me. I was serious, I put on my game face. He was equally serious, like he was watching to see if I would pass a test.
I took a bite. It was horrible. I spit out the flesh into the kitchen sink.
Yuji was holding a glass of water. He got some from the fridge for me. My twelve year old heart skipped a beat.
“Your friends told me you don’t eat mango pits. Don’t ever do anything to please anyone again, no matter how much you like them,” he said, his fourteen year old face sombre.
That’s what I tell our three kids now, twenty years later.
Eating a mango pit, imagining its rough fibre on my tongue is enough to make me pee in fear. But I have to because I want to impress this boy from the poor side of town.
His mother is what is euphemistically referred to as a “cultural dancer” who works in Japan, his Dad is a married Japanese auto executive who doesn’t want to acknowledge him because it would cost a pretty penny to pay for his upkeep.
His mom was in Japan that summer. I met him through the boys in the neighborhood that I play basketball with in the afternoons. Some of them were his schoolmates.
My Dad brought home sweet mangoes that he buys from an export firm where we supply T-shirts manufactured in our factory. Yuji (that’s the boy’s name) thought it abominable to leave out the pit in the consumption of the mango.
So I will eat the pit of my mango, even if it kills me. I was serious, I put on my game face. He was equally serious, like he was watching to see if I would pass a test.
I took a bite. It was horrible. I spit out the flesh into the kitchen sink.
Yuji was holding a glass of water. He got some from the fridge for me. My twelve year old heart skipped a beat.
“Your friends told me you don’t eat mango pits. Don’t ever do anything to please anyone again, no matter how much you like them,” he said, his fourteen year old face sombre.
That’s what I tell our three kids now, twenty years later.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Detour
I didn’t feel like writing that day.
I was lachrymose and my nose and eyes were red from crying all night. This breakup was dragging on too long. He’d say goodbye, then ask to come back, then decide he didn’t want to be with me again. Then come back and so on. I put a stop to it, finally last night. I sent him a final text message: “you hurt me for long enough. I can only take so much. I don’t want you to come back.” Then got another cell phone number.
It’s over, finally. I can go into the moving on part now. But I don’t want to. I was still hurting and my pain became my best friend. I coddled it these six months when I was in limbo. And I couldn’t find a way out.
I called my Dad. I asked for two weeks off from work. I didn’t yet know what to do with all that time so I called my Dad. He always had a trick up his sleeve, especially to cheer me up.
My Dad is as unorthodox you can get. He always encouraged me to be my own person, maybe because he comes from a family whose roots can be traced back to the 17th century. It is filled with men and women who were powerful in the time and place they occupied. He thought dereliction of duty was the ultimate self expression: the abandonment of the welfare of the collective to pursue one’s happiness was something he always wanted to do but was never able to because of his position in society.
I, on the other hand, am a bastard child born in secret away from the public eye. He lived vicariously through me. This meant childhood could’ve been an anarchic adventure except I was placed in the care of my mother’s strict sister who was a stickler for rules and convention. You can imagine what a mind fuck it was for me having to make up my mind on who to be.
So I call him up when I want to do something crazy. Last time I was depressed he asked his Japanese friends to take me on a hot air balloon race up north even when it wasn’t hot air balloon season in my part of the world.
He picked up after the first ring, like he always does. He doesn’t know about my boyfriend, who technically wasn’t because he never acknowledged me as his girlfriend in the first place. At least I hope Dad doesn’t know.
“Hello sweetheart! I was calling you last night. Your number wasn’t working. Why’d you change numbers?” Did I mention? Scotland Yard works for him.
“I got a combination Charlie last night,” I said trying to hold back my tears and my snot. Combination Charlie is our code for boy trouble.
“Bummer, darling. Want to fly up here? Snow’s not bad.”
“I’m okay Dad. I just need help. I’m stuck in a rut. I’ve been trying to move on from this boy I broke up with. He left me in limbo for six months, now I’m a mess,” I let go finally. I felt for the box of tissues on the bed behind me.
“Hmm. Moving on problems, eh? Daddy prescribes a trip to Scotland so you can meet handsome young golfers. You know if you let me set you up with a duke or viscount you wouldn’t have this problem,” I can tell he was grinning. He knows how much I hate English aristocrats. Being with them suffocates me. I caught up with the levity.
“Come on. Mom can do better than that. Why are you distracted? Do you have another minor in your boudoir?” I teased. I felt better just hearing his voice. It’s sad we had to live in opposite sides of the world. But I suddenly realized why he’s the first person I call when I’m knee deep in shit. He gives me the courage to do what I feel is best for myself. He never tells me what to do.
He laughed his rich, deep laugh. “I have a dozen of them here; taking turns to give me a lap dance.” Then silence. “You know I know you know what you need to do right?”
“Yeah. I’m just being a coward. So you know?” I knew the answer even before I asked the question.
“Yes. You know I won’t let just anybody come near you, don’t you? I love you very much and I won’t let just anybody take advantage of your sweet nature.”
I felt mad, a little rebellious but he had a point. It was a sore point between us, his snooping into my private life.
“Know what? I’ll never have a love life because of you. I might as well enter the nunnery, at least there I get brownie points for my bloody chastity,” I almost yelled.
He laughed. “Don’t worry poppet. There’s someone there who wants to meet you. I don’t know how he made the connection but he knows you’re my daughter. Why don’t we all have coffee at your favorite bistro next week? I’ll fly over. Now, don’t say no. Just be fair and don’t go out with him because you’re on the rebound. He’s worth more than that.”
My acquiescence was like the last molar taken out from my mouth: it came out with a lot of resistance.
Dad picked me up from my digs late Saturday afternoon to go to my favorite bistro a stone’s throw from the central business district.
I knew who he was the moment I set eyes on him. He never approached me before but our paths must have crossed a thousand times already. I knew him from work and even when I wasn’t working I’d see him. He’s a prominent businessman in this country and I get the hijinks thinking of him. The news about the annulment of his marriage to a socialite was all over the society pages last year. I always admired him. I just never had the guts to come up to him and say so.
His salt and pepper hair was neatly groomed and his horn rimmed glasses could not hide the sparkle in his beautiful brown eyes. My knees literally went weak when he smiled.
Our eyes met.
I smiled and held out my hand, muttered my name and sent a prayer of gratitude to heaven: “Thank you for letting me get lost so I can be found.”
And I concede. Daddy knows best.
I was lachrymose and my nose and eyes were red from crying all night. This breakup was dragging on too long. He’d say goodbye, then ask to come back, then decide he didn’t want to be with me again. Then come back and so on. I put a stop to it, finally last night. I sent him a final text message: “you hurt me for long enough. I can only take so much. I don’t want you to come back.” Then got another cell phone number.
It’s over, finally. I can go into the moving on part now. But I don’t want to. I was still hurting and my pain became my best friend. I coddled it these six months when I was in limbo. And I couldn’t find a way out.
I called my Dad. I asked for two weeks off from work. I didn’t yet know what to do with all that time so I called my Dad. He always had a trick up his sleeve, especially to cheer me up.
My Dad is as unorthodox you can get. He always encouraged me to be my own person, maybe because he comes from a family whose roots can be traced back to the 17th century. It is filled with men and women who were powerful in the time and place they occupied. He thought dereliction of duty was the ultimate self expression: the abandonment of the welfare of the collective to pursue one’s happiness was something he always wanted to do but was never able to because of his position in society.
I, on the other hand, am a bastard child born in secret away from the public eye. He lived vicariously through me. This meant childhood could’ve been an anarchic adventure except I was placed in the care of my mother’s strict sister who was a stickler for rules and convention. You can imagine what a mind fuck it was for me having to make up my mind on who to be.
So I call him up when I want to do something crazy. Last time I was depressed he asked his Japanese friends to take me on a hot air balloon race up north even when it wasn’t hot air balloon season in my part of the world.
He picked up after the first ring, like he always does. He doesn’t know about my boyfriend, who technically wasn’t because he never acknowledged me as his girlfriend in the first place. At least I hope Dad doesn’t know.
“Hello sweetheart! I was calling you last night. Your number wasn’t working. Why’d you change numbers?” Did I mention? Scotland Yard works for him.
“I got a combination Charlie last night,” I said trying to hold back my tears and my snot. Combination Charlie is our code for boy trouble.
“Bummer, darling. Want to fly up here? Snow’s not bad.”
“I’m okay Dad. I just need help. I’m stuck in a rut. I’ve been trying to move on from this boy I broke up with. He left me in limbo for six months, now I’m a mess,” I let go finally. I felt for the box of tissues on the bed behind me.
“Hmm. Moving on problems, eh? Daddy prescribes a trip to Scotland so you can meet handsome young golfers. You know if you let me set you up with a duke or viscount you wouldn’t have this problem,” I can tell he was grinning. He knows how much I hate English aristocrats. Being with them suffocates me. I caught up with the levity.
“Come on. Mom can do better than that. Why are you distracted? Do you have another minor in your boudoir?” I teased. I felt better just hearing his voice. It’s sad we had to live in opposite sides of the world. But I suddenly realized why he’s the first person I call when I’m knee deep in shit. He gives me the courage to do what I feel is best for myself. He never tells me what to do.
He laughed his rich, deep laugh. “I have a dozen of them here; taking turns to give me a lap dance.” Then silence. “You know I know you know what you need to do right?”
“Yeah. I’m just being a coward. So you know?” I knew the answer even before I asked the question.
“Yes. You know I won’t let just anybody come near you, don’t you? I love you very much and I won’t let just anybody take advantage of your sweet nature.”
I felt mad, a little rebellious but he had a point. It was a sore point between us, his snooping into my private life.
“Know what? I’ll never have a love life because of you. I might as well enter the nunnery, at least there I get brownie points for my bloody chastity,” I almost yelled.
He laughed. “Don’t worry poppet. There’s someone there who wants to meet you. I don’t know how he made the connection but he knows you’re my daughter. Why don’t we all have coffee at your favorite bistro next week? I’ll fly over. Now, don’t say no. Just be fair and don’t go out with him because you’re on the rebound. He’s worth more than that.”
My acquiescence was like the last molar taken out from my mouth: it came out with a lot of resistance.
Dad picked me up from my digs late Saturday afternoon to go to my favorite bistro a stone’s throw from the central business district.
I knew who he was the moment I set eyes on him. He never approached me before but our paths must have crossed a thousand times already. I knew him from work and even when I wasn’t working I’d see him. He’s a prominent businessman in this country and I get the hijinks thinking of him. The news about the annulment of his marriage to a socialite was all over the society pages last year. I always admired him. I just never had the guts to come up to him and say so.
His salt and pepper hair was neatly groomed and his horn rimmed glasses could not hide the sparkle in his beautiful brown eyes. My knees literally went weak when he smiled.
Our eyes met.
I smiled and held out my hand, muttered my name and sent a prayer of gratitude to heaven: “Thank you for letting me get lost so I can be found.”
And I concede. Daddy knows best.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Darkness
I seek out the dark
Even as I fear it the most
A prisoner of my father’s fears
I have spent these years
In a self made cage
Impenetrable and sweet
In its predictability
In dark closets I hide
The space between coats and cloaks
My heartbeat, my breath
I hide to hide
The shameless tears
Trapped in a self
No longer familiar
The saline falls
And stains the wood
With my pain.
Even as I fear it the most
A prisoner of my father’s fears
I have spent these years
In a self made cage
Impenetrable and sweet
In its predictability
In dark closets I hide
The space between coats and cloaks
My heartbeat, my breath
I hide to hide
The shameless tears
Trapped in a self
No longer familiar
The saline falls
And stains the wood
With my pain.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)