Musings of a melancholic.

‘…I’m the hero of this story, I don’t need to be saved…’ – Regina Spektor.

Give me life.

Leave me out in the cold and watch in disinterest as my blood freezes over.

Drag my carcass along these crowded streets, I am your trophy, your conquest, the spoils of your war with yourself.

Let my tears wash the dust off your feet from your sojourns to lay with your other lovers.

Let my pain be the stole you drape over your pride. Coax it out of me, weave it into your ornate tapestry.

This path is so lonely and the crumbs you leave for me to follow are so few and far between, I grow faint from wanting you.

Bleed me into your chalice, take my blood willing poured out for your fascination, for all my other orifices have fed it and it stays unsated.

Seed me with your discord and let me wage war against myself, both factions eager to please your ever fickle whim.

You know how I crave it, the shudder that runs through me when you smile, yet you make me fast, and offer frown after frown.

Stigmata, my wrists bear the marks of my devotion, dismissed with a flick of yours.

The corners of this room are too small, I cannot crawl in and hide from you and this dark that threatens to swallow me.

Cowed and disgraced, with ashen head, I come again to worship at the altar, to abase myself for your merriment.

Pilgrimages to the height of devotion, tumbling down in an avalanche of rejection. Delusional, I dust my bloody knees and hands, and begin the crawl again.

Memories are fickle things, you can’t choose which ones stay bright and vibrant, and which ones fade away.

Suppress your childhood with a deviant youth, wipe the slate clean, discard old pictures, burn them in a pile and start again.

Crawl into your pod with gangly legs and bug eyes, and crawl out, beautiful, the past is forgotten once you’re beautiful.

Win your battles with a smile and legs spread apart, but never stand up for they will see the welts and the ridges the unforgiving earth has scored on your back.

Fall in love with a shaman, lay down with a mystic, cut out your heart and offer it freely, for it will be gone by the morning anyway.

Stood still waiting for love to come and swoop me off my feet. But my soles grew roots and sank into the earth. My bones calcified and my skin cracked, and now I watch silently. This is how trees are born.

She offered her veil, peeled it off her back and placed it in my hands, but alas her eyes welled with tears, for it was a shroud.

And I sat and listened as you regaled tales of you and your others and I wilted like a wallflower behind my smile.

You trapped me, a painting in your cave, covered in dust, never touched only admired. And your hands found their way into the orifices of bazaar whores.

I wonder why I bother, the door is closed, but I still bang with now bloodied hands, and plead for entry.

While I was asleep the caravan moved on, I awoke to sand and the desert wind. It swept away your footprints, prevented me from following

Arms twisted around each other as my body sways in time to the discordant drums. This voice calls to the wild within me.

One more time, and I’ll succumb to you sweet slumber…

(Photo credits : @weird_oo)

 

This Is What Makes Us Girls

The smell of hair getting singed is one of the smells Lola can’t forget from that day, that and the stench from the pits of the skinny man with long white nails that straightened out her mulatto hair as Bibi and Francine giggled behind her. She winced each time the harried man took a chunk of hair and slid the straightening iron too close to her scalp and the girls giggled some more.
“Told you to take a puff of that weed but you didn’t listen.”
Lola glared at them from the mirror and they hushed. Bibi continued painting her toe nails with the bottle of black polish she’d picked off the pedicure table. Lola frowned, they both knew Bibi wouldn’t return it when she was done. Lola closed her eyes and tried to rationalise why she was here, in this salon, straightening out her hair even though it was against school rules. A real party, with boys in university, smart intellectual boys in Henley shirts and sweater vests, not the sagging juvenile brats in her prep school who only wanted to feel her up during the idiotic movie nights where they always showed some mindless action movie with no surmisable plot. She’d always wanted her first kiss to be with someone who knew what he was doing. If she played her cards right…
“Done!” The man announced from behind her and pulled off the cape that protected her uniform with a flourish.
Francine slunk off the couch she was perched on, put her arms around the stylist, planted a coy kiss on his cheek and pretended not to notice as his hands snaked down to her buttocks. Bibi screwed shut her bottle of nail polish and ushered Lola into the adjacent bathroom with a polythene bag.
“Don’t worry, he won’t peek. Fran has him occupied.” said Bibi when she noticed the apprehension on Lola’s face.
Lola shut the bolt on the bathroom door behind her and emptied out the contents of the bag onto the top of the porcelain tank of the water system. A plaid shirt which was suspiciously two sizes too small, grey shorts and a pair of tar platform T-bars. She pulled her shift dress uniform over her head, uncinching the belt that gave it some sort of structure before hand and dressed quickly, pulling on the shorts and heels first before buttoning the shirt over her black lacy bra. It stretched uncomfortably over her bust so she undid the top two buttons and pulled the bottom two into a knot, exposing her belly.
She gave herself a quick look in the mirror after stuffing her clothes the bag and stopped in her tracks. The girl in the mirror looked nearly a decade older, with straight black hair that fell down her back and mocha skin that complemented green eyes, the expertly done make up and the suggestive clothes aging her. Her hand instinctively smoothed down the little strands that were already beginning to fray. There was no turning back now.

———————————–

The cab stopped in front of monstrous edifice that dwarfed everything that surrounded it. They’d wound through dirt roads and a rickety bridge that was over a creek to get here. He was waiting for them outside the gate with a curlicued motif, hands dug deep into his trouser pockets. He smiled and shook her hand, smiling even wider as she flushed visibly. He was handsome, almost pretty even, clean shaven with unblemished skin and thick black eyebrows that framed his doe eyes. It was a task for her to look him squarely without blushing let alone ask his name, but he gave it anyways. Kay, he said. Bibi led the way into the house, snatching a marijuana blunt from one of the boys who leant against the high fence ‘getting air’. Lola was assaulted by the sweat and something baser as Kay led her into the throng of bodies that revelled to the Afro pop that blared off the speakers. She tried to hide her disappointment, she’d been expecting something more civil, more like the soirees the socialites threw on Gossip Girl. She reminded herself to keep an open mind. Kay drew her close and whispered into her ear, asking if she minded that he’d put his hands around her waist. She instinctively looked down and shook her head sheepishly and tickled him with her hair, drawing out a laugh that was quickly drowned in all the noise around them.
He danced slowly, coaxing her out of her shell, letting her meld into him and find her sensuality as she turned and closed her eyes as their hips achieved a seductive synchrony in time to Rayce’s Roll. His hands roved and she let him, it felt so good, his hands were nimble but so powerful. Lola’s lids flew open as a hand closed around her wrist and tugged. It was Fran.
“I’ll bring her back, I promise.” She mouthed as an apology. Kay shrugged.
“Why did you do that?” Lola asked.
Fran rolled her eyes. “He isn’t running away, besides there’s fun to be had, apart from you burying your ass in his groin.”
And fun was the state of the art bar that was built into the left wall of the living space. Bibi was already atop it, clumsily attempting a liquor fueled strip tease to appreciative whistling of cheering boys. Fran and Lola quickly climbed and joined her, channelling their favorite singers as they dipped and rolled their hips, teasing their appreciative audience. The cat calls fed their exhibitionism and Lola closed her eyes and touched herself seductively, her hands playfully simulating her deepest fantasies. Her fingers had slipped into her shirt and had begun to undo the top button when the music came to an abrupt end and broke her trance. She awkwardly scrambled down the table top, whispering a little prayer of thanks as she noticed Kay’s outstretched arm offered to help her down.
“Thanks.”
“De nada.”
“It’s stuffy here, can we go somewhere quiet?”

————————————————–

“It’s really weird.”
“What is?” Kay asked as he shut the door to the guest bedroom behind him.
“I just expected that a party full of undergrads would be less…”
“Rowdy?” Kay offered. He’d come to sit beside Lola.
She rubbed her sweaty palms on her shirt and twirled a finger through her slightly damp hair. She nodded sheepishly and drew a little closer to him. If he noticed he showed no emotion.
“Many of the undergrads there are first years. The older ones are too bored or too jaded to bother with an afternoon party.”
He drew a little closer, till her exposed thigh was practically flush against the silky fabric of his cashmere slacks. She felt his fingertips leave moist imprints on the nape of her neck and in one experienced swoop, he scooped her hair and poured it over her other shoulder, leaving her decollete bare. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled on her neck, making her shiver before calming her with airy kisses. He puts his hand on her cheek and sook her eyes with his, riveting her as his lower lip found the crevice between hers. She sucked gently, instinct taking over, its softness fascinating her. She crawled on top of Kay and settled on his groin and began to slowly roll her hips and tease him as her tongue savored the sweetness of his cider flavored mouth. She tugged at the ends of his shirt tucked into his pants and he raised his hands and let her pull it over his head and discard it on the carpeted floor. His hands travelled up from her cheeks into her nest of hair and tightened around clumps making her slightly light headed. She almost didn’t notice.

Lola’s hands went into her blouse and undid the clasp of her strapless bra underneath and absently found it a place next to Kay’s shirt. Kay smiled and buried his face in her mounds, gently teasing her and sucking on the supple skin as she arched her back out to meet him and held onto his neck for support. Kay’s other hand dug into the hem of her shorts and played with them as his mouth found one of her areolas and his teeth grazed on the hardened knob. She felt herself flush in unmentionable places and her nails dug into his back eliciting the first guttural moan from him.

He pulled her close and nibbled on her ear before whispering,
“Do you know what I want?”
“What?” Lola replied huskily, eyes shut in anticipation.
“I want you to slap me.”
Lola froze.
“What?” She whispered incredulously.
Kay laughed nervously. “It’s a fetish I have. I like getting hit by girls, it arouses me. The harder you slap me around the hornier I get.”
“Ugh! Fucking perv!!!” Lola cursed and scrambled off him, grabbed her shoes and back pedalled out of the room, leaving behind her bra and a stunned shirtless undergraduate.

—————————————————

The moisten laden gusts of wind caressed Lola’s neck, awakening the tingling where Kay’s hands had been less than a hour ago. She’d walked down to the highway on her own, after she’d searched the party for Bibi and Fran and couldn’t find them. They were probably in some of the other bedrooms slapping up their boyfriends or what else these creepy boys got aroused by nowadays. She scoffed and tried to stave off the tears that threatened to leak and spoil what was left of her mascara, she wasn’t going to cry, not about something this ridiculous. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander, the straps of her heels intertwined between her fingers and the warm tarmac under her barefeet her anchors to reality.

Honk! Honk!

A sleek SUV with a green stripe motif had pulled up beside her. The side window slid down and Kay leaned over, an embarrassed grin lighting up his oval face.
“I’m sorry about what happened earlier, that was inappropriate.
“Will you at least let me make it up to you by driving you back to school?”

 

Nerina Promo Interview for Year Of The Wolf

Nerina’s promo interview for her new album year of the wolf. so wry and funny. lol

Interview: Nerina Pallot »

“I’M NOT CHERYL COLE!”

Nerina Pallot’s Put Your Hands Up is, hands down (pun partially-intended), one of this year’s best singles. Don’t argue, Planet Notion is unanimous in that. And to continue a promotion-heavy few months in support of the song’s parent album, Year of the Wolf, Nerina is currently touring the UK before going back to do some more song-writing.

Here, Doron Davidson-Vidavski chats to her about politics, unreleased hits-in-the-making, her latest role as a coach on a German talent show and writing songs for Kylie Minogue.

Planet Notion: You’ve just come back from a couple of weeks in Berlin working on the German version of talent-scouting show, THE VOICE. What did you have to do on the show?

Nerina Pallot: I don’t know what they call it in the American version of the show but in Germany I am what is referred to as a Dream Team member. Basically, I am an assistant coach to the other main judges so I’m doing what Sia did with Christina Aguilera. But I’m assisting Rea Garvey, who’s a German singer. He’s just put a solo album out in Germany and my husband [music producer, Andy Chatterley] produced it.

PN: You’re doing a national tour at the moment. What’s your favourite song to play live?

NP: So mean!! What a question… [laughs]

PN: Ok, ok, so is there a song that you can pull out of the bag as a surefire crowd-pleaser?

NP: There’s “Sophia” which I think is a lot of people’s favourite song. And although it wasn’t as big a hit as “Everybody’s Gone to War”, it seems to be the song that has made my live following. The song that I feel Ihave to play before I settle into a show is “Idaho”. I know that if I play that then all will be well in the world.

PN: “IDAHO” is considered by many to be one of your career highlights, yet you didn’t release it as a single. Are you prepared to acknowledge the error of your ways?

NP: Umm… you know what? I do sometimes wonder why we didn’t release it but I think it would never have done anything at radio. It would have just confused people. I do think, as a song, it probably sums me up as an artist more than any of the singles that have been released. The singles are often different beasts from the records they come from.

PN: Wolfie, your son, has recently celebrated his first birthday. How did your dogs, Maggie and Audrey, react to his arrival and are they all best buds?

NP: Do you know what? They’ve always taken to him and he loves them. And now he’s very robust with other dogs, which is great, because he’s not remotely scared of dogs. They all get on famously.

PN: To celebrate your album release earlier this year, you did 4 web-casts, playing all your records live in their entirety over 4 consecutive nights. Was it strange re-visiting some of the old songs?

NP: Yeah and in the run up to that idea I started to really dread it. I was putting off learning my very first album because I was so young when I wrote some of those songs, so it’s a bit like looking at naked baby photos. I actually enjoyed it more than I thought I would and found some of the songs strangely predictive, which I obviously didn’t realise they would be at the time that I wrote them. I have learnt a lot of things about song-writing from the mistakes I’ve made. Well, not mistakes but, you know… I used to be so naïve about song-writing.

PN: Before “Year of the Wolf” you self-released a limited-edition EP called “Skeleton Key”, which had one of your poppier and most-instant tracks, “Break Up At the Disco“, on it. Will it ever get a wider release?

NP: I don’t know. I think of it as a lost song that Boney M, ABBA and Will Young had never done. I’d love for someone else to do it. It’s very Eurovision-y. But the subject matter is a bit odd because it’s basically a song about finding out that your boyfriend actually likes boys and not girls. And then he is having a mini-breakdown about trying to come out of the closet. So because it’s such a specific song it might not work on a more mainstream level and that’s why I saved it for that EP.

PN: You’ve done some backing vocals on the new BRIGHT LIGHT BRIGHT LIGHT album. What was he like to work with?

NP: I love working with Rod – he’s awesome. I’m a big, big fan of his. It’s always fun working together and we inevitably end up having conversations about completely random things. And I’m also going to be working on an EP that he’s doing later on this year.

PN: Have you ever tried to ‘break’ the American market? Is that something that interests you?

NP: I would say that “Fires” [her second album from 2005] is definitely my attempt to get an American release – I have never had an album released there. But, you know, I was living there at the time and I was working with, pretty much, only American people so that was my attempt… and it failed. I think America’s really different. They’re too busy trying to break hip-hop acts and fetuses so I think it’s safe to say that I will never have a record out in America.

PN: You’ve famously written songs for other artists like Kylie Minogue and Diana Vickers. Is it a different process when you write for or with other people?

NP: I’m not very good with going into a room to write with people. I mean, I’ve tried it with everyone I’ve worked with – sat down and attempted to write a song together and I’m just useless. They always end up taking a song that I’ve already written [as Kylie did with her single “Better Than Today”]. My husband is the only other person I can write with. I’ll go away, write and come up with an idea. And Andy will say to me “that bit’s good; that’s too much; let’s get rid of that”. I do my mad stuff and he knows how to make it concise. Other than that, I get very self-conscious about writing when I’m in the room with someone else.

PN: Your “Like It’s 1987″ version of Put Your Hands Up was done for and recorded by Kylie for her “Aphrodite” album. True or false?

NP: Well, my very first version of the song committed to record was the “Like It’s 1987” mix. And I wrote that around the time of working with Kylie but they already had a song called “Put Your Hands Up” which Starsmith did with her, so they didn’t want two songs with the same title on the record. We played it to her, obviously, because it was so poptastic – we thought it would be silly not to. I think when we did the production we were sort of looking at it as an ‘homage’ to Kylie but the brief for the Kylie album was not that. The brief was totally different.

PN: And, originally, the intention was for another song altogether to be the first single from your own current album…

NP: Yes. It was a song called Kevin Spacey. It’s about that moment in “American Beauty” when he’s dying and his life flashes before his eyes. And that sense of claiming yourself now because you really have no idea when your number is going to be up. But it’s so different that I don’t think I can release it. It’s like a skater-rock song. A bit of a cross between Beck’s Loser and Avril Lavigne’s Sk8r Boi. At this point I don’t see how it can be a Nerina Pallot song, although it obviously is. But every year I write a song that’s got nothing to do with the rest of the stuff I’m doing.

PN: On some of your songs, you can be quite politically-outspoken. “English” is an instance in point, where you wrote a perfect 3-minute anti-BNP manifesto. What’s next on your song-writing political agenda?

NP: There’s lots of things that make my jaw drop, politically, at the moment. I still think sexism is alive and well more than ever because women don’t even realise that what they’re calling girl power and feminism is, in fact, sexism dressed up to be more palatable for birds. But I fear that people just aren’t listening anymore. They don’t care.

PN: What do you normally do after finishing a live show?

NP: These days, I sit backstage for a bit and maybe have a little wine and some chocolate and then I go and say hello to my fans. I would then probably look at the clock and think to myself – well, I’d better get back home before the babysitter runs out.

PN: What’s more likely to be the next Pallot product – a new album or a new baby?

NP: A new album.

PN: Can you say anything more about that?

NP: No, because I haven’t written a song for a year! So, actually, the next Pallot product will be writing some songs.

PN: Would you do a pop album, proper?

NP: Pop for me are songs that totally go for the jugular. I would describe my music as pop but I come at it from the old-school direction because I don’t fit in as a pop artist. You know, I’m not Cheryl Cole, I’m not all-singing all-dancing. But I very much grew up on pop music. Alanis’ Jagged Little Pill is one of the best selling pop albums but it was done in a rock way. So, for me it’s where the songs are at. You can be alternative but still be pop at the same time.

 

DAMASCUS

I’m going to do something I’ve never done before. I stumbled upon a brilliant short memoir about one of most favorite and inspired songs by one of my favorite singers, Nerina Pallot and I just had to put it up. It’s all hers and none of mine. and maybe after you read, you’ll understand just a little bit why I love her so much. Enjoy.

 

 

Damascus

The first ghetto blaster I ever had was a purchase made by mother at the Duty Free Kiosk of Damascus airport circa 1981. This was during the wilderness period when my Dad was flitting around and frequently banished to the spare room. When she finally got exasperated enough, my mother would call her friend who worked in a cupboard of a bucket shop travel agent off the Edgware Road and book us tickets to India, supposedly on an aeroplane, but I am convinced we might have got there quicker on a cargo boat. Perhaps it is her adventurous spirit (this is a woman who has moved entire continents not once, but twice in her life), perhaps a deeply ingrained sense of thrift, or smart realisation that only an airline that allowed people to take chickens on board would allow her the overweight baggage filled with Marks and Spencer’s soap and knickers for her family; whatever, but Ma and I became fully paid up members of the Syrian Arab frequent flyers club. Hey, we probably even shared some of our home made sandwiches with Osama on one of those trips and didn’t realise.

 

Rules were this: we eat before we get on the plane, and there were to be no trips to the toilet more than 3 hours after take-off. (I won’t go into the details, but any veterans of cheap travel to Asia and the Middle East in the 1970s and 80s will nod their heads knowingly. Flying Syrian Arab or Biman qualifies you for a badge of honour, and blatant disregard for life.) My mother would case the bathrooms at the various airport stops along the way (Frankfurt – the Ritz, Muscat – stay on the plane!, Dubai – not too long, mummy wants to go to the shops, Damascus – close your eyes and don’t touch anything.) Now, when folks moan about an 8 hour non-stop flight on Virgin, with those dinky little tellies and free ear plugs and slippers, I can’t help but think them ungrateful gits. They should try an internal Indian Airlines flight where the entire over head compartment came crashing down on landing, nearly decapitating fifty percent of the passengers; or being told upon entry to Tehran airport that ‘our landing gear may not have come down…um, you might want to lean forward with your hands over your head….’

 

After a few of these trips, I came to see them as an adventure. It is a tribute to my mother who never yelled or looked downtrodden like most parents at airports, and, once I was spread-eagled occupying both her seat and mine, would see if the new young mum in  the row ahead might need a hand with her little ones too. She is the lady who always has a spare change of clothing, would never let her mascara run, even in a monsoon, and whose bottomless pit of a handbag somehow always has something yummy on which to nibble. She has done all this, and in heels, not Birkenstocks. I do not believe she has ever owned a rucksack, either.  Insisting that I keep a travel journal at all times, she became my part time histiographer, geographer and Michael Palin, all at the same time.

 

I had a dim recollection of Saul and his trip to the dustbowl I could see beneath me from the window, but I had yet to grasp the concept of conversion. Precocious I may have been, but this was beyond a kid still in kindergarten, even if that kid was me. I especially liked the bit about the flash of light, and being blinded, and then waking up and changing everything from his name to his occupation.

 

‘Mummy, what’s a conversion?’

‘It’s a change from one thing to another, sometimes dramatic and forever.’

‘Mummy, what does it mean to “see the light”?’

‘It means that everything was all wrong before, and now it will all be ok.’

Wow. I looked out of the window again. Could stuff like this really happen among those minarets and reservoirs and telephone lines and dusty palms that grew larger and larger as the plane descended? Wow. Well, I figured that if my Dad was to finally get his divorce and marry my Mum, if she was to have the other kids she would secretly cry over on the phone to her sister, thinking I wasn’t listening, if I was to stop being a geek and get a pony and be popular, if our heating was ever going to work in the winter – it was going to be here; here, this place was going to fix us all forever. Everything was wrong, and now it would all be ok.

Maybe everything was not quite bad enough, as we only came away from Damascus with a ghetto blaster.

We go to Damascus all the time. A spa weekend in the Cotswolds. A month in the Betty Ford clinic. Joining Scientology. A luxury break for two in Paris, as if the most romantic city in the world will make a bad marriage a better one. It only makes the chasm between passion and indifference all the more apparent, everything that is wrong magnified a thousand times against the first flush of desire on the couple at the table opposite on the Place des Vosges. An overdose of beauty is the cruelest way to see the deficit in your own life. Hanging on desperately, wanting to love in the way that mystery urges us to, but familiarity will no longer allow. Hanging on, becoming bits of each other, but the bits we love the least. Hanging on, month after month, year after year, when the sorcery of sex no longer weaves its spell and we run a film in our head to manage the real one we are living. What happens when we change, but not for the good of those we have loved so intensely once before? Envy the actor, who has lost all sense of himself and can play the role required, yet still believes he is his own authentic self.

In the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf in Santa Monica, fittingly on one of those rare days when it rains in Los Angeles, I stirred my tea, bit my lip, and realised that I still knew who I was. Paul must have remembered Saul, dreamt of his last life, the weight of silver and the perfume of whores, even after the momentary darkness disorientated him so. Even if I didn’t like myself a lot of the time, even if this had been my pathetic attempt to make up for my wrongdoings by loving as much as I could and long after was healthy for either of us, that little voice was still there, louder now, and reminding me that I could die before a conversion that might never come, and that had in all probability taken place already. Furious, in the way you can only be with those you care for so deeply, I drove back to my hotel, and reminded myself that hell, like Damascus, is here, now, and it is other people’s hearts.

 

The Carrier

In honor of World Poetry day, I’ll put up one of my oldest poems, inspired by personal faith amongst other things. It’s titled the carrier. Enjoy.

THE CARRIER.

Mesmerised by the view I sat,
legs folded to my chest arms wrapped around my legs
I sat and I stared for minutes
hours even enthralled at the cyans and the magnetas
the sunset yellows and royal purples
Every tribe was there it seemed to me
the brooding indian girls
constantly rewrapping saris around their frail torsos
The flashing redheaded vikings
swords used as a wedge for their flapping kilts
The apprehensive mandarins in kimonos
their slitted eyes furrowed in contemplation
Peals of laughter from the the Yoruba women
who gossiped as they shared steaming bowls of fufu
The eclectic Masai tribesmen almost
naked with spears eyes alert ready to strike
The Aborigines covered in layers of dust from their trek

At first when the spectacle began
We had only seen Jews in tassels and beards
looking condescendingly at everyone else
But then when we really looked we saw everyone else
And we were amazed at how quickly word spread of the carrier
even we too had heard and come to see
Quickly too we noticed bags at the feet of the multitude
Some gilded and sequined others mere bundled up rags
though different in appearance
all carried the same burdens
Everyone had brought their bags for the carrier

When the time finally came and the carrier passed
Unimaginable the load he carried
He had a cross on his back and on it
a net as far and long as the width of the earth
as he passed the people threw their bags at him
some fell on to his cross and stuck
others to the net below
some were simply relieved
to be rid of their gilded burdens
Others silently shed tears
thankful to their silent saviour
The carrier trudged on
his smile almost rueful
and as he passed I looked down
saw my own little bag of burdens
small and unseemingly
picked my bag, tried to add to the heap
But my fingers failed me
Shame overwhelmed me
and I thought to myself
I will not be like all the others
I will carry my burdens
and endure what was my due

The carrier stopped
he turned sensing my dilemma
He smiled patiently waiting for me to see
And in his smile I realized
the burden was not mine to carry
It had become his burdens
Which he would gladly bear
I gave up my burden not to the carrier
But to my friend who had come
just for me!

The Jews looked away in disgust
They would never be as cowardly as the world was
They would carry their burdens hanging from their tassels
Their burdens the heaviest of all

 

An Eulogy

An eulogy for the one that left without saying goodbye

There are tears to be shed
For the one whose eyes are forever shut
Whose fingernails grow even though her skin rots
Whose tongue swells with words she’ll never say
Whose limbs are heavy with the weight of the world

There are accusations to be flung
At the father who left before she came
At the mother who put herself before all
At the friends who saw her spiral and never said a word
At the lover who smothered her with his love
At her for not being strong

There are worse things than death
Sorrow that eats at your sanity
Grief that numbs you to humanity
Depression that ties you to your bed
Hope that is tantalizingly close but just out of your reach

So put on your black dress
Fill your neck with pearls
wear your shiny court shoes
Walk in the mud of the graveyard
Atop the heads of other already lain
Sob aloud and blow into your tissues
Dab your eyes and your cheeks
Stand there and reminisce

 

You, Me and Dopamine

Reblogged from A Point of View:

Until recently I was certain that my coffee addiction was nothing more than a filthy habit.  A terrible vice I ought to consider torturing myself into giving up. People had said all sorts of things, how my two cups of indulgence a day (at least) would likely lead to fertility problems, or permanent halitosis or scaly skin. I usually listened to these protestations whilst sipping from a cup, nodding without conviction.

Read more… 584 more words

I love this

 

The Valentine Post

This post celebrates Valentine’s day, which is about love, I promised Jennifer a story and I deliver, this was an unfinished tale and I finally decided to share. I guess the best stories are spun from real events and this one’s no exception. Today’s post is in honor of Jennifer @drealgenie and inspired by Paternak.

THE ONE THAT GETS AWAY.

You hold me without touch,
You keep me without chains,
Never wanted anything so much,
Than to drown in your love,
and not feel your pain…
Sara Bareilles – Gravity.

Nathan is taking forever again. The street is chilly from the harmattan and standing in the cold in my dress and this flimsy shirt was a bad idea. I really didn’t think this through. I can feel the cold creeping in and I don’t recognize this part of town. I almost contemplated walking back to school before but now I’m glad I didn’t. I’d have frozen to death or worse, caught pneumonia. I feel a little bad for Frank or Fred. I’m not really sure about his name; I just know it starts with an F. I’d be really worried too if the girl I brought home wasn’t there when I woke up. I just hope he doesn’t remember my face, he thought we had a connection. I seriously don’t need another guy walking up to me, accusing me of leaving without even saying goodbye.
Nathan pulls up. He drives a Volkswagen Beetle which he has spent the last two years customizing. The noisy engine is gone and he’s replaced the metal roof with one of those retractable thingies. Black matt paint and graffiti complements the internal improvements. Nath’s t-shirt is inside out and his glasses are only slightly askew and he is fuming.
“I cant believe the kind of idiotic things I do for you.” He says as I get in. “I had to stop twice for directions.”
“Sorry, the guy was supposed to drop me off in the morning.”
“And you bailed on this one, again.” Nathan concludes.
“Its 2am, and I’m cold and this is not the place for another lecture.” I reply pre-emptively.
I can tell Nathan wants to vent. He glares at me but starts the car anyway. We drive in silence; his shoulders hunched forward, eyes focused firmly on the road while I stare at my lap and twiddle the edge of the oversize dress shirt. If either of us makes eye contact right now, the words will flow and we’ll probably say things we don’t mean. The unspoken rule of our friendship has always been that we never tell each other about what happens in our private lives, we’re both intensely private people and our friendship is simpler this way. That is part of the reason I have never told him I’m in love with him.
Nath and I have always had a complicated relationship, he is emotionally unavailable and I am attracted to him because he doesn’t want me. But we keep appearances and pretend not see the tension underneath. He has become my plumb, setting me straight when I flirt with destructive behavior and I, the only girl who accommodates his anti-social behavior. Two emotional cripples latching onto each other, afraid to stand alone.

Nathan drives past the school’s main gate and I smile inwardly. He isn’t mad enough to drop me off to find my way to the hostel. I’ve only been to his house twice before and I secretly wish he’s taking me there. We drive to his house in Hanwa and I wait in the car while he goes out to open the gate. We push the car in, him steering with one hand. The landlord doesn’t take too nicely to having his sleep disturbed, that we’ve had to learn the hard way. The self contained apartment Nathan lives in is blissfully warm and I shrug off the shirt onto his couch and kick off my espadrilles. Nathan frowns disapprovingly and arranges my shoes properly by the door.
He asks if I want anything and I ask for a mug of cocoa. He makes for the kitchen and turns on the electric kettle. He turns on his stereo system while we wait for the water to boil. The Alanis Morrissette song ‘Not The Doctor’ starts up from where it was last played. Nathan nods his head to the angsty, angry, pro-feminist music. Sometimes I wonder how he is sometimes so grounded. All the music he listens to is about loss and pain and heartbreak. You’d think all that would mean nothing but here he is, life imitating art; quiet, sullen and obliging to my every mood.
He asks for the details of my latest misadventure and I summarize, skimming over the messy and uneccessary parts. Nath listens quietly and nods where appropriate but I know he’s tired of hearing this story repeated over and over, cloaked in different guises. He tries to hide his disapproval but he’s always been a bad actor. I see it in the way his back is ramrod straight and how his lips quiver, brimming with the words he really wants to say. I hurry to finish my story and pretend I dont see that he is disgusted with me. He leaves me in the living room and goes to make the cocoa. I go to his bedroom and pull off my dress and pull on one of Nathan’s t-shirts. There’s a big legend on the front, something about love being a mirage; something about it being so ironically appropriate appeals to me. I go back to the living room and watch him negotiate his way around the kitchen. He is mumbling to himself, probably trying to find the best way to tell me what he thinks of me. I brace myself for the lecture I’m sure is coming. Nathan sits and hands me my cup. He’s made two cups of coffee instead of one of cocoa. I start to bring this to attention but he shushes me.
“I made coffee, because we’ll be up for a long time.”
“Nathan, I can’t deal with another pyscho-analysis of my self destructive behaviour.” I groan.
His smile is rueful. “No lectures I promise. I just want to tell you a story, the one I should have told you the day we met, or the day I first realized you were special to me.”
I want to protest but he puts a trembling finger to his lips.
“Promise me you wont interrupt, that you’ll just listen.”
I don’t want to but I see how hard this is for him so I nod. Nath usually isn’t like this, he always has a sharp retort or a witty remark, he’s never this serious or sombre. He looks me straight in the eye and begins his tale.

“There’s this boy who is the first of three children. Both his parents are university professors. His mother’s an English professor and his father majors in human anthropology. They met fresh out of postgraduate school and had a torrid affair which unfortunately resulted in his mother getting pregnant out of wedlock. His father is pro-life and his mother is pro-choice so his very existence was only because his mother threatened to have him removed if his father didn’t marry her and leave a fellowship at an American University to be with her. So even before he was born, this boy had cost both his parents their dreams. He was born three months after his parents married and they named him Nathan. Even when he was little, Nathan was precocious and painfully empathic. He could sense that beneath the veneer of domesticity, his parents despised each other. He always knew he was the glue that held them together so he tried to please them in every way. He read twice as hard, took care of himself so they didn’t have to and tried to make them love each other. But the more he tried, the more he became a pawn in their unspoken war against each other. Eventually, he began to withdraw into himself.
“He was a small for his age and he never did anything fun or interesting and he spoke like an adult so other children hated him. They bullied and taunted him incessantly, beat him up and stole his food. Nathan couldn’t tell his parents what happened to him every day at school because they were never home. There was always a meeting or a thesis or scripts or a lecture that was more important than him. When he turned seven, both his parents became professors and decided to try for another child. They were overjoyed when his mother became pregnant six months later and had twins; a boy and a girl. Taiye and Alexis were lavished attention, while his parents ignored him, the one thing that had kept them together when everything else had fallen apart. So Nathan acted out in school and got into fights.”
Nathan stopped to sip his coffee. I felt mine, it had gone cold. I hadn’t even sipped it once. He cleared his throat and continued.
“His parents were appalled at his behaviour so they pulled him out of his former posh school where their colleagues children went and put him in a public school where he was even more out of place. Their justification; to teach him a lesson. The bullying became more violent and severe as Nathan tried to win his parents favour back total obedience to school rules. When he was twelve, he crossed the class bully who beat him so badly after school that he broke two ribs. Nathan crawled home, coughing up blood and his parents weren’t there. They’d taken the twins to a departmental dinner. Nathan’s parents found him on the floor in the living room, in shock, drooling blood and spit. He spent a month in the hospital with a bruised lung and broken ribs.
“After that his parents withdrew him from school and got him a private tutor to home-school him. They were embarrassed by him. Nathan spent hour after hour alone with nothing to do and nowhere to go. He didn’t have a television, his parents didn’t believe in commercialized entertainment. Nathan’s thoughts turned to suicide; all he wanted to do was end it. Maybe his parents would notice when he was gone. He tried to slit his wrists when he was thirteen but he couldn’t get himself to cut deep enough. He tried to hang himself but the ceilings of their generic staff duplex were too low and he’d grown too tall. He became a recluse, a hermit. A sad little thing, on the fringes.”
Nathan shakes his head as if to clear it of the melancholy.
“Then he discovered music. It gave him catharsis, a way to express his sadness, his solitude, his pain. The deeper he delved, the more release he felt. It gave him a sense of identity and shapes the person he is today. His parents can afford to give him anything he asks for now, and they rush to satisfy his every whim. They still don’t ‘see’ him, but he’s learned to live with that. But he knows inspite of all your troubles, you see him as a man, someone you can depend on, and he loves you for it ”
I am numbed by this. I’ve begged him many times to tell me about himself and each time, he’s wriggled out of it. Nathan has many friends but he is always guarded around them. I am beyond surprised that he would tell me any of this. He’s broken all our rules. Nath takes away my cup of coffee. As he comes close I notice he is watching for my reaction. I put my hands around him and try to meld him into myself, share just a little of what he’s gone through. I’d thought I was the only one who life had been unfair to but his life makes mine seem so petty. Nathan lets me hang on for as long as he’d dare and lets go when it becomes too much for him.
“Jennifer, I know something happened to you, something so bad you just want to numb it with all these guys that pass through your life, but I’m here and I don’t want to use you, I just want to listen.”
Even though I know he’ll never betray me, I make him promise me on the pain of death he’ll never tell anyone what I tell him. And I tell him, everything. The words come hesitantly at first, like a small crack widening in a failed dam, trickling out of me till it becomes a deluge. I tell him about my father dying, about my mother, about Nnaemeka and Nnamdi. I tell him about my friends and how I always feel the need to bury my problems and be strong for them. I tell him about my first time, my pregnancy and giving Luke up for adoption. I tell him about the guilt I feel towards my ex Tade, about my bouts of depression. But most of what I tell him revolves around Tade; our fights, his betrayals, my betrayals, Tade’s mother and my fear that I’ll never be able to set things straight with him. I tell him about Luke; my son, my guilt about the decision I made to give him up, the constant second guessing that tortures on me when I see other teenage mothers taking care of the their kids, my worries if he’s been treated well by his foster parents. How I wake up somedays unsure if I really had Luke or if I just dreamt up the whole thing. And as I finish, my mouth is dry and my head is heavy but my heart is light. Nathan puts a finger to my cheek and it comes back wet. I hadn’t realized I was crying. Nath’s cheeks are wet too and he is doing nothing to stem the trickle of tears.
“You have a son.” He says in wonder. “How you found the strength to live after all that astounds me. You are the most amazing person I know.”
He crosses the space between us in a second, and his lips find mine. His kiss is dewy like the petals of a freshly cut orchid. I try to kiss him back but he stays me.
“I have loved you from the first day I saw you, sitting alone atop the architecture studio, watching me with a smirk on your face as I fumed because my Nirvana CD broke.”
I’m surprised he even remembers. So many times I’d dreamed about him saying the words, but this is even better than my silly daydreams. He touches my cheek tenatively, as if to draw my attention back to him.
“But I’ve seen that every man in your life has wanted you for what you could give them. But I don’t want to be one of those guys who share your bed and nothing else, so let me love you, don’t reciprocate.”
Frustration wells up in me and I want to scream. He actually loves me. For two years I’d hidden my feelings for him, because I thought he didn’t feel the same and he’s loved me all this time. I can’t understand why now that we have nothing to hide, he wont even try. Against my every impulse of self preservation, I voice my confusion to him.
“Maryann, we are two fractured souls.” He says. “I don’t think I am ready or able to give you the kind of selfless love you need to heal you, or me. If we were to date, we’d end up destroying each other.”
“But we have to try.” I beg. “We know what we’re getting into. We can make it work.”
Nathan sighs. He’s resigned but resolute. “I’ve had a long time to consider this, and no matter how I rationalise it, you end up hurt. I’d rather you are hurt because we never happened than because we did.”
Thoughts swirl through my head. Negative, irrational thoughts that I know aren’t true, logical or even cohesive and I entertain them, and just as I want to do something stupid, he says the unexpected thing.
“Jenny, tomorrow my resolve will be stronger and my honor will force to keep to my vow, but for tonight, fuck it all!”
He reaches for me and in seconds my shirt is off, discarded in a heap along with his. He is surprisingly muscular. I gingerly remove his glasses and drop on a nearby stool, his eyes are the brown of dark chocolate and I am drawn to the longing within them. He kisses me with an urgency that matches and surpasses mine. My fingers trace the welts on his wrists and on his ribs. The mementos of his troubled past. He is so close, his breath warms my cheeks and we are recycling each other’s air. This kind of vulnerability was what Tade took from me and Nathan’s helped me claim it back. I kiss the faint line of rope burns on his throat and he returns with kisses on my eyelids and my navel. He explores my lips slowly, sensually; he isnt in a hurry. I am at ease with him in a way I have never felt before. It is the ease that comes when you know the one you want, wants you. Every move is deliberate yet spontaneous and all together wonderful. It comes naturally and we bask in the afterglow. We lie side by side on his couch till morning comes, I don’t sleep, I just soak up the moment.
As the first light stream in through the slits in the curtains and bathes the room in a warm glow, I unfurl his hands around my waist and tiptoe to his room. He is so peaceful on the couch, part of me wants to go back and join him but I push away the thought. I slip on my dress and my overshirt and make for the door. I decide not to shut the door behind me when I go , I’ll leave it ajar. The significance of this I know Nathan will obviously see. The door in our relationship will always be ajar, discreetly withdrawn till he’s comfortable enough to want more. I want to leave because his honor endears him to me and I dont want his resolve to falter. Hope wells up in me and I cant help the little sashaying that creeps into my step as I walk. As I touch the knob, Nath calls to me. He wasn’t asleep after all.
“Dont be like this Jennifer.” He says.
“We’ve made our choices.” I say, trying for the right words to convey my thoughts. “I just didn’t want this morning to be… awkward.”
“It isn’t going to be.” His voice is much closer this time. It would be cowardly to still leave so I turn to him, one hand still on the knob incase my resolve falters and I need to make a quick exit. He is as close as politeness will allow and he has that rigid look he gets when he’s made an uncomfortable decision he intends to see through. Part of me secretly gloats at how accurately I can read him. He reaches for my hand and clasps it firmly. He hesitates, its obvious he still struggles with what ever decisions he’s made.
“I’ve had a long time to think about this, and I see that I’ve been selfish. I didn’t want to hurt you so much that I am shutting you out.
“I want this as much as you do. It is a risk but I’ve taken worse risks to do things that only brought me pain. I just want to try happiness, just for a little while.”
I dont wait for him to continue. I just fling my arms around him and pull him to myself. For what seems like ages we just stand there, not talking, not moving, just being. Nath knows just how I feel. In this second, for the first time in four years there are absolutely no thoughts of Tade lurking in my head, stirring up guilt and sadness. I am truly happy.

 

Playing At War

A little Christian poem I wrote a while back. Enjoy.

PLAYING AT WAR!

like a malicious creature, you scratch at my soul
stripping it off, swallowing it up
You poison my mind
unwinding my cocoon of reason with steady hands
hoping to find me vulnerable
fearing that the transformation may already
be complete and that your
spiteful plans be laid to waste

You try to imprison me with bars of guilt
poking through armour with slivers of doubt
jarred by my tenacity, spurred by my vulnerability
you push, kick, scratch and claw
you fight me day and night
hoping to be the author of my destruction

We play these winding games
You strike, I parry and return
You evade and attempt to strike again
We fight for prize
You, for your father’s will
I, for my promised crown
You are his vassal, It is my future
I will be your undoing

I will hold on, remain strong
Till the end of it all
and victory will be mine for
I fight not alone but
with the hosts of the sons of God
and the strength of the arm of heaven

Oh Self, manifestation of flesh
I must fight you because
you are tainted by sin
mortal and flawed and doomed for
destruction with your father Beelzebub

When the battle is won
my soul will take flight
and rise to meet my master
the risen christ!

 

Melange

I hate memories. They are like little ticket stubs sitting in a corner of your wallet, fading slowly. At first they are bright and black, the dark ink gleaming against the stark whiteness of the fragile ricepaper. Soon they begin to turn grey as they dig their way deeper and deeper, covered by receipts and bills and passport photographs and one day you’re absently looking for something else and stumble upon them and you can barely make out the title of the movie you saw, etched in a watery sans serif script.

It’s been almost a month since we laid side by side, gazing into each other’s eyes and closing them briefly as our lips met. You tasted of anticipation and trepidation and the tang of residual floss. I couldn’t get enough of your quirky honesty and your melange of emotions. I peeked a couple of times cos I hated rules and stared at your lashes, black and thick, like the synthetic bristles on a hairbrush. I noticed as your eyelids fluttered and stopped half way between opening as you fought your own urges to peek and I laughed. I laughed a lot then, partly because I was happy and my happiness bubbles into expression and partly because I kept remembering how awkward we were barely ten minutes ago, sitting opposite each other trying not to seem desperate to each other. Even how I came to you was funny, we were still so polite, asking if I could touch you and closing my eyes the first time because it was expected during a first kiss.

We talked a lot, in little throaty whispers like we were amateur actors auditioning for a silent film and we still had to make the mouth movements but somehow ensure that sounds didnt come out. Words flowed before a kiss, you starting sentences and feeding the ends into my mouth. We talked after a kiss, coating your palate with words and letting the residue escape my moist tongue. And we talked during kisses, murmuring unintelligble drivel from the sides of our mouths as our tongues danced a languid tango. All the casual conversations we’d suppressed, too tense to explore because of the friction that grown between us flowed freely and we giggled between my teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck as we bantered about my little goth perversions and how you could never get your internet to work inspite of how many times you’d called the snotty guy on the customer care line. It was so effortless, part of me wanted to just capture the moment, seal it in amber, never let it go.

I let you put your hands over my eyes and I remember you pressing down a little too hard and disorienting me slightly, my glasses on the table beside me, within reach if I needed them. I panicked a little, years of shortsightedness and the claustrophobia it fosters rose to the surface. You didnt seem to notice my discomfort, you’d gotten into the role and it was liberating you from your docile self so I indulged the voices in my head, feeding the terror into the pyres of passion. A red scarf to cover my eyes, hands tied away so I could only smell the pheromones and follow the rustle of your shirt against your skin. And your lips tasted richer, cos I couldn’t see them. Each touch was a surprise cos I couldn’t anticipate them. Freed of the burden of having to lead you, I enjoyed you.

I am already forgetting the texture of your virgin hair as I ran my fingers through them, what songs were playing in the background, how your fingers felt as you caressed my stubble. I am forgetting how the world seemed so far away in that moment and how three hours seemed to compress into fifteen minutes. I am forgetting how your tongue felt, melting against mine like a chocolate sponge cake and snaking forward and darting away like curious fingerlings in an aquarium. I’m forgetting your moans, high and nasally, mocking the journey they made from deep within your diaphragm as it heaved in response to me. Like that ticket, the sharpness of each individual act of intimacy is blurring into the bland routine of the day it happened, losing starkness till I have to squint to remember each single detail. This is why I long for you, to have you here beside me, on this couch, so I can recreate the memories as they age, repeating each tilt of the head, each intertwining of our fingers till, they are pressed into my psyche like a still photograph, forever perfect, made only better by age. Just so you know, next time, we’re making a video.