Delibes - The Flower Duet

Mallika
Under the dense canopy
Where the white jasmine
Blends with the rose
On the flowering bank
Laughing at the morning
Come, let us drift down together

Let us gently glide along
With the enchanting flow
Of the fleeing current
On the rippling surface
With a lazy hand
Let us reach the shore
Where the source sleeps
And the bird sings

Under the dense canopy
Under the white jasmine
Let us drift down together

Lakmé
Thick dome of jasmine
Blends with the rose
Bank of fresh morning flowers
We call together
Ah! Glide along
The fleeing current
On the rippling surface
With a lazy hand
Reach the shore
The bird sings, the bird, the bird sings
Thick dome, white jasmine
We call together

Lady Moon

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.

Are you not tired with rolling and never
Resting to sleep?
Why look so pale, and so sad, as for ever
Wishing to weep?

Ask me not this, little child, if you love me;
You are to bold;
I mist obey my dear Father above me,
And do as I'm told.

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you roving?
Over the sea.
Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are you loving?
All that love me.

Richard Monckton Milnes

L'amour est un oiseau rebelle

(spoken intro) When will I love you?
Good Lord, I don't know,
Maybe never, maybe tomorrow.
But not today, that's for sure.
(sung) Love is a rebellious bird
that nobody can tame,
and you can call him (although it is) quite in vain,
because it suits him not to come.
Nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer.
One man talks well, the other, silent;
but it's the other that I prefer.
He says nothing, but he pleases me.
Oh, love! Love! Love! Love!
Carmen: Love is a gypsy's child,
it has never known the law;
if you love me not, then I love you;
if I love you, you'd best beware! (You'd best beware!)
if you love me not,
if you love me not, then I love you (You'd best beware!)
but if I love you,
if I love you, you'd best beware!
The bird you hoped to catch
beat its wings and flew away ...
love stays away, you wait and wait;
when least expected, there it is!
All around you, swift, swift,
it comes, goes, then it returns ...
you think you hold it fast, it flees
you think you're free, it holds you fast.
Oh, love! Love! Love! Love!
Carmen: Love is a gypsy's child,
it has never known the law;
if you love me not, then I love you;
if I love you, you'd best beware! (You'd best beware!)
if you love me not,
if you love me not, then I love you (You'd best beware!)
but if I love you,
if I love you, you'd best beware!
Choir:Love is a gypsy's child,
it has never known the law;
if you love me not, then I love you;
if I love you, you'd best beware! (You'd best beware!)
Carmen: if you love me not,
if you love me not, then I love you (You'd best beware!)
but if I love you,
if I love you, you'd best beware


My favourite aria. If I listened to it instead of playing it for you I would have known. It goes without saying I suppose that you were my favourite Aria.

Pop

And then after feelings of elation, time has its way with my hallucinations. Eventually all of the optimism that spins vigorously in my brain comes to settle when there is no warmth to keep the molecules moving. I'm here alone. There's really no shaking the idea - the fact! - that I am here alone. I did not move to anything. I did not see something I wanted and now I'm closer to it. I'm further from it than I've ever been in my life. I'm further from you, but even worse I'm further from the idea of you.

Never: Never is a hard word to swallow. Every morning I wake up and I pry myself out of bed with the word never. You told someone else forever, which means you told me never. I pry myself up by saying "Today you will not feel her love, she will not hug you, she will not kiss you, she will not drive to your house, she will not say she's rethinking this whole thing, she will not tell you anything beyond pity and sympathy. She will quietly repeat a percentage of your feelings that she too feels, for fear that you might here it and want more. She will loudly remind you that at times she felt a larger percentage of what you feel, for fear that you might resent her for misleading you. She's done misleading you. She has no more for you, she's done. She's always done. Time for you to start. Get up. Get up."

You remind him everytime he's back here that he has you forever, and I feel it. I know I feel it everytime you remind him that he won. My life was his game, and he won at my life. I don't even know how to feel mad about that, because getting back to the point, I don't know what it is I have left to go for. I am here alone.

I go to potlucks to get asked if I'm seeing anyone yet. They only ask me now to see if I'd be interested in dating their friends. When my coupled friends have finished succeeding in playing cupid for themselves they benevolently offer to refocus my arrows for me. I go to dinners to get asked what I'm doing for New Years. Nobody believes me when I say I'm bringing my friend with me to new york that she's just a friend. They attack me across the table to ask if I'm going to make a move. They all nod in agreement that this must be the only reason. I must have desperate written on my face, since she has a boyfriend. They don't realize she's the only person who has maintained an objective ear for me in my own problems, other than Amrit.

I go to parking lots to tell one girl that I think she's a great person but I can't honestly see us together. I wish you were the only reason why not. I'm pissed off enough to move on hastily to an even bigger problem, but I don't have feelings for her beyond today and tonight. She made me realize that when she looked in my eyes and said "Is work the only reason why you think we wouldn't work?"

I go to movie bedrooms to tell another girl, absolutely nothing. I don't have to say anything before she tells me that despite the fact that I'm all she has, she doesn't think I have any affection for her, just pity. I wish affection was an organic fuel and it built upon itself. My tank has been more than half empty for her since before you, before Cherine, before Larah, the last 3 girls who showed me love. I wish having affection for me was reciprocal, that I could turn it into affection for her, but I just named 3 reasons why it is not: I don't trust anyone's feelings for me are sustainable anymore. No matter how hard I try, and no matter how hard I try to not try. Plus, she's a reason unto herself: Slowly I think she's coming to the realization that what she wants is marriage or a committed relationship, and the security that comes with that. I am the round peg that she could cram into that square hole. She knows I've been tenderized and am normally soft enough to be stuffed. She doesn't realize, just like you don't realize, why I need to be hard. She'll always think that it's something against her, and I will always be the first to witness how much my firmness insults her.

I'm done being firm. I'm done being soft. I'm done pretending any of this is part of a plan with a defined result of happiness. At night in my dreams I hear them all laughing at me, and then I walk into the office, or to dinners, and potlucks, and for some reason they are still smirking. How could it possibly be so funny? I'm away from all of their eyes now so I don't have to pretend that I'm working on anything anymore. I'm not working on me. I have a week to find out if there's anything to me outside of the work I put into me. If I don't find myself by then I don't know if or when I will. I don't know where I am. the greatest thing about being with you was I felt like I was filled with helium and soaring to new places. With a bird's eye view I could search for myself everywhere. Since you left I've been trying to blow hot air into my mind keep me up there. I've blown too much fake confidence into the idea that things will get better for me. Every smile and witty progress report to friends is just more hot air.

Pop.

And yet

You said goodbye
And yet you're burdened by hellos
I withdrew my foot from your door
And yet it continues to pain me


You said no more
And yet less is to your despair
I have no time to think about this
And yet this is all there is to think about


You need silence
And yet mine rattles your ears
I lost my words
And yet yours are the ones I search for


You appear wilted
And yet you made it to December
I appear strong
And yet I died before I lived


You have everything ahead of you
And yet you need me behind you
I can't face the past
And yet my back is turned to the future


You'll be my mirror
And yet these days, there's less of me to look at
I was your carpenter
And yet you made me out of clay

Time and consumption

Timing was everything. Ours was all off. Like a full meal served in front of her when she was too full to desire it. And yet when we met she seemed to hunger for what I offered.

She never hungered for my love. She always desired his. She let mine sit there piping hot for her, while she devoured him. Bit by bit she feasted upon his flesh and left me untouched as most children do with their vegetables. No matter how I was served to her, steamed or fried, the very idea of being served what was good for her killed the appetite.

Yet when the threat of losing her entitlement to my plate approached she protested. Yearned for my vitality and even claimed she was preparing herself to consume me. So there I lay, waiting for her lips to touch me. She stuck her fork in me to let me know I was done, removed it swiftly only to press her lips against my cheek before I bled. Knowing how much I yearn to be devoured she teased me with these half bites.

She just couldn't bear the idea of seeing me bleed, to be fair. She's used to his flesh, she doesn't realize yet that my kind does not bleed. She doesn't realize that when her fork pierces me I simply multiply. What was once a single sprout is now a man torn in two, torn between leaving and staying...whichever will put me back together again.

I am not flesh. I will not give her iron. I am plain, I am simple. I need only sunshine and water to grow; or so I thought. Months of reminding her I needed her sunshine to complement the rain already within me. I was wrong. Now I realize I was wrong. There was a time when I was right, when sunshine was my complement. Now, I do not have her warmth, and so now I do not hunger for it. Now, I simply need to be returned to the soil. Under the earth I need to be reborn. I need new roots for this dissected stem. I need to grow down before I can grow up. I need to add life to this death.

Hairs (excerpt)

"...and yet they whisk gently downwards away from her hairline and towards the ground, like the branches of weeping willows: If for no other reason than to lend to her ear gentle rustlings, a transcendental harmony of sound. Indeed, above the willows lie the union of my bass and her treble: A higher love."

Painted Sky

9 o'clock hits my office window on the 5th floor with a thundering silence. Immediately my gaze fixes outside. Just about sunset, I look at the sky and see navy blue cloudbottoms in an indigo sky. It looks like a sky painted, a sky created by something more than its elements, a sky that has come together through hundreds of bonds and connections, but now stands almost still. Silent. The wind rustles through the leaves below it to give me an indication that the clouds will likely still move forward, but today I cannot see the movement. The clouds I have painted seem to loom all around my office. They're not dark clouds, nor are they rain-filled anymore. They are simply formations in front of my eyes, here for me to remember what once was a storm, but more importantly what will soon be a sunny day.

Today, tonight, I'm not looking at the deep blue clouds that I have painted in the sky. Today, tonight, I find peace in the gentle rustling of the leaves, the flickering of tiny lights from cars and airplanes, for they remind me that there comes a sunny day, and that in the meantime, there is much life to live. Now, back to work.

9:11

where are you

In the mist
In the haze
In the tulip
On the sand
In the setting sun
In the fire moon
In the morning dew

Always with me
But never here

John Hiatt

Have a little faith in me.

Every song.

The Beatles

I'm getting really into them. I watched this Duvdeh on Jon Lennon today. I wouldn't call them revolutionary thinkers, but I would say that they're very provocative. They provoke new thoughts in myself.

I've realised that some of the greatest works of art don't actually describe love (or other opaque concepts), they actually describe around love. They describe the things that touch upon love, but aren't central to it. And I used to think this wasn't good enough; this didn't do justice to the brilliance of thought that was on my mind. But now I'm starting to think, sometimes you draw a circle by colouring the inside, and sometimes you draw a circle by shading everything on the outside. But either way, if your hand is steady, a circle you will end up with. And when it comes to love, something so pure and white (or Black, black power!) do I really want to tarnish that circle by painting it with colourful words? So here's to a new way of writing in my life.

Khalil Gibran - On Love

Then said Almitra, Speak to us of Love. And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When Love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.

Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,

So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.

Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for God's sacred feast.

All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life's heart.

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.

The Prophet

Play me a song on my birthday

Why do we turn into individuals? Is it really a function of the western world? Were the people of eastern cultures born with the disposition to help their neighbours? Were they in the womb, suffering the idea that they were unable to share the umbilical chord? No. We are born as individuals. We die as individuals. My soul is not encased within my body; but it isn't incased in yours either. Everything you've done has been for you. Everything I've done has been for nothing. I am nothing.

It was hard choosing the song. It was hard choosing the song I wanted to play. Do I play the song that will just make you happy? Do I play the song that will make you happy about me? Do I play you the song that takes you back? Do I play the song that moves you forward? But never was there a shortage of songs: Never in my entire life have I known a ___ that can be described in so many songs. In fact I know that it is ___ because every ___song in the world speaks to at least one day, one feeling, one moment that we have shared. And you'd like to tell me that I shared those moments with myself, that I was alone, that you only witnessed them happen. ___ is such an ugly word, it has only brought me pain.

We are all just individuals after all. You have your feelings, and I have mine. I wish I could believe that I never influenced your feelings. I wish I could believe that you never influenced mine. But I have to admit, I've been touched. To your benefit, it seems you never were. You'll make it to the promised land, stronger than before, seemingly untouched.

When you make up a theory on the toilet, you don't expect it to come back to haunt you. In fact, that goes for anything that happens on the toilet. All the same, to be touched, is to be used. At least I know I'm useful.

Krishnamurti on the occupation of the mind (exerpt 2)

Sitting outside Square one chapters...

---

Now, can the mind be free from the past, free from thought - not from the good or bad thought? How do I find out? Can the midn be free from a thought, thought being the past? How do I find out? I can only find out by seeing what the mind is occupied with. If my mind is occupied with the good or occupied with the bad, then it is only concerned with the past, it is occupied with the past. It is not free of the past. So, what is important is to find out how the mind is occupied. If it is occupied at all, it is always occupied with the past, because all our consciousness is the past. The past is not only on the surface, but on the highest level, and the stress on the unconscious is also the past. So can the mind be free from all its occupations? Watch your minds, sirs, and you will see.

Can the mind be free from occupation? This means - can the mind be completely without being occupied, and let memory, the thoughts of good and bad, go by, without choosing? The moment the mind is occupied with one thought, good or bad, then it is concerned with the past. It is just like the mind sitting firmly on the wall watching things go by, never occupied with anything as memory, thought, whether it is good, pleasant or unpleasant - which means, the total freedom of the past, not just the particular past. If you really listen - not just merely verbally, but really, profoundly - then you will see that there is stability which is not of the mind, which is the freedom from the past.

Yet the past can never be put aside. There is a watchign of the past as it goes by, but not occupation with the past. So the midn is free to observe and not to choose. where there is choice in this movement of the river of memory, there is occupation, and the moment the mind is occupied, it is caught in the past: and when the mind is occupied with the past, it is incapable of seeing somethign real, true, new, original, uncontaminated.

A mind that is occupied with the past - the past is the whole consciousness that says, 'this is good', 'that is right', 'this is bad', 'this is mine', 'this is not mine' - can never know the Real. But the midn unoccupied can receive that which is not known, which is the unknown.

---

Wise beyond your years.

I should

There should be many other things on my mind. I should be attending to the many other things on my mind. Other things should make me happy. Who decides on all these shoulds anyhow? I'm done dealing in shoulds. Nobody every designs their own shoulds.

Right now. I'm doing what I want.

First Day

I used to be fearful of first days. On my first day, everyone would see that despite the fact that I interviewed well, there's a whole lot I don't know. Even some of the stuff I claimed to know, I'm clueless about. Some of it I'm not clueless about, but I sure will have to get better at it. Some of it I thought I was really good at, and I know I'm about to find out how wrong I was. I really hope they don't reconsider choosing me, I hope they don't think I was lying this whole time.

Now, I meet first days with a smile. It's a defense mechanism. The truth is, everyday is a first day. Everyday can be the day you realise you had the wrong approach. Or you realise that the approach you took could have been better delivered. Everyday there is an opportunity for you to learn more about yourself; it's up to you to take that suggestion openly or to bundle it with what you already think you know. The best part about first days is, if you treat them with enough respect and capitalize on those moments where someone who cares about you is actually willing to show you a gap between what you're trying to do and what you've done, the next day doesn't feel like a first day all, it feels like a second day. It feels like the day after you learned a lesson. It feels like growth, and there is no growth without change, so it feels like change.

I'll admit, sometimes when you've been so wrapped up in changing you forget that everyday is a first day. I've been pulled in 5 different directions this last year, and facing the crisis of change every morning and every night. In the winter, I was trying to get my foothold back on reality, remember who I am and what I want. But very recently I've become open again to the idea of change. In the face of utter uncertainty, my entire future is in my reach but out of my hands. I suppose it's a good thing I play so much soccer. I feel like for the last 6 months or maybe a year or maybe longer I've just been monitored; bouncing back and forth between being overlooked and over-scrutinized. I really do hope that as things progress I'll have a chance to interview.

Today was a first day for me, or rather tonight. Despite the pressure, I enjoyed the opportunity to see myself. I hope you enjoy yours in the same light.

Haiku

Alone here
You have company I think
Alone there

There I was
Daring to show you the present
In what had past

Past is back
This time colliding
With the truth

Truth in words
Words more quiet than touch
Is truth volume?

Volume up
Only to deafen me
From dying

Dying
Bringing eternity
And life too

Too many
Moments that say yes
To say no

No reason
For things to change
Or stay the same

Same mind
I believe you everyday
By my word

Word is bond
Word limits emotion
Makes room for love

Love is bond
Love limits emotion
Makes room for you

You are bound
You limit emotion
Make room for future

Future is endless
Limitless emotions
In my eyes

Classical Genius

"The genius can't help but be original. Therefore, the genius need only attempt to immitate to become original."

I went to the most marvellous symphony on saturday where this idea was shared. It was a two-part presentation where the first half of the show was dedicated towards an explanation of what makes Beethovan's music so great, and the second half was dedicated towards presenting its majesty; or at least the first 3 movements.

I realised on Saturday night I am a genius. This is how I approach life and my sacred acts. I attempt at his humour and her prose and his delivery and her receipt, but in the end, I can't help but shine my own light on everything I touch. My own unique perspective permeates the status quo, even as I exist among it. I never really enjoyed Beethovan before, and to be honest I understand now what it means to ask whether someone appreciates classical music. It's one thing to like it, I always have, but I think last night was the first time since I first picked up a clarinet and put my tongue against that fresh reed that I found a new way to truly appreciate classical music. It's between Emily, my lovely date, and I to share this newfound appreciation for now, but I can say that there is Beethovan that lives in my writing, and my ideas. And the systematic approach he used to deliver his brilliance is the final step in how I will deliver mine. To cause surprise, you must first develop an expectation. This will permeate my published approach. And to be honest, I think I spent a good part of the last 27 years developing a certain expectation. Surprise, naysayers.

Jiddu Krishnamurti On Thought

"Can thought bring about a vital change? Up to now we have relied on thought, have we not? ... And can thought fundamentally change man, change you and me? If you say it can, then you must see all of its implications - that man is a product of time, that there is nothing beyond time, and so on. So, if I am to create fundamental change in myself, can I rely on thought as an instrument to bring about that transformation? Or, can there be a fundamental change only when there is the ending of thought? My problem, then, is to experiment, to find out, and I can find out only through self-knowledge, through knowing myself, watching, being aware in the moments when I'm off guard. It is only when I begin to understand the process of my own thinking that I can find out whether or not there is the possibility of a fundamental change; until then, mere assertion that I can or cannot change is of little significance. Though we see the importance of radical change in the world and in ourselves, there is very little chance of such a change as long as we do not understand the thinker and his thought."


I came to understand this twice tonight. I listen even when I pretend not to.

Eight Years

You destroyed eight years of privacy. For eight years this was my home. Never would I think my most honest words would be used against me. I put my most precious words here in my home, against this black backdrop.

She opens my doors, and words pour out from the dark. They spring forward from the cold dark corners where I left them towards the warmth of the fire in my heart. The tiny flame that finally began to shine so brightly against the dark of my home has been exposed to the light of my greatest fear. Now our flame appears less impressive, yet still it burns. Why?

The lights are on. Exposed, my words and I are naked. Luckily I am proud of my body, of work.

Excerpt: Handshakes

So then what are your thoughts on religion?

You know, more often than not I feel like religion is a necessary custom. Call it whatever you want and practice it however you want, we all search at times for that moment when we are in touch with the universe. What does that mean? For that moment when we are not merely a part of it, but communicating directly with its fabric. Science is a religion in this sense as well.

So what does this mean as it relates to our world? Well, on the one hand, I see religion to be a universal handshake. I gesture from man to man, a sort of greeting. Where one person communicates to another person, within his mosque or temple, I too believe. I too wish to connect with the universe, in much the same way you do. Let us discuss all that God has told us. Religion has that same feeling as when you meet someone for the first time and shake hands; an agreement that you believe there is a higher order that governs us. I could just as well have met this man with a shove, a denial of the way we are supposed to treat our fellow neighbour at first contact, but I didn't. For I believe in the Father and will shake my brother's hand as I wish he will do unto me. We need handshakes, they help us come together.

On the other hand, sometimes religion to me seems a lot like a handshake. Time for a story: Perhaps I was 7 or 8 years old. I used to go over to my cousin's house on weekends, play nintendo until the headaches happened, sleep over and then go home the next morning. One weekend, my Uncle took us over to work with him, I forget why. All I could remember was that this would be my first time anywhere near a data center. Uncle introduced me to one of his employees, an IT manager or analyst. After Uncle put both of our names out in the open, a nervous man reached down to an extremely nervous boy extending his hand. I, the nervous boy, filled with a desire to introduce myself with every fibre of my being extended my hand, my left hand. As the tips of my left fingers met the tips of his right fingers, we both felt the need to switch; my need a result of embarrassment, his a result of empathy. As the tips of my right fingers met the tips of his left, we realized this gesture had now transcended formality and spilled into hilarity. What happened next stuck with me for the rest of my life. The IT manager said to me with a comforting introspection, 'You know, it's funny this has happened because I too am naturally left-handed, it must have been about 30 years now since I last shook somebody's left hand. I always thought it was a matter of respect to extend your best hand to someone whom you have just met, but over the years working with countless people, you just learn to give in and shake with your right hand only. Since we're two southpaws, why don't we just this one time shake with our lefts?' I never actually told him I was left-handed, it's maybe worth mentioning. I also never told him that he would know me with a greater depth in 1 conversation than some others will know me throughout my life.

I feel like the other half of my perspective on religion was summarized in that introduction. Religion sometimes is like a handshake, it divides man. It forces man to make a choice to follow a certain rigid custom. Not because that meaning behind that custom cannot be expressed in other ways, but merely because we are scared. Scared that if the rest of the world doesn't shake hands the way we shake hands, there will be anarchy. Anarchy, is what most religions proclaim. A world of suffering, others proclaim. A world where left hands disagree with right hands, and nobody knows what's right anymore. So we have a select few decide for us how to go about greeting our fellow man. Smiles for the man who shakes with his right; guilt, fear, dishonour, pretentious warning, even so far as death for the man who doesn't. It need not matter if he too only wished to extend his hand and introduce every fiber of his being. We get so obsessed with the custom, that the gesture behind it is lost in our anger, and in our lack of desire to simply communicate.

Personally, I was born left-handed and fortunate enough that my parents didn't beat this out of me (as was typical in their day and age). Personally, I was born philosophical and fortunate enough that my parents didn't beat this out of me (as was typical in their day and age). My parents were always more concerned that I would continue to extend my hand forward, even when they weren't there to watch, that's all that mattered. The world can try to beat me into right-handed submission: That the only way to the Father is through the church, that Allah alone speaks the truth, that heaven and earth are supported through the Dao, that there is no God, that causality alone is the comprehensive description of existence... The anarchy of the many right-handed who have created such a mess out of a seemingly flawless system of elimination. Deny all other approaches and perhaps everyone will shake in the same way, and that will cause human harmony: Centuries later, individuality survives. I shake a right hand with the best of them, I'm open to any religious text or teacher given the time to respect the accompanying lessons, I mean this wholly. But I'm naturally left-handed: I'm more concerned with the philosophy. I'm more concerned that a man's handshake is an expression of introducing himself with every fibre of his being. Where there is conflict in belief, I meet that with a laugh and a smile about how funny it is, this game of shaking hands.

What's more, I come from a culture and neighbourhood where handshakes and greetings can become very elaborate. There are many ways to say hello and goodbye with your hands where I come from. In my life, I expose myself to them all. Isn't that the point, to find new ways of extending your hand, until the very end?

Here I am

Here I am, beside her finally. Alone in my boudoir, finally hidden from the eyes. Here, there is no time; we are not bound. Here in my room there are roses which I hope she was able to smell, a music playlist I want her to hear, a massage I want her to feel, tea that I want her to taste, and a love that I want her to see. Ironic, that despite all of that, all of the sleep lost preparing this festival of the senses, it is in fact my senses that are firing. She is in remission from the night before.

Here I am, on top of her with my hands pressed against her. Hoping they could fix all of her pain and knowing that they can't. Hoping that they can offer her an escape from the pain and knowing that they can. They knead and they fold and they rub to warm and press to relax. Unsure if I have the algorithm for success, but trying all the same. At last, a gentle moan. The quietest motivation I've ever had to keep going. Keep trying to get closer, to let her sense your love. Today, however, with her quiet acquiescence and loud hesitancy, she has only opted for 25 minutes of devotion. But I shall return, for I know there is more she wishes to say without words.

Here I am, beside her finally. Laying ever still with my eyes covered. They speak too loudly and too soon for her. So I allow my lips to catch up while my eyes and the rest of me cool down. They tell her something she already knows. She doesn't need alerts and reminders, she needs rest. Thankfully her comfort is always on my agenda. So we lay. Her hand is already available for me. At last, I touch her ring finger with my index, as if to point to marriage. Her fingers extend and fold over mine, killing my fears as a venus fly trap frees its victim from eternal hunger. I am satisfied with her hand as she lays asleep. I nestle my head closer to her fingers and offer them a kiss. As my eyes dim to the rest of the room, her black nail polish shines with a small sliver of brightness, like the moon among the endless night sky. I am at rest. She is not, fidgety sleeper as she is, she moves her feet between my legs for the warmth of my body. I ask if she wishes for the covers and she denies it; she wants warmth. She turns about face and nestles her body close to mine. We are laying as 1 now. My body pressed against hers. My hands have access to her body as she sleeps, but my hands wish to take nothing that she wouldn't offer up when she was awake. They move, as before, along her torso, towards her fingers, in her hair. My face also now in her hair. Her hair strands filter the stink of the outside world where we are not yet together. When I breathe in air with my nose tucked into her hair I feel as though for the first time I have smelled oxygen. I've become intoxicated. I must move. She nustles a little bit closer to me and now my lips are pressed against the rear of her shoulder blade, which is when I open my eyes.

Here I am, peering along the far end of her shoulder blade with my eyes, as I make my way along her back with my lips. Gently, much more softly than a kiss, much more firmly than an accident, my lips make my way forward. As I peer up I realize that while her closeness has made parts of me much larger, the circumstances have made me much smaller. The small lamp in my room casts a refraction of light against her shoulder which looks as though the sun is rising against the desert sands, and I am a mere thirsty prophet, crying to cross it, my lips against the sand, thirsting for fresh juices. My eyes making contact with the image of a dark fading cherry tree, standing in the desert alone. With an energy I've never felt before I make my way towards the fruit, lip by lip, towards this oasis. But, as with any mirage, despair follows. She wakes up and says, "What time is it?"

Here I am, back to a world of time, we are once again bound. The flowers, the music, the massage oils, the tea, the painting, will all have to stay in my room this weekend. We'll have to find a way to transport them 1 by 1. Perhaps these flowers will have to stay with me forever in fact, there is no good way for me to bring them to her without risking their premature death, either in her car trunk or in her house. I will have to offer her a second chance to smell my love in the spring. It was a bit early for flowers. The tea, not her favourite. To be honest, not mine either, but it stimulates bloodflow. The playlist, good for the moment only, I still love every song on it, but I'm only in the mood to appreciate it when she's here. The massage, finished; I ought to get a bed higher off the ground if I am to really cure her with my hands. After all is said and done, now that we are back within the realm of time, she can only see my love. The painting, and my eyes, were always hers. We've planned for the rest of the day for her to see my past, so she can see exactly what roads I had to travel to get to her, and today she's willing to walk a few of those roads together with me. Thank god for the sunlight and the endless blue sky, despite the cold weather that still looms around her and I. I am looking forward to the spring.

Here I am, looking forward to the spring.

Doors

It's funny how your perspective on things can change, even when nothing inside of you has chhanged. The world alone can steal away your reference point and alter the way you approach your own existence.

When I'm in a good mood, when there is love in my heart, I can take a look at a house and see everything that's happening with it in the most positive light. I can see that while one door inside my house is now closing, another door is opening. That's just the way the world works; one door closes, another door opens. When I'm in a bad mood, when there is fear or anger in my heart, everything in the house looks like a complicated mess. One door open, and another door closes; that's the way the world works, against me.

Recently, she's been opening all of my doors. So many doors have been closed for me, and a few of them I felt I had to close on my own, but she's opened up doors within my inner psyche and opened up doors to a love I never thought was possible before.


When she's in a good mood, when there is love in her heart, she can take a look at everything that's happening within her house in the most positive light. She can see that while one door is closing for her, another door is opening. When she's in a bad mood, when there is fear or anger in her heart, everything in her house just looks like a complicated mess. One door open, and another closes; that's just the way the world works, her bad luck comes in 10s. Many doors have closed for her recently, some were closed for her, and a few she's had to close all by herself, for me.

Recently, I've been approaching her house trying to reciprocate all that she has done for me. I'm eternally greatful for all of the doors she is closing just for me - or I should say, both doors - and I will dedicate my life to opening any other door she wants me to help open. But love is not just reciprocation. I forget that, in this case, her doors were already opened. She already let someone in to her house who sullied her carpet and slammed some of her most precious doors shut. Here I am with a ring full of keys thinking all I need to do is open the doors to her most precious rooms and she'll come storming out with a hug and a kissfor me. She's a big girl, bigger than me. She'll invite me in when the carpet is clean and when the cucumber sandwiches are ready. I'm a beloved guest in her home, she doesn't want me to help clean her messes.

All the same, I hope we both open enough doors to stand in each other's corridor and realize, "It's really beautiful in here."

Words

Mine are like dynamite. If I put enough care, preparation and timing into them, they look beautiful, whisking through the sky and amazing those who came to be impressed. Otherwise, my words only destroy. Today I spent the whole day thinking I had the words to change the world and make into a better place, instead I burned the only thing that matters to me.

Graduation

Another 4 years comes to a close in a little more than a month. 4 Years ago a month from now, I was waiting for my name to be called. Finally they said, "Jamil Lumley" and I walked forward. I already knew that something big was about to happen.

Earlier in the morning, my brother showed up at UofT Convocation Hall and said, "You ready to graduate?" And I knew what he meant. See in my family we have a tradition of celebrating each successive Post-Secondary Graduation with an absolutley shocking level of immaturity. When my mom graduated from York, 10 years before, the crowd was halted by two young boys going, "Gooooooo MOM." and a 2-man wave. Amateur show. When my brother graduated from UofT 8 years before, there was some undergraduate laughter at my yelling, "Yeaaaa Boyyyyy." Good show, it was enough to have my mom give me the look. When my mom graduated from her Masters, from the University of Central Michigan, at a campus where we would never have to show our faces again, well, the responsibility fell onto my brother and I like that of convicts and civil servants during wartimes. We knew then to bring the pain. And so from our seats at the very back of the auditorium, we yelled, "Yeaaaaaaaaaaa! That's MY mommaa!! Right There" in the best American accents we could mustre, as she was handed her certificate. It was enough for my mom to give us both the look.

The morning of my graduation, my brother said to me, "You ready to graduate?" and I knew what that meant. This one was going to go down in the books. The late David Onley, previously of City TV, was our keynote speaker. I can't remember much of what he told us: Partially because I was sitting on the only wooden chair in all of Convocation Hall that had no padding (I have proof); partially because I was fresh off of my 2nd knee surgery and sitting still distressed me; and mostly because as I looked up into the rafters from behind the guest speakers I saw my brother standing there, and as he shot me a thumbs up and then proceeded to take that thumb and draw it across his neck I knew what was about to happen. An hour passed as they went from A through L. Finally they said "Jamil Lumley" and I walked forward. I already knew something big was about to happen. From the very back of the auditorium my brother yelled "WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO HERE COMES THE PAIN TRAIN!!!!" With 5000 eyes on him and 5000 eyes on me, from 5000 people in the building, I stopped dead on the podium, turned 180 degrees, and gave the leaning Deon Sanders 2 fingers to the sky and yelled, "TRIPLE T IS IN THIS!!!" The crowd erupted, apparently there are more than a few fans of Terrible Terry Tate - Office Linebacker. The head chancellor shook my hand and asked, "Do you know that man?" and I remarked, "I have no idea who he possibly could be." Then he asked, "Would you like to have him removed?" and my reply was, "My lord, could you have him killed!?" I flashed the peace sign to 2000 confused asian Management Student graduates who wondered if a photo was to be taken, and exited the building and entered the corporate world - both, through the side door.

4 years ago, I was waiting for my name to be called. Today, I cannot, or perhaps will not, wait for my name to be called. I'm working 2 jobs for the same company, and giving each of them 40 hours of attention. I want to pave a better life for myself, sooner than later, and if I have to do my unfair share, to get my unfair share, then that is fair. I'm planning to start a new life this year. So far, I've planned to move out of Toronto to Mississauga to be closer to my corporate life. I've also made tentative plans to move further west, to be closer to my personal life.

As I close in on my first 4 years of corporate life, and shaking off the lifestyle habits I don't think I could ever go back to, I must say that I've become largely more proactive with my own life. You learn very quickly that nobody will call you forward unless you do the work in the background that nobody sees to make that name worth calling forward. I suppose I can thank university for that. It's up to you to pass or fail, it's up to you to decide what goes on your transcript, it's up to you to decide how you will be remembered. But there was still something missing in this approach in University, something that took away from the lesson. Very recently I realized what that is. In my life, I spent a lot of time focusing on how I would be remembered. Which is to say, when I am no longer with the people who will tell my story, they'll have fond memories of me. It's a funny thing to wake up one day and realize that you were writing your obituaries instead of your memoires.

I did this with my lovers as well. Few of them have any complaints, not to brag. Few of them look back on the months or weeks or nights they spent with me and think, "He just took and wouldn't give." I made sure of that. I became very good at giving girls no complaints, no reason to hate me; but sadly, no reason to love me. No reason to want to keep this going. A few of them had faith that we could have lived on together. When I got a sense of that, I panicked and protected myself from the pain of possibly losing them, by cutting them free myself. I think even then I knew that I didn't know how to write memoires. I've written too many romantic obituaries, too many well wishes from across the wire, too many summations of the way things ended. Then last year I learned to fall in a love in a completely new way. And every day our story together either gets deeper or richer.

Ironically, she was the first person to test my new approach - not waiting for my name to be called. At times, I felt like it was a resounding failure, I penciled a few obituaries, but each time she revived me. Each time I wrote a summation of the way things have been, the love I once felt at a moment in time. Though worded to be impressive, they were never truly satisfying for her or even myself to read. Surely, there will be more to our story she would asserted. The story was just beginning, it was not yet defined as a comedy or tragedy. I was always obsessed with definitions, and she was always obsessed with my putting pen to paper and promising more words. Maybe this is why I perfer typeface and she the written word: I'm more concerned with being able to save and backup the words I've already put out there, and she's more concerned with knowing every word to come will have the same level of meaning as before.

She's a lot like me when she wants to be, she has written a few successful and unsuccesful obituaries herself. My greatest fear in life right now is her writing ours. I get so scared that I don't even give her the space to write our memoires in the past tense. I have valid reasons for concern, and valid motivation for concern. All the same, as April approaches, and as I graduate from my introduction to corporate life, my mode of operating is centered around writing my memoires. I feel at a point in my life where planning is losing its value and execution has taken its place. No more obituaries, no more planned failures, no more safeguards from being hurt. I'm writing my life with actions that will turn into words, not words that might turn into action. This is what will define or at least describe how the next stage of my life progresses.

Another 4 years will start in a little more than a month. I already know that something big is about to happen.

What it is right now.

You call me a pessimist. Yea, maybe. You're the optimist, so you believe all your statements are half-true. And you're left wondering why I care so much about your half-empty glass. Perhaps I just wanted to know if there was enough room left for me to fill it with my love.

There isn't. Your cup is half-full. Another triumph for optimism. And as the truth of your love fills your cup, brewed with the open faced lies he leaves inside of you, at least then I'll know what you are really made of. Then it would be my fault to drink.

You call me a pessimist. You're wrong. I already know you have more reason to not love him than you've told me. And you won't tell me because you don't want me to touch you with my words. I already know you're as dishonest with me now as you were when this all started. I already know you can't judge my book by anything more than it's cover. And still I love you.

My love is good for you. It has the power to heal and to protect and to defend. And so you've decided to brush your teeth with it and spit it out so that he can enjoy kissing you even more.

I'm the greatest optimist you'll ever meet, I'm a retired pessimist.

Sensible Love for Valentine's Day

Confused by all this talk of red. When the arrow pierced my flesh I saw only white, not a drop of red fell from my flesh. All I knew was that I was alive, because I must have been alive to witness this blinding light. The rest of me lost its claim on existence during the flash. I was utterly lost in this moment, I thought with no chance of escape. But then, colours came rushing back to my eyes as the white light melted away, and there you were, still sitting there, wondering if I had anything planned to say. But how could I? I was just reborn. My past was now a story, something I could tell you about to make the present seem less boring. Not sure what to say. I used to wear my emotions on my sleeve but the arrow hit me in the arm; I had to undress to heal the wound. It's hard to find things to talk about when you're naked. Maybe I'll just ask you what your name is.

Nothing else seems to matter when beautiful instruments are playing, not even the details of the melody.When you told me your name I was lost in the songs buried beneath your voice. One of those songs came out as I extended my hand to you, and I started to sing myself. I'm glad you were familiar with the tune. There are a lot of beautiful instruments in the world, beautiful at least when they are in tune. To their credit, when they are out of tune it helps to remind me that they are real, that they can have bad days, just like we humans, that they deserve a certain amount of attention to keep their songs alive. I wish I remembered this with you. I wish I remembered why I loved your voice so much, to know that you have every reason to sound out of tune with me, but still your soundbox vibrates and sways gently like hair in the breeze and other things I'm glad I can't predict. Like a composer, I am left only capturing your sound on paper, merely describing what you have already created.

What a shame it would be for me to grab hold of your heavenly voice for myself. I wish not to play with your strings until I know how to manipulate them for better never worse. To touch you would be a sin, would it not? As of now I only know how to pluck away at you, not yet how to strum. I'm finally in tune with all of your notes, but not yet with any of your chords. A shame, working so hard to make melodies without harmony. I have such a good ear for your music, but I've been too lazy to use that ear to listen to you play more than one note at a time. So many sounds from your past and present you've wanted to express with me, to think I robbed you of that and kept plucking. Now you need tuning, of all people I ought to allow you that. I do no how to tune you by listening, I learned how, I feel I should mention. But it's okay if you feel there are other apps for that.

I still sense a warm future of us, you know. Waking up every morning I still smell you. Your rich cedar finish fills my room with as much aroma as it does sound. A smell so warm and comforting everytime I hold you in my hands, or in those brief moments where you are at rest and I am near, I dare even say that I am curious to taste you. Perhaps that is a bit precocious to say such things, I'll limit myself to your scent, and your touch, and your sound, and the sight of you. Left with the feeling that there is yet still a complete love left for you and I to experience one day, at least through everything you've given me, I know now that my love for you is sensible.

Happy Valentine's Day, Geeta

Robes

I remember the first time I heard the phrase, 'the clothes don't make the man.' I was maybe 14 and thought to myself, 'Of course they do?' My dad dresses like a dad. I dress like I'm 14. The rest is up for debate - Integrity, wisdom, culture, spirit, good nature. By that I mean, boys and men share these traits alike. I know boys with a surprising abundance of wisdom and men with surprisingly low integrity. Really, the only fair way to label a man is by his clothing, just as we label a spider by her number of legs. For what it's worth, clothes don't make the man, but they sure as hell make the man noticeable, which arguably is more important. Perception is reality.

Those of you who feel inclined to point to boys who wore the robes of men and fooled you with their ostensible manhood, feel free. Position these candidates as proof that a man is not defined by his robes and I will add to my collection of candidates who were named men, treated as men, observed as men, revered as men, in short, men. Inasmuch as they looked like rats and smelled like rats, they were rats.

Oh you girls, I must agree, a man's clothing is his most important measure. It's ridiculous to think otherwise. How could you think otherwise? That's like saying, sunlight doesn't make the day. Sure, it's after dawn, but who really cares for a day with heavy overcast or deep fog? I'll be the first man to admit I only care if the sun is showing. As the analogy goes, girls admitted this a long time ago, positing that they can get to know a lot about a man by his footware. The truth was already there, if the man's clothing made him look like sunshine then he was sunshine, why complicate matters? Why look for sunshine in shoes that are scuffed or worse still, worn and scarred.

Again, I have to agree. I for one am tired of waiting for terminally cloudy or insufferably overcast women to show me sunshine before dusk. I am fair, and so I announce that I hope for you only to judge me by my robes henceforth. It's my job to make it painfully obvious to all that my kindness and warmth stem from a sunshine within. Understand, however, fair maidens, that I am fair, and so I announce today that I only wish to judge you by your robes, and perhaps afterwards your lack thereof.

3:30 AM - Shame

What the fuck is wrong with me? I won't never let you make me think I'm not fly. You keep trying to, but I already I got what women want. So what the fuck is wrong with me? How can you keep spitting on me and then acting like I don't even exist? I'm coming up on a year now and my love for you is just a fucking joke. An anecdote. Cut the bullshit. Best friend? You ever ask yourself why you keep promoting me? You met me and thought this nigga is funny, so you told me a month into knowing you that I'm one of the closest ppl to you. Really? Lock me in. Then I told you I feel the same way in May and you said you don't wanna be with me. But I'm like one of your best friends. Lock me in. Then I told you I love you again in december and you told me you'd rather be with him, but now I'm officially your best friend. Lock me in. Keep promoting me sideways. Tell me you love me, but not like that. Tell me it isn't impossible to see me that way, but it isn't possible. Fine. All that bullshit is easy, I don't even care about all those lies, helps you sleep at night not me. But maybe you should ask why you'll tell me anything in the world to keep me in your life.
So then this friendfucker fucks another girl while he's with you, and you keep rubbing him in my face? The guy fucking insults you and tries to buy you back and does all this stupid gesture shit to win you back, and it isn't til a month later you tell me, 'and I thought you lived in your head.' Well lemme tell you about living in my head. It's fucking hard right now. A year goes by and you won't even give me the benefit of a chance, but a month after this guy finished cheating on you for a month and you wanna give him the benefit of the doubt and a second chance? Let's not dance in step with your halftruths anymore, I called you on this a month ago, that you would let yourself fall for him again. And you had the god damn nerve to yell at me and make me feel like Larah and I were making it hard for you to hate him? I don't need to rip on you for being fucking stupid for taking him back as a friend or as a lover, you rip on yourself enough for that. But through all this bullshit you still put this fucker above me? The chips are down and your family is in pain. I can't message you enough times to see you for even 5 minutes. All I fucking had for you were hugs and good intentions. But no, best friends aren't allowed to visit. Just fucking idiots who cheat on you. Yea he can show up any fucking time. Unexpected? Please. You were begging him to show up for you. Better late than never, he finally showed up for you. At least every other time you decided to be honest with yourself and say that it was a planned visit. Then you take this guy's fucking jesus cross chain? What the fuck. I'm glad it proved to be as empty as every other gesture he's given you and he actually tried to give it to larah first. It's no different than the rose he gave to Navdeep than Larah on the same day. But you're at home with it in your hand wondering if you can change him.
It's fucking hilarious. I remember one of the times I asked if I could be with you, you said no, I would have to be ismaili. Wow. Now you're holding onto your lover's cross wondering if he's even a good Catholic. While I'm here trying to embrace Kushiali as my own. And you can't even give it back to him? Now it symbolizes the sacred promise he's already broken and you have it there. You get so soft for his love, you want it so bad. But you sure know how to get hard against my love. Sitting on the beach reading the myriad, my love profession of how we first met, laughing at it, reading it like a fucking jerk with sarcasm and disinterest, saying I'm so cute for writing it just to put on the cherry of condescension. So much so you had to apologize the next morning. 'But I wanna tell you nobody has ever done anything like that for me before thanks cookie.' And just like that, I forget it existed. Oh right its on facebook.... 3:30am in the fucking office putting the final words down on my epithet of love for you. Willing to serve you softly, through the pain of knowing that I can serve you boldly, the court jester pours more love into his lady's cup, this time the ultimate sacrifice. I will ask not to be her king while she is wounded, for she has been withered by her white night! Did she even read it? Not really. Shit, you could've at least done me the respect of reading the last paragraph to use it as strength while you deal with his bullshit. But no, no, you have better ideas. You'ld rather brave -30 weather to see him and have him reassure you that his cross isn't empty. I have to beg you to show me a picture of your fingers, but you go out there to give him your hand. You want his love so much. Your mom, larah, your best friend, nobody can tell you that this guy is bad news. Not the woman who suspects his scorn, the girl who has felt it, the man who wants to bandage you from it. You'd shut us all away in a dark room with your conscience to go outside and frolic with him. Why. Because he's good on paper. Whose paper?! That's a question you'll never ask yourself.
All this and the month you spent lying to me about being busy and having plans, and you don't even feel a morsel of desire to hear me out? You don't even have an inkling of understanding to how this affects me? You say all this shit that pisses me off, twice, first because you said it, second because it proves you don't think about me for a second when you're done talking to me. 'Why does he keep coming back? Taking all these blows to his ego. Why does he still say he loves me? What does he want from me?'. Blows to HIS ego? You think giving you a chain and making you tied to him emotionally is a blow to his ego? You think knowing he can show up at the hospital or your door and you'll come outside for him is a blow to his ego? And I'm sure you respond to his poetry and emails in a way that makes him not want to write another one the next day. I'm sure he's sacrificing a lot of ego, winning you back after doing everything wrong to you. I'm sure he's crying on the inside like I do after you read my words with nothing in your heart. When you tell me to stop looking at you. When you read my passionate words on whatsapp and then just go away for 30 minutes while I deal with the turmoil of thinking 'why couldn't she just say brb?' Yea, you're sure making him run the gambit. This was always your plan. Have him run through hoops, so that you can justify it to yourself when you take him back and say, "he did me wrong for a month, I did him wrong for 2 months. Fair trade. He's worth a shot."
And you wanna tell me you don't make me feel worthless? When I wasn't worth a shot in the first place? Cuz you can't see me that way, I'm like a brother to you. You know I've heard that before.
You're sleeping tonight thinking the same thing you always think when you're losing me. I better hear him out and reassure him asap so I can move on. You don't even fucking care about where I am. So why did we waste a year?

Mistaken

I felt I had the upperhand this time. With you it was different. I had what most other men wish they had. I, had all the words, all the words to describe how I felt about you. I didn't realize until now, but that's the problem. I only had the words to describe. Without you, there were no words, but without my words there you were, glowing. I had no words to give birth, to breathe life into you. How dare I wish to press my lips against yours with nothing behind them but organ and muscle; hot air and cold shoulders, warm intentions and cool reassurances. This you would have me believe.



You are mistaken. I bring light with which to see how a man can love a woman. I bring a tablespread of thoughts from which to dine and give sustenance, and I kneel devoutly before them and you, baring my back for you to sit and feast slowly. I bring a fireplace filled with kindling, for you to cast fears, worries, doubts, insecurities and ailments, that they may crackle up the chimney as background music as we slowdance in the warmth of their demise. In short, and in lieu of more words gone to waste, I bring to you a home, a cozy mansion for you and I. And this is just the beginning, why would you wish for this to end?

Sweet Sorrows

How warm it felt in your embraces, sweet sorrows of the past. Like fat, and other things heavy, you lay me down with ease and a reassurance that you would always be there for me. For as long as I wanted, you lay me flat with this sweet lie. Oh, how I turned to each of you, sweet sorrows of the past, on late nights such as these, eyes filled with our memories, hoping to turn tears into morning dew and cultivate a hopeless future together. Modestly I would ask: Might we collect my tears to water the earth beneath us and create a garden for you and I to bask in? Would you cry along with me? Would you help water our garden?

Yes, I would visit each of you, on late nights such as these, hoping to fill your eyes with my tears. Why, your eyes to my demise were empty, bone dry, had no tears of your own for me; wouldn't you be so kind as to use mine? But each of you, sorrows of the past, for me had the same reply, logical and unequivocal: Watering a garden with naked tears would only salt the earth. Try, try again, each time again with rose water.

I've built the garden, on my own. On my knees covered in wet despair I planted my own seeds of joy. Lo and behold, I think this year I will have a chance to witness the perfect blossom. You see, rose water turns into sweat, and both sweat and tears are purified under the hot sun of hard work and genuine spirit. I've bottled my tears and I have plans to produce much sweat this year, oh how there is much work to be done. And when the sun has touched all that I am for just long enough, I will water the soil beneath my feet and each of you will come to know the beauty of my seeds. So, I thank each of you, sweet sorrows of the past, for letting me hold on to my own tears. I can only thank myself and my closest friends for knowing what to do with them. I wish for each of you only good things, sweet sorrows of the past, because I would never want to leave you on a negative note. Good bye.

Happy New Year!

The Court Jester

Who am I, you ask? Well, that is simple enough. I am the court jester! I mean precisely what I have just said. I am the court jester. There are others, none such as important as I however, and so I stand behind my exquisite and eloquently superlative grammar. I am the champion of nuance, I understand all subtext. Subverse as well, it need not be written. I am the man of the town to whom the people go when in need of understanding, of caring, of lightened hearts and inspired minds. I have most of the answers, but more importantly, I have all of the questions. I probe and pry at the very fabric and essence of existence. I’ve seen what lies beneath both mind and matter. I’ve journeyed to the depths of the mind en route to the centre of the heart. These others, these pedestrians, these common folk, these aristocrats, oh they journey only to the depth of the saloon en route to the gallows. I am, as they say, as I say at least, the most brilliant man in the city. I love this city, which is why at times I have subjected it to the utmost scrutiny. Picking and poking away at her beauty, at her substance, just as she has to me. Oh, why even the Queen herself has poked at me, put me in a tizzy. She said to me one time, believe it or not, that I, the court jester, live too much in my head. My word, what a thought to have, living in my own head. Where would the rest of me fit? Well, I ought to say, if I were to live in my own head the rent would be cheap. I let anyone spend at least a little bit of time in my head for only a small token of food for thought. Back to the point, I love both my Queen and her city regardless of how they treat me. I love them so much in fact I’ve made a decision lately. No more shall I hide my wealth of brilliance and compassion from them. Nay, now I have decided that I, yes I, the court jester, ought to partake in running this fair town. Fancy that?

Morning breaks and I spring from my bed of straw that lay in my spacious castle. Another busy day approaches. My fair city awaits my attention. These pedestrian citizens don’t know how to keep her safe. Look! The gates have been left open, again! Intruders are afoot do they not see? Okay, double pace, I must get ready even quicker than yesterday. I must stand on guard for the city, the empire! Oh I can’t wait to see my Queen! Did you know - I bet you didn’t - that my Queen has knighted me? She has! Sir Court Jester, the best court jester she has ever met she says. They all used to laugh at me, mere onlookers; said to me that I would never be royalty in her eyes. But now I have this crown! Well, I made the crown myself you see, but she let me wear it during the ceremony! Maybe she just didn’t see it, that I was wearing a crown. Maybe she ignored how much it meant to me, to wear a crown that was fit for a king, her king. Or maybe she let me wear it because it looked good on me, perhaps? Well, enough morning Lamentations! Let me throw on my cleanest courtesan cloths and attend to my fair city and my fair queen post haste.

I hear the jeers of all the nay-Sayers, at night when I sleep and on mornings such as these. “What do you know about Rome?” they ask me with their noses above my brow. “You are not fit to share your vision with Rome!” They don’t even see the folly of their reasoning. Leaders, they call themselves. Bumbling fools! What have they ever brought to Rome that she couldn’t have brought to herself? Rome is beautiful and elegant and powerful. The world knows this; just the sight of her creates hope for those who dream of a glorious future. For those who believe in an afterlife they hope to die in Rome’s arms and be reborn in her womb. They know she is the light in a world of darkness, the desert oasis from which both snakes and doves quench thirst. These bumbling fools, snakes indeed! They drink from Rome’s kindness and mistake themselves for her! They think they created Rome, they think they know her. They ask a myriad of questions and yet have no answers. What do they know of Rome, these men of Rome’s past and present? Each of them has had his time in my precious Queen’s courtyard, telling her what riches they will bring to her Rome. Marketeers all of them, they bring her only empty riches and empty promises. But my Queen wishes the best for her Rome – she knows not where else to turn – and gives each of these so-called dignitaries a chance. Dignitaries, bah! When was it no longer required for dignitaries to have dignity? Oh, how these men enter her life and squabble for a chance to lead Rome. That’s what they want, you see, the power. Oh I remember that day late April, last spring, when the entire Senate was fighting for my Queen’s attention! Drove m’lady to near madness and she took to the ale to cure herself. They don’t know, those fools, she sent me a message by carrier bird whilst they squabbled for her vote. Perched against a bar in a dark saloon, she needed clarity and thought of me. She knew even then I see her Rome with different eyes than anyone in the world.

That’s my power, you see, as a court jester: I make the sad funny, the unattractive attractive, I see the future in the past and shine light on the dimmest corners. Everyone reckons because of my dance and song that I haven’t delivered to them the truth, the Word, that I’ve given them only sweet melodies to remember me by. Well they need not remember me, I care not about their pasts to come. My words are here to build upon, to add mortar to brick, for Rome’s majesty! I am her sworn protector, guide and servant. I love her more with each sunrise that I have spent within her walls. I love her more with each sunset that I have spent outside her walls, avant-garde, searching her sewers for demons to slay.

Still, I have to wonder, why her Majesty won’t bid me her audience. When she first saw me, that first day, she made me a promise. She promised me I would be her best, that I would have top rank, that she and I would become closer faster than she could handle. She said it had already started. I agreed. My first day in her glorious city and I knew my travels were almost over. No more traveling from city to city for me; Beirut, Cairo, Calcutta, I’ve seen them all you see. The only travels I have left in life are here in Rome. Journeying within her walls is worth four lifetimes outside of them. I dedicate what is left of my humble existence to one day walk the path, from my castle in this cozy alleyway to the thrown at the side of m’lady! And yet, my Queen needs not all this attention. She hides her eyes from mine, for mine burn hers with desire. Cursed eyes of mine, I ought to have been born a Cyclops. She has bid me to stop. Stop! She said. It was quite simple, needed not much explanation. But as I mentioned, I have only most of the answers but all of the questions. The first one that came to mind was, “Why?” Oh the reasons she gave me, song and dance, here and there, to and fro. A blind man could see that she was dancing, dancing around something very large. A man with vision could see she danced around the truth. She looked so beautiful dancing however, how could I let her stop? I danced alongside, my word I danced halfway to Turkey before I could not dance any further. Quite out of step I cracked open the truth for both of us to share. Oh, how it burned so much to hold the truth now in my hands. The pain and anguish I felt that night. My Queen suffered as well. From our shared truth there was shared pain, and oh the pain and anguish she felt the next morning. Fools, both of us, dancing around the truth for so long only made it harder for us to deal with it when the time came. At least we were able to deal with the truth together. She, blinded by the lies of her white Knight, and I blinded by my Queen who turned her back to me to face him, were given the greatest gift we could hope to receive, the cooling darkness of truth. Now, we both can see. Our visions are restored, and we, that is to say each of us, are now stronger.

Where to from here, you ask? Well, within Rome undoubtedly! I am still humble servant to her Majesty and the empire. Now that she has been left alone, without a senate, without a white Knight, somebody ought to stick around to help out with the day-to-day affairs of Rome. Rome is still my world, what I care for the most. I hope my Queen can take comfort in this. I will not pester her for title or prestige or for a special place beside her on the thrown. The truth in all of this for a court jester such as myself is that even I, the court jester, Sir Court Jester, ought not to fight with impatience for the end of my journey within Rome’s walls. Nay, the beautiful journey continues for me. I have much more to learn about Rome and my Queen must regain her bearings. I will tend to her worldly affairs by day and bathe her feet at night, without pause or question in either task. In return, I bid her today, only one favour: That when she so desires for a special second voice to echo against the walls of Rome and into eternity, that she measures her choice not against the size of a man’s sword but by his desire to wield it in her defense.

Until then, hear the court jester as he prances and sings with wit and compassion, “Rome Rome Romeo, gently down the stream! Merrily Merrily Merrily…”