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…”