Perseverent

I haven’t written
And, I haven’t chosen to be written;
though I am written in leaves and blood
and the mud — snapping with teeth
like the branches of the woods

Oh, youth, you made me feel fresh

And immortal

Not a serving of flesh cased behind a bone
and all the bone is chewing to break out
to now what it cannot know, now

I wanted so much to know what it was like to write
to have known if I had written anything of any value

I am writing as I will always write
clutch my blood next to the quilled ink
sparrow along the ridges and dominant the
lull of the breath; stay passive at the apex of the muscle

I will knead into me a belonging in poetry
as the bread knows the yeast and the sky knows the sun.—

ennui-tonic

this import of aggression that ennui had made
worsted and winnowed into a fine parable
that only I can share; I who hold the bones
and the crosshairs of my skeletal affixations

this tire which is smoothened and crinkled by the night
whose gaze is not a penetration by a clitoral malady
and not a sufficeless prefix that pretends to bode well

there is a feeling, as I said in the last verse, an endless beginning
or a ending without any beginning. I am obsessed with ennui and boredom
because I do not know if life was an egg for me or already a chicken
whose paleontology I studied in some slaughterhouse on some heap
and made up crude names for its near-extinction. Yes, near extinction…

for we have domesticated life and the simulacra of domestication continues
you may say I too sometimes become manifestation of such a domestication
where culture restricts my sex to either so-called modesty or so-called openness

for the Venus De Milo is a nude without arms  and the Mona Lisa is always a
guesswork in progress. Caught between the Madonna and the Whore of Old
wondering which path I can take and knowing so forging my own takes more courage
it takes a certain kind of loyalty which is civil disobedience but there is Walden I can

retreat to feeling that there would be no taxation upon my sex and gender; even if I bide as a conscious gynandrous of sorts. I do not like to be bound as bondage portraits nor fixed as a saint. I want a messy me; getting tired of being a pendulous predictable.▬

late night interruptive prosaic sounds like prozac don’t it

I get sick many times; late night philanderer of obscure matrices of thoughts
buoyant-dandy in the streets, gothic urban pavements, of my own creation
“own” here is a complicated word; I did not know I made them
involuntary chemicals and imagination spasms did. I am not sure
What needs to be done amongst them — I wrote the capital “W”
in the “what” right now as a serendipitous affair — it was a shift of my sick-at-the-moment
fingers that accidentally caused me to do so — meaning there are unconscious lisps in me
glad my fingers are fluidly perfect in their imperfection. It took me like 3 hours or more to write this because I was interrupted, by Youtube, reading and other conversations — and cognition and cogitation — persuasive, that word I got from Kendrick Lamar’s “Money Trees” . I am a mosaic on many integrations and I integrate too — in cyberspace, physical spatial syntax, my tongue quivers, my breath vibrates — I roar with my being. Sick but not defeated.—

Not everyone will like you — Medium

via Not everyone will like you — Medium.

One day, you find a yellow orchid in your room

But you don’t like orchids

A week later, the orchid starts flourishing

But you still don’t like orchids

Two weeks later you notice a golden reflection on its surface

You start disliking the orchid a little less

A month later, you bow to the orchid

For despite your dislike the orchid kept flourishing

And just like the orchid not everyone is going to like you

But as you continue flourishing many will admire you

I really loved this poem I saw in the Blogging platform Medium. I mean this was one of the best pieces I read today (though I didn’t read much today or any day, my reading is as daft and dry as  an iguana in a snowman outfit). I really know this does feel true. Not being liked is a case that is  considered quite important — two other stories seem to capture my attention focusing on likeability a) Mark Zuckerberg, the founder and maker of Facebook, has willingly become homeless to prove a point for likeability (he did it to have solidarity with homeless people) and b) NHS gets both critical feedback and admiration after Justin Bieber endorses for it. The second story has probably more to do with national health care than likeability but the NHS is a subject of much talked about criticism. If you ever lived in the UK or visited it for a long period of time you will know funding the NHS is a mammoth issue. And funding on it depends on likeability to an extent (I can be wrong but I feel rather than know it to be that way).  Zuckerberg’s act followed his own criticism. Some of it is unfair. Others like the one by Mike Goldsmith, actually shows a better response:

Mark Zuckerberg making himself homeless is like a bulldog making himself a vegetarian. Selling stock ,buying a tent and deciding to camp out is not being homeless. Being homeless is when you lose everything, not give it up. It’s when you are forced to face the harshest elements of life by circumstance , not by choice. Camping out on a sidewalk, eating in a soup kitchen by choice isone thing but doing it as your only means of survival,that’s quite something else

I am sure Mark means well, but if he really wants to do something he should abandon these optics and do something that will really make a difference. With his resources he should do something to address the circumstances that put most of his new found friends on the street in the first place. He has the means to create and fund opportunities that would help a lot of people find new meaning and purpose. He could be a force behind new sources of rehab, retraining and jobs. Unfortunately, this “Look at me” optic is not the way to go.

So mark, If you really want to help, get off the street and actually do something that will make a difference. Stop acting like the lost little boy with to many toys and act more like the captain of innovation that you are….

That does make sense actually. We do get derailed to actually want “likeability” and this actually affects who we are. Like many people don’t talk about their editing processes feeling that likeability is focused on some template of genius. And that is true, we are all inculcated to believe the genius requires no effort. And for a while  I believed that too. Actually, the genius might need more effort in many things and that, with her/his innate vision, is genius is usually born and borne. I will readily admit that I had to read the comments’ sections and also the main article to get the gist of what was happening in the Bieber article (the article by Williams is a bit vague if you ask me because I didn’t read the title properly but I also feel it paces on ambiguous  terms without announcing its ambiguity because it probably doesn’t know what to think about itself; it is a bit divided and that is fine). However, most people won’t mention that for likeability. I am not always going to put likeability in parenthesis because likeability and “likeability” are both concrete and also elusive phenomenon. Everyday likeability and the major form of “likeability” (as a collective or pouring into theme) is faced by all of us. We may not know it but many or some of our actions are based on likeability and “likeability” — though it is true that some social etiquette and politeness should be taught many people overburden themselves with it all the time leading to overall ungratefulness. And this is where “likeability” and likeability actually does fail.

Jonathan Franzen wrote an article of being liked saying it was for cowards. The article also mentions Donald Trump but it was written in 2011 (Trump’s recent comments are more on the extreme scale than on any likeability or “likeability” scale: that is another topic. It is one thing to be disliked by going your own way and another to be disliked for racism, totalitarianism, extremism, plutocracy and oligarchic need for control in human interests which become reduced and violated as your own interests), so, it is more on how consumer culture is based on wanting to be liked more and it has nothing to do with love. Love is an adaptation, poetry in progress and motion, love is also constructive criticism, helping you reach great heights — liking is more about satiating some immediate need and moving on. Though that is important too the main thing I gleaned and developed my own way from this article is that you can’t have either/or: one extreme corrupts the balance you have for yourself. We must do things we like but we must also be challenged and become finer, polished beings, so we require that love too, tough or soft, it’s a need and ultimately a want for us as humans.

As some short stories on depression show in Medium that liking, even for a gift, after a point fails. I put in part of the story down below:

“Karen! Guess what?” he asks excitedly.

I look at him to acknowledge his question.

“I got you an iPhone 5 instead of 4!”

I consider this. I consider him –– his face lit up in excitement and anticipation of my reaction. I feel nothing.

“Pretty cool, right?” he says as he hands me the box.

I take the box from him and shimmy it open to reveal the iPhone nestled in itspackaging. As I lift it from its shell and examine the polished design, I think about how I should be grateful.

“Thank you, daddy,” I say because it is the right thing to say. But I still feel nothing. It takes a Herculean effort to force the corners of my mouth up.

Thoughts wander aimlessly through my mind. I think about how my dad is trying so hard to make me happy. I think about how disappointed my lack of reaction must be. I think about how if I felt any emotion, I would feel guilty for being unable to show him happiness. Guilty for not having accepted his gift with more grace and grandeur.

The pain in this piece is obvious. After a point likeability can fail. To a person suffering depression liking, likeability and “likeability” fails big time. Because there are times, like when is depressed or suffering from depression, no gift can really cheer you up.

Well, likeability and “likeability” in themselves can be complicated issues but no matter how complicated the complex in you has a greater chance fate and faith to win. Because we were all made to be uniques in and with and within a collective. So, we are born into a middle-ground many a times. Unless, you truly want extremity or it is dished out on via circumstances, I don’t think you have to worry on it being your identity too much though another reality is it is hard not to worry too much either. We just have to find frequencies that work for us.

The orchid at the beginning of the poem may have blossomed elsewhere or change its pot and dirt; but as long as its reached this state it’s fine even if no one admired it immediately for it or at all. The thing is some honest things won’t be admired either but you can choose if that is something you can live without being appreciated for: whether you can or cannot doesn’t also determine your worth; you may be living a different life and may have different needs. When I was younger I read the dialogue between Jane Eyre and Helen Burns pertaining to this likeability and “likeability” (the novel itself tracing a lot around it) — I suspected that Burns was wrong when she thought Eyre’s humiliation publicly in their boarding school should not matter as long as God still loved her. I wasn’t wrong in thinking Helen Burns was wrong but I was wrong in thinking she totally was. Burns is not totally wrong. To her, this sort of humiliation did not matter, she was older than Eyre and probably had faced this form of torment previously, she has known that people can be stupid and hypocritical and cruel. But she is wrong to seem desensitised to it and not understanding Jane Eyre’s younger self’s need of acceptance and also how justice needed to be served there which only honesty and truth could help prevail in it. Yet, at the same time Jane Eyre should know that getting their aproval should not be her end goal. Both have right arguments in that debate. It was the frequency, the extent of each voice in it, that needed to be understood and possess a corrected pitch.

I would like to conclude with someone’s poem, who is at the moment, my favourite poet on the internet:

If there’s a tic in your toc

It wasn’t me – I am afraid

Of its –  r.a.p.i.d.n.e.s.s

Especially when running

So very – f.u.c.k.i.n.g – late

This poem by Mari Sanchez Cayuso is called Time. Someone in the comments stated that the use of expletives helps the piece. I agreed. If Mari was only vouching for likeability and “likeability” alone she may have exempted from it (though the young adult phenomenon of doing anything one wants is actually more with the grain than against it – that is also a separate topic; I just hinted on it). Yet, this piece is  hers and honesty and truth on her conditions and beings is always why I loved and liked Mari’s poems. I guess, in her own way, she has shown a great balance in her for both things.

without the drink

 

trickling down, a droplet of absurdity
parenthesis entity — that is me
I am a creature sublime to oddities
artefacts can behold me and I beholden
the seas of chaos, calamity and serenity;

surprised aren’t you when my mouth glides
on tongue and I produce a kiss of words
in sobriety, I mated with soberness and it was
sombre, there is a seriousness in the sexiness
of some abstinence and some less inhibitions (a hybrid)
I am caught in tongues, who are not carcera to cheeks

it feels in the midst of conversations I am the phantom
I do not glow with the iridescence of being high
yet I am a novelty of loosened limbs and tongue
without the bottle — I am still an engaged firefly of sorts

trying to talk to everyone … —

survival via paragraphs.—

How I feel, is not necessarily connected to what I would prefer to think
How I operate, is not necessarily my personality;
I am clueless, a writer’s block in motion
“cock-cunt” blocking my potentials that I did not know
— do not know, how to exactly cultivate…
and I feel lonesome all the time…lonesome in my blood
like some odd sterile-vaccination to another incubation
an incubation that waits in the wings; I am a mouth full
of disjointed feathers; corporeal but not blood-stained
they inhibited the concept of death, in my mouth the feathers
waxen and wane like flowers in bloom and they recycles as
cat-got-tongue sort of feats…I am just sad, I am just lonely,
I lost that person close to me — Abbu, Dad, I don’t want to believe
that you don’t walk beside me — that all these journeys are now
mine alone. And I am not happy always alone. I feel angry.
This month I had procrastinated to daydream — been unable to
fit the home model of me in this new home. And it does hurt.

But who is willing to understand?

Not everyone will get it. They manage. They think you will. The same.
the same ways; nothing new — as the human world forgot the existences
of biodiversity. I have been unmade or made into plankton. Into a unicellular being by ennui and loneliness. I can’t withstand this need to be more as I do not know how the future will be cunning — how it takes my fate with a grain of salt? I will be the Red Sea motherfucker you will see how I wash you with salt and caribous and whales and I am not going to make a whale of and effort doing so — I am lost but have not lost. I feel cold but I am not numbed yet bastards! I did not wish to be trouble but I became trouble because I always yearn for what other people are taught to detach — the search of intimacies, the search of love, the search of sacred sex, a life beyond gendered expectations. I think people use all that is normative as manipulations, as fetishisms, but I do not know honestly how to be honest with those — I could only be me and outlast the lingering eye of discriminatory tastes. I yearn to talk, to think, to not be betrayed by obscene friends who had lived a life but chose to thwart mine.

I know I am no poetry in motion.

That I was chipped from the start, weakened already, I am no IQ wonder no genius in a refrain, waiting for a right chord to strike. I have no serpent’s tooth, no cunning fox with no tale. How I operated was survival and lacking what I needed to survive at best. How I feel is just the dregs of disatisfaction. Nothing in me on this was apt to binary. I was happy too to have heating when the minus degrees struck and food in the fridge. I wished I knew how to transmute disappointments in life as talismans of the future. Or, maybe I am learning the art but have not mastered it enough yet? — I hear distant city-life outside, echoing, wailing, demanding to be heard. Am I demanding to be heard?  — I am wailing on poetry, but the poem was also a soft pinch on your thigh, a flirtatious revenue to ask “look, at me, I am talking, but I also look nice when I breathe.” I am like the existential ugly duckling, waiting to swan and swan dive out of abyss, into it and peripheries and centers and all. Clipped wings may be coined for the so-called well grounded. I rather file them, adjust the bluntness and sharpness, so that walking, floating and flying can be done with chimerical speed. I speed into God; I know God will speed into me…—

confessions (ii)

Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool.

Well, today I talked to the cherry redhead. She seemed to reciprocate my conversation. My flatmates are becoming responsive too. I guess I needed time. I am not saying that I blew them away or impressed them. But one of them thought it was okay to feed me a raspberry with her own hand in my mouth. The gesture was so caring and thoughtful. It brings tears. Right now. Another shared her dinner with me. You know I am just really happy because it is really pleasing to have have that really.

I guess I was really interested in Cherry (I will call the redheaded girl that). Cherry seems to be really thin. Like she has no weight. Compared to me who packs extra pounds. Cherry has immaculate white skin. She wore a jacket today, a black blouse which has t-shirt sleeves and is not willowy but cut midriff, I saw the accentuation of her bones and her tiny waist. Her long legs and hip to half-knee length green skirt skirted around my head as brilliant aesthetics. The cold did not bother her waifish frame. My fats are stored but tickled by the breeze. Her resistance and buoyancy to the cold made me so impressed. Cherry has a sweet tone too. She seems shy but attentive. The problem is I guess we are all shy. I wanna talk to Cherry more as her research is on gender and all about the fluidities and fixities of gendered spaces, or so she talks on. Which is impressive. I wanna know more people on campus.

The funny thing is that the guy who seems aloof of me still seemed aloof of me today. Like it is his intention to avoid me and I decided that okay if that is what he wants sure. I mean, today he came into the foyer and acted like he didn’t know me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and then asked where I liked to which I casually replied. I do not appreciate behaviour like this. I do not know is it something I did or said. Or, if he is also being shy but right now I cannot process this. I have no time and I have ample work that needs doing.

I know I am not special. I know I may lack a lot of basic skills. Also, compared to others I am not that intelligent. However, I am human. And I deserve basic human empathy and kindness. And so does everyone.