August 13, 2010
Sniffing out the culprit
“She farted!” my classmate Penny exploded into guffaws, pointing at me.
My cheeks grew hot. “No, I didn’t. YOU did.” I retorted, surreptitiously looking around to see if anyone heard. Everyone else seemed preoccupied, to my relief. After all, I certainly didn’t do that… thing she suggested I did.
A throat cleared politely. Penny and I looked up to see the substitute teacher Ms. Lina standing in front of us, frowning slightly.
To us, Ms. Lina was cut not just from a different cloth but the cloth was silken, trimmed with French lace. Her porcelain complexion was softened by brown curls and big, liquid eyes. Her demeanor was always prim and proper, as if she were presiding over afternoon tea with country club ladies in her pastel cardigan instead of sitting in a stuffy classroom keeping an eye on a bunch of scraggly kids. I felt a vague sense of shame every time I looked at her, like I was contaminating the space she occupied.
“That was a very rude word, Penny.” Ms. Lina said severely. Her red-stained lips pursed, signalling perhaps the start of a lecture.
Ever the instigator and pusher of buttons, Penny said innocently, “But what else should I call it? A fart is a fart, right? And she farted.”
An ominous silence ensued. Ms. Lina narrowed her eyes. One could almost see the battle between her sense of propriety and her role as an educator, which she took very seriously. She could not in good conscience pass over the opportunity to impart knowledge to a young student.
“There is a more polite word for it,” she finally said exasperatedly.
“Really? What?”
“Flatulence.”
“What?” Penny asked loudly, incredulously. It was a big word.
“Flatulence.”
“How do you spell that?”
“F-L-A-T-U-L-E-N-C-E.” Ms. Lina said sharply. It seemed to dawn upon her that she had just given Penny more ammunition for her arsenal of class-disrupting weaponry.
Already, Penny was on a roll. She pointed at me again. “Hey, you let out a flatulence. Is that correct, Ms. Lina?”
“Some flatulence,” Ms. Lina mumbled.
“You let out some flatulence,” Penny cackled with grammatical perfection.
I looked at Ms. Lina, the person nearest to us. I felt the breeze from the air conditioning behind her.
“Penny, just shut up.”
June 9, 2010
My poem was featured in a group and their blog
Just a few hours ago on the art community site where I post my stuff. It took me completely by surprise as this group has some really talented members, even some published authors, and is usually inundated with a lot of submissions. I guess adversity can be turned into a strength or at least an outlet for creative expression.
June 6, 2010
No platitudes for comfort
Little one, why do you cry?
Did somebody say something?
Did somebody do nothing?
Did something but said nothing?
Hush now. It will be over.
The tears will stop.
The blood will cease.
The world will keep on turning.
Come now. Don’t be a baby.
Don’t let anyone see you.
Not like this, without the smile
blinding them from the obvious.
Without the inane chatter
t o silence the tragic words.
Give someone something to hold -
they’ll use it as a weapon.
Wisen up now, little one.
The sooner done, the better.
Leave your fortress of fancies,
held aloft by illusions.
Just leap off that window ledge.
Don’t be afraid of the ground.
The pain will never compare
to what you’re feeling now.
Stop your pathetic weeping.
Don’t grieve for things you can’t change.
Never mind the broken shards;
sweep them under the carpet.
Life has handed you the cards.
Play them well or die trying.
And should your final day come,
Without the comfort you seek,
Then let the tears flow anew.
May 10, 2010
Moved
I watch you from a distance, one foot in the hazy past, inner vision obscured by memories of smoke-filled rooms. I see you from before juxtaposed almost on top of you now and it seems like a cheap version of déjà vu; there’s the familiarity of having seen all this, but without the sensation of having been here before.
Because I haven’t. I have never sat in front of you, your fingers plucking strings of melancholy and need, without feeling like I’m cast adrift in an interminably vast ocean and the only salvation is to surrender and let your bittersweet strains carry me to an alien shore.
The shift is subtle, as if space itself rotated a few degrees and I’m seeing you from another angle. I watch, almost detached, remembering. I close my eyes for a while, as if I don’t quite trust what’s in front of me, and let the soul you put out there wash over me.
Your voice tender like a potter’s hands moulding curves; harsh to smooth the jagged edges of a broken heart. I wait for the searing sensation of being swept away but I feel soothed, for once, instead of ignited.
When I open my eyes, they connect with yours, as if you knew what I was thinking. Sometimes you read me like an open book. You flash that roguish grin my way. I wink in reply, mind still half there, half in that other place that seems like a lifetime ago.
“We’ll go for dinner soon, okay?” you say later.
I remember the hours…. several of them, through dark nights and early mornings, the conversations about nothing and everything.
“Sure, we should catch up,” I reply sincerely.
And I know you’ll make good on your promise. Because you are the same sweet, utterly incorrigible, deeply conflicted individual you have always been.
It is I who have been acutely moved.