Eleven years ago this summer my dad and I took a trip to Guyana, where he grew up. We flew into Georgetown, the capital, before driving for a couple hours to his parents' house in the country. Since this was my first journey to another continent, I built up my hopes.
I also prepared myself for disappointment. Pieces of conversation between my parents had floated through open doors. They talked of how the country had changed since it gained independence from Britain in 1966. Over the years, political corruption and social upheaval twisted the state into something unrecognizable. The place my parents had loved no longer existed.
When we landed, I thought of how I'd never been so immersed in such tropical environs. However, I was thirteen and childish; the intrigue wore off quickly, and discomfort replaced it. The rhythm and syncopation of the Caribbean accent, with which I was so familiar from home, surrounded and pushed me with its heaviness. All the cars were the same, and all the whitewashed buildings in the city had turned brown with shabbiness. Breathing was a chore; the air was hot, moist and saturated with odors of fish and urine. Every few seconds I felt a prick on my skin and scratched madly all the while. My dad scowled at everything, and I kept quiet.
I was relieved when we arrived at my grandparents' home. The sky seemed a bit bluer, the grass a little greener. The actual house has faded from my memory, but my recollection of the small convenience shop in the garage isn't as tarnished. It was stocked with soda, unfamiliar fruit juices, and foreign candies. Stray cats roamed the floors while fleas danced on their fur, and there was a snow cone machine on the counter with the register.
When my dad was growing up in the 50s and 60s, that shop was the envy of Sixty-Four Village. Kids from the primary school across the field lined up outside the house, sweating in their uniforms, gossiping and goofing. My mom, over from Seventy-Two Village, even frequented the house for ice cream. "She was so pretty," my grandmother said, "and just right." She had my mom pegged.
For my parents, this was the golden age. Nothing needed to change.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Regressing to a Walk
Before we start on our walks, my legs feel elastic because I stretch them more than I need to. Saffron runs around the yard and rolls in the grass; he barks with joy while I assume the familiar positions and make a note of the time we begin. He's already exhausted and saves his bowel movement until we're about an eighth of a mile in, but I've long since overcome the frustration this habit used to induce. Now, I act surprised when we stop in his favorite spots. This pause yields good opportunity for whistle practice, and I hone my skills on the violin climax of a song from The Goat Rodeo Sessions, for example, before we continue our brisk movement. My feet align perfectly to the quick beat of the next shuffled song, and the hems of my blue shorts sway madly.
I'm sure that both Saffron and those blue shorts have reached iconic heights for some in the neighborhood because I wear them every time we go out. They're athletic, but they also have pockets for anything from treats to shit bags to my old Ipod Nano, in which I've invested sentiment.
"Nano" helps to stifle my embarrassment when Saffron decides to lunge at the yapping, rat-sized dogs we pass on the sidewalk along the creek by my elementary school. We pass girls and boys exploring that creek, which runs under tunnels beneath the ground. I think vaguely of how those tunnels are hotbeds for young imaginations and how small they would seem to me now. Every so often, I hear the children's shouts to one another over the music, so I increase the volume and begin to jog.
I can't keep it up for long, and Saffron knows. In the periphery of my vision, I see him looking up at me before he starts to lag behind. At this point we regress to a walk as we enter the neighborhoods past Southdowns Park, where I used to play in the woods. Sometimes, however, I tug him along; he runs through the grass again by my side. His tongue dangles along our route past my old middle school to our left and a small lake to the right. I like to run the short length of the lake, my feet still slamming the ground to the beat while I glance at the geese and the sunset's reflection.
The walk down Mur-Len and then 151st gives us time to think and return to a mellow state. I'm careful to never let Saffron get ahead of me. He knows his place is by my right side.
We both turn left on Lindenwood, and I see my high school in the distance. I haven't been inside to see all of the new construction and don't want to. If it's early enough, their cross-country kids run around and pass us by. We're near enough again to the bike trail that cyclers pass as well, and I'm glad that he's too tired to give a damn. It's back along the creek toward home, and by the time I walk through the door I'm tired, too, and irritable. An hour has passed, but at least he's happy. That's all I wanted.
I'm sure that both Saffron and those blue shorts have reached iconic heights for some in the neighborhood because I wear them every time we go out. They're athletic, but they also have pockets for anything from treats to shit bags to my old Ipod Nano, in which I've invested sentiment.
"Nano" helps to stifle my embarrassment when Saffron decides to lunge at the yapping, rat-sized dogs we pass on the sidewalk along the creek by my elementary school. We pass girls and boys exploring that creek, which runs under tunnels beneath the ground. I think vaguely of how those tunnels are hotbeds for young imaginations and how small they would seem to me now. Every so often, I hear the children's shouts to one another over the music, so I increase the volume and begin to jog.
I can't keep it up for long, and Saffron knows. In the periphery of my vision, I see him looking up at me before he starts to lag behind. At this point we regress to a walk as we enter the neighborhoods past Southdowns Park, where I used to play in the woods. Sometimes, however, I tug him along; he runs through the grass again by my side. His tongue dangles along our route past my old middle school to our left and a small lake to the right. I like to run the short length of the lake, my feet still slamming the ground to the beat while I glance at the geese and the sunset's reflection.
The walk down Mur-Len and then 151st gives us time to think and return to a mellow state. I'm careful to never let Saffron get ahead of me. He knows his place is by my right side.
We both turn left on Lindenwood, and I see my high school in the distance. I haven't been inside to see all of the new construction and don't want to. If it's early enough, their cross-country kids run around and pass us by. We're near enough again to the bike trail that cyclers pass as well, and I'm glad that he's too tired to give a damn. It's back along the creek toward home, and by the time I walk through the door I'm tired, too, and irritable. An hour has passed, but at least he's happy. That's all I wanted.
Monday, June 11, 2012
“Jinx,” America
Written 6/9/12
We're in Jenks, America. Here in OK, they call it that because it's the only city in the U.S. with such a name. More specifically, we're in the "House of Knick-knacks." This title comes from the owner's daughter, whose daughter brought me here because she wanted to share with me the magic of her childhood.
Collections abound in this ranch house that sits on four acres of rolling plain, the birthplace of my friend's enviable imagination. Rabbits of all kinds peek from the walls and surfaces. They are sleepy and fat, playful and lithe. Some open as glass containers or rest as babies on leafy beds of porcelain. Others sniff at miniature girls' feet, which are positioned uniformly against the mirror on the dresser in this bedroom and which number up to thirty. Depending on the angle of my head, resting here on the queen, one girl's face changes like a holograph. Now, she's bored; now, she's prepared to care.
Built in the 70s by a couple whose boy met a tragic end and who consequently put it up for sale, this house has seen forty years of near-happiness. The architecture is unique and sprawling. Slanted cedar beams loom over three bathrooms and three bedrooms, one of which has stairs, an outside balcony, and green carpet that brushes high against the insides of my toes.
The barn outside has been home to chickens and sheep that were pets more than they were livestock. Their names have rung over fields that house oversized crawdads, on which crows frequently feast. (The crows, too, have names: Harold and Henry, or some such. They also survive on not-so-healthy diets of leftover human meals). We walk over the land and spy blue-gray pincers still clutching to blades of grass. We remove the dead heads of the marigolds in the garden. Their green perfume lingers on my fingertips, and I think of how they'll flourish throughout the summer. Wisteria, hollyhocks, periwinkles, tomatoes, and corn already thrive everywhere.
There's wistful grief over the loss of a couple dogs and a beloved bunny - all killed by cars and canines, respectively. Sitting on the swing, we see two black horses in the distance. Their tails swish, and I muse on the endurance of a "love almost at first sight." This sometimes tumultuous marriage culminates today in solid affection. They embrace before us like some of the girls on the dresser and brazenly defy cynicism. This House of Knick-knacks exists now in a sort of "Neverland," where love of life keeps it.
We're in Jenks, America. Here in OK, they call it that because it's the only city in the U.S. with such a name. More specifically, we're in the "House of Knick-knacks." This title comes from the owner's daughter, whose daughter brought me here because she wanted to share with me the magic of her childhood.
Collections abound in this ranch house that sits on four acres of rolling plain, the birthplace of my friend's enviable imagination. Rabbits of all kinds peek from the walls and surfaces. They are sleepy and fat, playful and lithe. Some open as glass containers or rest as babies on leafy beds of porcelain. Others sniff at miniature girls' feet, which are positioned uniformly against the mirror on the dresser in this bedroom and which number up to thirty. Depending on the angle of my head, resting here on the queen, one girl's face changes like a holograph. Now, she's bored; now, she's prepared to care.
Built in the 70s by a couple whose boy met a tragic end and who consequently put it up for sale, this house has seen forty years of near-happiness. The architecture is unique and sprawling. Slanted cedar beams loom over three bathrooms and three bedrooms, one of which has stairs, an outside balcony, and green carpet that brushes high against the insides of my toes.
The barn outside has been home to chickens and sheep that were pets more than they were livestock. Their names have rung over fields that house oversized crawdads, on which crows frequently feast. (The crows, too, have names: Harold and Henry, or some such. They also survive on not-so-healthy diets of leftover human meals). We walk over the land and spy blue-gray pincers still clutching to blades of grass. We remove the dead heads of the marigolds in the garden. Their green perfume lingers on my fingertips, and I think of how they'll flourish throughout the summer. Wisteria, hollyhocks, periwinkles, tomatoes, and corn already thrive everywhere.
There's wistful grief over the loss of a couple dogs and a beloved bunny - all killed by cars and canines, respectively. Sitting on the swing, we see two black horses in the distance. Their tails swish, and I muse on the endurance of a "love almost at first sight." This sometimes tumultuous marriage culminates today in solid affection. They embrace before us like some of the girls on the dresser and brazenly defy cynicism. This House of Knick-knacks exists now in a sort of "Neverland," where love of life keeps it.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
Their Special Relationship
I remember my early ambition. During my formative years, in middle and high school, I was consumed with pictures of success and stereotypical dreams. It didn't matter that I sacrificed relationships in my strivings to be the best. This top position required diligence, originality, and a mask of sweetness; I was conniving, and I knew that concealing my ambition was key.
Operating on this inhuman level, however, makes one ignorant of functioning emotionally. One loses touch with parts of himself kept hidden away for too long. He loses track of what he put where and begins to grow paranoid, afraid of confronting these possibly unsavory aspects. His composure checks his feelings, and most people never want to dig for them. They never know.
She never knew that her profile made a strong impression on me. She had no idea that she both elated and injured me when her attitude changed for the better or worse. When we were alone, I began to imagine scenarios in which she would punch my face. I yearned for her to shatter my mask because I suspected, at the time, that we were the same. My belief - that the things people hide within themselves notice the things hidden in others - fueled me. If she could just have punched me, then our deceptions would have ended. We might have formed a special relationship; we would have shared a secret. Our true selves should have been revealed to one another in that painful moment, our flaws mutually accepted. And then everything could have been easier.
Because of my ambition, she was a very inconvenient person in my life. I became restless, and the emotions I trapped beneath my composure were hazy. Yet, she was the reason I began to balance on a fine line of feeling. She was a part of the first creative flutter of my heart and why I sometimes forgot to breathe, teetering over the edge of the unknown. She taught me the necessity of sacrificing seemingly important things in the name of emotion.
So I'll give her my thanks now, long overdue and cryptic as it is. Even if this can mean nothing to her, it's finally out of me - the me I'm proud to be. Because of her, I set myself free.
Operating on this inhuman level, however, makes one ignorant of functioning emotionally. One loses touch with parts of himself kept hidden away for too long. He loses track of what he put where and begins to grow paranoid, afraid of confronting these possibly unsavory aspects. His composure checks his feelings, and most people never want to dig for them. They never know.
She never knew that her profile made a strong impression on me. She had no idea that she both elated and injured me when her attitude changed for the better or worse. When we were alone, I began to imagine scenarios in which she would punch my face. I yearned for her to shatter my mask because I suspected, at the time, that we were the same. My belief - that the things people hide within themselves notice the things hidden in others - fueled me. If she could just have punched me, then our deceptions would have ended. We might have formed a special relationship; we would have shared a secret. Our true selves should have been revealed to one another in that painful moment, our flaws mutually accepted. And then everything could have been easier.
Because of my ambition, she was a very inconvenient person in my life. I became restless, and the emotions I trapped beneath my composure were hazy. Yet, she was the reason I began to balance on a fine line of feeling. She was a part of the first creative flutter of my heart and why I sometimes forgot to breathe, teetering over the edge of the unknown. She taught me the necessity of sacrificing seemingly important things in the name of emotion.
So I'll give her my thanks now, long overdue and cryptic as it is. Even if this can mean nothing to her, it's finally out of me - the me I'm proud to be. Because of her, I set myself free.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Odds of Survival
I've always been cavalier when handling potting soil. These instances are few and far between, and, most times, my mom's by my side. Out in the garden, she does a great deal of fussing because I'm "too lazy to just slip on the gloves when [I'm wrist-deep] in cow shit." The sun and heat irritate her, and beneath her red whicker hat (approximately eighteen inches in diameter) I see it in her eyes. They're lidded because "[I] don't listen." Even below the hat, they squint with stubborn persistence as if battling through direct sunrays; they focus on the build-up under my nails and on my feigned ignorance. In extreme vexation, caused by forces other than the sun or heat, her nostrils flare, and her lips pucker. She even shakes her head in disapproval. When I was a kid, she often shouted outright. A true Aries.
In eighth grade, she was overwhelmed with pride when I managed to grow morning glories, plants whose vines creep and whose blossoms bloom only in the AM. I remember after they sprouted and gained a bit of height, she insisted that I remove the strongest one from its snug container and plant it beneath one of the two ten-foot-tall pine trees in the front yard. I felt anxiety, and I doubted its odds of survival; I'd put work into nurturing it and wanted (actually very desperately) for it to live. I was afraid for this seedling, afraid of the elements. But I understood that it needed breathing space. She assured me there was no need to worry, and so I didn't.
Every morning that fall when I stood at the bus stop directly in front of my house, I looked at the poor pine that suffocated under so many brilliant, blue blossoms. At thirteen and fourteen years old, at about 7:20 every day, the dreariness and drudgery lifted from my world for a few minutes, and the morning didn't seem so bad. In those moments, my breath was stolen. That's how beautiful it was.
Now, I have rows of shallots and a wealth of marigolds peeking up from the earth. I don't think the marigolds will match the robustness I saw in every one of those morning glories, but that remains to be seen. At least my mother was there by my side this time, shaking her head in disapproval.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
It Goes beyond Hiding Heaviness
I am deeply concerned with the aesthetic of my world, and I often have trouble achieving sparseness. Clearness and conciseness, two qualities I often sacrifice for the sake of the aesthetic, are too important to cast aside. They are elemental; they are the metals that comprise the earth on which we stand. It is not within their nature to be bandied about by prettiness and ambiguity, excessive language and esoteric references (unless you're T.S. Eliot, in which case, by all means). When I forget this elementary lesson, my work crumbles like a shoddily devised sand castle at the mercy of the tide.
I write this in an effort to remind myself not to be so vain. In the past I've been mired in self-importance and lost in artificiality. I've publicly called myself "chubby" when I wasn't (rather, I was heavier), and I have felt personally repulsed because of it. But don't get me wrong or make assumptions; I would never and have never concealed myself for such reasons. I need to assert, with an emphatic scoff, that even I am beyond hiding heaviness.
Yet, I dread imperfection. I feel failure and shame acutely. I hate bathroom lighting almost as much as I hate whatever toxicity runs through my veins. I hate itchiness because it has our bodies convinced that impurity lurks beneath our skin's surface, and, so, unconsciously, we try to remove it. We thrash and scratch and scrape until we bleed. Then we become biologically hazardous.
Therefore, a distracting preoccupation with the aesthetic turns into a personal crutch. I control my surroundings and operate against the pleasing backdrop that pretty things comprise.
...Actually, there isn't "prettiness" so much as utility and coordination in my real world. The reliance on prettiness exists mainly in my writing. It exists in these blog posts. This concession, this present self-awareness, should reveal to me some sort of unadorned truth, right? Or maybe raw experiences of both physical and emotional pain may bring the clarity I seek. In successful attempts to avoid infection, for example, I've taken to the exorbitant use of rubbing alcohol in all instances of broken skin. I'm a true Underground Man, and these are my notes.
...Actually, there isn't "prettiness" so much as utility and coordination in my real world. The reliance on prettiness exists mainly in my writing. It exists in these blog posts. This concession, this present self-awareness, should reveal to me some sort of unadorned truth, right? Or maybe raw experiences of both physical and emotional pain may bring the clarity I seek. In successful attempts to avoid infection, for example, I've taken to the exorbitant use of rubbing alcohol in all instances of broken skin. I'm a true Underground Man, and these are my notes.
But I should be able to reach a state in which the everyday world can seem full of significance and even holiness. Perhaps only then can I achieve any sort of true agency. Only then can power seep from the tips of my fingers, like the pervading sound of a bell I have rung through absolute silence.
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