My home is not a home

No peace rest solace comfort except at drunken 3am laying down in the still streetlight-lit park. Gentleness of only inhumanly sounds trees swaying leaves twitching softly. The earth cradled me. Gave me more of a home than my own.

But Bodies Cannot Make Promises For Souls

 

Give me two coins

Set them on my eyes. The boat is here to take me there. But bodies cannot make promises for souls.

We Are Not Dead

Absolutely fascinating portrait project, on so many levels - psychological, social, artistic, to name a few:

Portraits of Soldiers Before, During, and After War

Captured are "the innocent expressions of these men transformed into gaunt, sullen faces in less than a year."

What’s especially fascinating to me is how most of them look so acutely engaged in the “at war” photos. It’s as if their life force is drained after experiencing everything and interacting with the world around them so intensely.

Under The Gun

SISTERS OF MERCY

You don't have to say you're sorry
To look on further down the line
Into the sun
Too close at heaven
Love is fine
But you can't hold it like a...

Two worlds apart two together
Into that good night kiss away
One takes the hard, one the other
Kiss away

Are you living for love?
Are you living for love?
When the road gets too tough
Is your love strong enough?

Are you living?
Are you living for love?
Are you living for love?
Are you living?
Are you living for love?
Are you living for love?

Do you feel your head is full of thunder?
Questions never end
Empty nights alone no wonder
It all comes back again

Are you living for love?
Are you living for love?
I've been under the gun
I've lost and I've won
Are you living for love?
Are you living for love?
I've been under the gun
I've lost and I've won

(one, two, three four...)
Forget the many steps to heaven
It never happened and it ain't so hard
Happiness is a loaded weapon and a
Shortcut is better by far
Explosive bolts, ten thousand volts
At a million miles an hour
Abrasive wheels and molten metals
It's a semi-automatic, get in the car
Corrosive heart and frozen heat
We're worlds apart where we could meet
Where the streets fold round and the motors start
And the idiots wield the power
Where the chosen hold the highest card
On the field of honour where the ground is hard
So the highest hand is joking wild
And the house soon fold and no one stand
I put my finger on and dialed
Nine nine nine, singer down
Cloudburst and all around
The first are last, the blessed get wired
The best is yet to come
I put my finger on and fired
Heat-seeking, out of the sun
You can set the controls for the heart or the knees
And the meek'll inherit what they damn well please
Get ahead, go figure, go ahead and pull the trigger
Everything under the gun

On Repeat, Til I Sleep

But I don't.

Klonopin, Doxylamine, and my second glass of wine. No sleep. Sedated, but no sleep.

so I wait hoping the concoction will knock me out sometime before...well, it's 2:00 am and I need to be up for work in 4 hours. If I were free to enjoy my time as I please, I would have nothing but gratitude for this visit paid to me by the spirits of night, to spend time with her orange muted glow of fog-shrouded city streetlights, the unlikely and uncommon thoughts and sensations she brings to me. And put her on repeat.

I want to stay up and watch Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus, one of my most favorite movies in the whole world.

Ballets & Tragic Plots

It's 4:00 am. I cannot sleep.

Watching Black Swan again tonight reminded me of my mother, who, years before I was born, used to dance and teach ballet. I remember this beautiful old picture-book she had of Giselle, and when she read it to me and presented the story, she told me it was her favorite ballet. It's about a girl who dies of a broken heart because she loves someone she cannot be with, but in the end is redeemed and transcendent because of the power of her love.
Then, I remembered how she used to read me original Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales, being sure I was well educated as to the real story of The Little Mermaid - not some cheesy Disney crap where women are proportioned like Barbies and everything is happy in the end and the good side wins and the bad side loses. No, that original story was much more like Giselle, and as far as I know, it was my mother's favorite fairy tale. The Little Mermaid never gets her prince, but to try, she willingly undergoes physical and heart-rending torment and is ultimately faced with either killing her prince, and returning to live three hundred years as a mermaid with her family, or dying and turning into nothing but foam upon the sea (while humans are granted eternity in Heaven). She does not kill her prince.

Immersing myself for a while in the memories of these stories as she presented them to me, I wonder if I haven't learned anew a thing or two about her heart.

The Wind -Up Bird Chronicle.

Finally finished The Wind Up Bird Chronicle - and how refreshing it is to dance with story lines that only lead to mystery and back to one's own mind to search for answers, to rest immersed a plot that does not explain and reconcile everything away, in that smug Hollywood-story-line way that leaves nothing to the imagination. When I first encountered that kind of storytelling a long time ago, it used to make me uncomfortable, now I am always so hungry for that cerebral stretch, and so grateful when I find it. Thank you Murakami

Heritage

I made Bushala, Assyrian soup, tonight for my dearest Nana, who hasn't been feeling well (guided by the wisdom of ages of her careful direction). We sat at the table and enjoyed wholesome, steaming bowls. And the more of her bowl she drank, the more she seemed to become enlivened. My dad walked by and took a taste despite himself and his dinner waiting for him in the oven. Then he took a second one. Then he took a cup full and sat down with us. Grandmother, father, daughter, enjoying the food of our heritage, just the three of us together. 

Dysmorphia

Me. Photographed by husband; tattoo by Luke Stewart; original artwork by Krithika Muthukamar.

My painting tonight. Acrylic on recycled canvas (work in progress).

I just want to start this over. I know the pieces fit.

TOOL - SOBER

There's a shadow just behind me

Shrouding every step I take
Making every promise empty
Pointing every finger at me
Waiting like a stalking butler
Who upon the finger rests
Murder now, the pattern called "must we"
Just because the son has come

Jesus,wont you fucking whistle ?
Something but the past and done
Jesus, wont you fucking whistle
Something but the past and done

Why can't we not be sober?
I just want to start this over
Why can't we drink forever?
I just want to start this over

I am just a worthless liar
I am just an imbecile
I will only complicate you
Trust in me and fall as well
I will find a centre in you
I will chew it up and leave
I will work to elevate you
Just enough to bring you down

Mother Mary, won't you whisper?
Something but what's past and done
Mother Mary, won't you whisper?
Something but what's past and done

Why can't we not be sober?
I just want to start this over
Why can't we sleep forever?
I just want to start this over
And why?

I am just a worthless liar
I am just an imbecile
I will only complicate you
Trust in me and fall as well
I will find a centre in you
I will chew it up and leave

Trust me
Trust me
Trust me
Trust me
Trust me

Why can't we not be sober?
I just want to start things over
And why can't we sleep forever?
I just want to start this over
And why?

I want it when I want it
I want it when I want it
I want it when I want it
I want it when I want it

__________________________________________

TOOL - SCHISM

I know the pieces fit
'Cause I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smouldering
Fundamental differing
Pure intention juxtaposed
Will set two lovers' souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes
Testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then
Has a burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end
Crippling our communication

I know the pieces fit
'Cause I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame
It doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other
Watch the temple topple over
To bring the pieces back together
Rediscover communication

The poetry
That comes from the squaring off between
And the circling is worth it
Finding beauty in the dissonance

There was a time that the pieces fit
But I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smouldering
Strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know
The dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow
And strengthen our communication
Cold silence has
A tendency to
Atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed brothers
Between supposed lovers

I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit
I know the pieces fit

I miss my husband.