At the Bottom of the Heart

“But city life sometimes takes away the ‘early dew of morning’. Still the longing for the ‘old, old story’ remains; whatever is at the bottom of the heart stays there”

Vincent Van Gogh
Portrait of Vincent Van Gogh by John Peter Russell. Vincent watches me while I write.

In the current age of self-branding I was trying to find a way to brand myself. Creating this site is a way to share what is passed over in the publishing sphere, and I wanted to give it a name. But the idea of branding myself caused me to look at myself as a product. I know in order to make it you gotta sell a little of your something right? I tried many names but my own because it didn’t feel right. I felt a little lost as to how to share what I create. I felt sad and useless, and deeply troubled with the notion of selling myself as a name, as a brand. I pushed writing aside for a while to reflect and dove into anything that pulled at my sensitivities. I rediscovered Vincent Van Gogh and delved a little further into his life. Feeling excited to have found my soul kin, I ordered his autobiography, letters to his brother Theo, his life in his own words. Sixteen pages in, and I found this quote and it struck me right in the heart. I knew what he meant. The naturalness of ourselves, the waking newness of ourselves in each day is robbed by the demands of a busy life. The city is tough on the soul, constantly demanding more us. And yet the longing for something simple, something our ancestors knew is there. At the bottom of the heart lies the fossils of the old, passed on through us. Right then and there I found what I wanted to name all of this. It feels fitting to me to name all my efforts as the early dew of morning- everything I create in spite of the demands, everything I hold dear and what gives me a sense of purpose. Whatever is at the bottom of my heart- the old stories, the histories, stay there like fossils waiting to be discovered in time.

So, what’s at the bottom of your heart?

Two

Two is my favorite word. Two, to, too, too. Two divided in each hand as one. The tongue halfway on the roof of the mouth on the too, the tah, the two, the to somewhere, the too too and two fingers symbolizing peace, pointer and middle scissors cutting in two halves and halves together is a whole and whole can be severed in two broken hearts: two souls shattered to pieces, to glass that injures and bleeds two by two, by two drops falling into the mouth that sings too, trilling the vocal chords two by two, by two, plucking the soul strings so that two came to, too.

What is it about two? Two things, two hearts, two souls, two bodies, one to each and to each one too, and matters to, that the two can come together as one whole but can be severed in two again, broken too by two by two by two.

I love the word two, the woo silent, the tee resilient cutting the tongue, the middle caressing the half, halfway meeting the lines inside the opening of a sentence that can drain into the throat two by two, swallowed and nourished for the purpose, just to. Two, too, to we go, hand in hand, one by one, two together or apart but always two.

“two is my favorite word too” you say. I smile, two lips, two eyes, two ears that eager at every syllable that makes their way out of your lips, and I admire those two eyes, two ears, those lips that pucker to say, “two”.

Poem XX

Adrienne Rich’s Twenty-One Love Poems are something to behold. Poem XX is the one that moved me, the one that shed a light on something within me I needed to understand, about what the soul is, what the soul is made of.

“That conversation we were always on the edge of having, runs on in my head”, what is this conversation? The internal monologue we have, that inner voice that gathers our intuition and hands it to us. I then read it over and over sharpening my understanding of the soul. Is it a mirror, reflecting the vulnerabilities of ourselves we hide? Not necessarily. We are so prone to continue this life ignoring ourselves for the sake of having a life people think is worth living. There comes a time though, a small moment, where we see ourselves, and the neglect that has caused our grief, “…drowning in secrets, fear wound round her throat”. This grief we try to set aside, throw whatever we can at it, but it’s still determined to creep up when we believe to have defeated it. Our soul is not a mirror, but it will show us what we have been neglecting, how we have been hurting. And then, the sudden realization that we can indeed have a hand at shaping our soul, to have a hand at expanding and growing by nourishing it, to realize it is ours, it is mine, “and soon I shall know I was talking to my own soul”.

This was my interpretation of it and sometimes I wonder if I’m right or wrong. But then again, even though the writer had a certain intention with it, how it is received is something entirely different. I like to think of poetry and other art forms like a road sign, something that highlights what you’ve been mulling over and over again in the palm of your hands, and at times medicine, an elixir that brings the understanding you need in order to continue on.

And now I ask, what has moved you on this Monday, or lately?

Poem XX from Twenty-One Love Poems in, The Dream of a Common Language by: Adrienne Rich

Post Mortem Memories

What if you could get a snapshot of the last thing your loved one saw before they died? Or a sound recording of what they were thinking before the heart hits the brakes? Would the death be less hurtful? Will we begin to love them or hate them fully then? What if they told us how they feel, how they really felt when they were able to?

How vulnerable do we feel when we let it all in though? To be viewed as a public park, everyone pissing everywhere, throwing their garbage where they stand and moving on not noticing the trash cans here and there. The snapshot of a fleeting memory, a blurry sight, as if through tears, of someone throwing their shit around you not caring how it will be received. A photographic memory hurts, to see and remember everything with such clarity as everyone else fumbles around you trying to remember what they ate for lunch yesterday.

What if you could get a piece, some kind of fabric that will let you feel what they felt the moment they breathed their last breath? As you wrap it around your person, does the guilt stab a part of you, the part of you that knew what to say and when to say it but never said it, does the guilt fill the broken parts of you, the pieces stinging in defense, feeling too broken to fully love in return, even if the dying person caused you to be a broken thing in the first place?

Last night, I dreamed someone gave me a snapshot of the last thing my great aunt saw before she died- a constellation of stars in the dark, navy sky. I felt relieved. I felt absolved of the pain I felt for not holding the woman who gave some meaning to my life before she died. Ah, to see the possibility of the beyond in the glittery skies, to see the infinite, the hope, the sincere hope that there is no end, just a leap into something else that marks a chapter finished, that marks the trail end, that marks the path done and done. I have not done any damage, I have not caused so much pain, there was a hope I did not kill with my carelessness.

They took the picture back and I continued walking on a dirt path, someone handed me a mug of water and I drank deeply sighing into myself. I held the mug close to my chest and I awoke holding my hands, the mug no longer there. The banging of the heater brought me back, the reality insisting as the spiritual plane draws back as a veil, the gossamer curtains swaying slowly back into place.

Gabriel’s Wing- 19 Ghazal No.1

What does it mean to be moved? Moved to tears? to anger? to sadness? to happiness? Something within us stirs and is alive waiting for anything that has the capacity to brighten or dim, to enhance or mute, to grow or to shrink. As a creative person, as a writer, and as a human being I want to talk about what moves me, and what stays with me. So, I want to share pieces of work that has moved something within me, that has stirred my essence, and has eventually stained a bit of my existence.

In “Gabriel’s Wing”, Allama Iqbal’s constant questioning of “mine or Yours?” has stayed with me ever since I came across the poem five years ago. My own spiritual journey is holy at this moment, to the point that it feels a little difficult to fully share. I started this journey around the time I read this poem. “Mine or Yours?” the responsibility of life, of being, touching upon the idea of perfection and the faults. When some of us finally arrive to the threshold of our God, we have our arms wide open and in need of the embrace of the Divine. Our own notions of a pure love is sort of tainted a bit by the idea of mother and father, so we arrive here- ‘my maker’ and assign them the role of mother and father. I couldn’t help but to think of when a child has done something wrong, the father looks over to the mother to say, ‘that’s your child not mine’ when reading this poem. We somehow take it upon ourselves that this must be a collaborative work, me and God, God as the parent but also us creating our God and confusingly God creating us. We’re here wondering if everything we see is ours or God’s. When everything is not perfect as we think it should be, whose fault is that? We either think too much or too little of ourselves, so it’s natural that we think too much or too little of God.

No matter where one is on their spiritual journey, there’s always this sincere questioning of God. The God we are taught about, the God we don’t see, the God we do see, and the God we wish could be if only people try to believe enough. But here Iqbal questions everything we are aware of so far; if heaven is corrupted, is it God’s heaven or my heaven? If I’m ignorant of the world’s woes, is it God’s fault or mine? If all of life is truly meaningless, am I to blame or can I blame God for that? Should I know of Your faults God, how an angel dared to rebel at the moment of You showing Your magnificent powers of creation, will that make You weaker in my eyes, should it affect my devotion to you? Everything that is holy is Yours God but didn’t I, as a human being, had a hand in writing those words? And me, a human you made, am I still Yours God, will you still claim me God if I’m no longer perfect in your eyes or will I stand alone?

If we want to be skeptical, we could say all of this is ours. The reality here is ours and we should accept blame where blame is due. When a human being decides to harm others, God didn’t reach within them and move them to destroy another’s world the same way Satan did not move them to do the same. So, this God we question is the likeness we seek. We wish to put a mirror to our faults and yet we shy away at the last minute: ‘there must be something grand that can take all the blame, both good and bad, I don’t want the responsibility of all of that’.

For me, God is not a man in the sky, and we are not made in that man’s likeness. I’m confident I know for sure what God isn’t, but I still don’t fully know what God truly is. My own journey is still roving. I’m still trying to figure out what God is. I came across Simone Weil’s words today, “Love needs reality. What is more terrible than the discovery that through a bodily appearance we have been loving an imaginary being” (from “Love”, Simone Weil: An Anthology) and it stirs up that feeling again when I question my devotion to a God I chose to believe in; how could I love someone I don’t see? To be asked to take things on faith and faith alone is an exercise of the heart’s will, its capacity to love, and a test to our humanity. What makes us real,what makes us human? Hoping for an all-powerful being we can’t see to love us as we are is a ridiculous endeavor. It makes people angry and upset to say that, hell it makes me upset to even say it. So, when I read “Gabriel’s Wing”, it brought to my attention my creator and the responsibility of things whether they are perfect or not, and are these things perfect in the first place if they could change with perspective and blame?

I know what God is not through these questions. For now, I am content in the unraveling of this spiritual world as a new one blooms before me, with me before it, understanding everything from questioning everything I’ve been told about it.

“Gabriel’s Wing” is a piece of work that has stained me, not a day goes by where I don’t think about it. The line, “and man, that thing of dust, that star whose shining lights your world-” is a line that makes me smile. There’s always that residue left within us, like a child looking up at their parent, whether joyful or sad, how powerful are we to have that capacity to light up someone’s world, aren’t we something?

A Case for Small Talk

How do you approach someone? Anyone? Who wants to be approached, who wants to talk? If you begin to talk: a hello, a hi. More relaxed: a hey, hey how have you been? Insert the weather. It’s raining here. Yes, I’m here too.

Sometimes people will scold the rain. Tell the rain off because your clothes will get wet. You got to stand for eight hours at work in wet clothes. Yea it’ll dry, but it’ll dry on you. Nothing more uncomfortable than clothes drying on your body. Cold rain or warm rain. You’re going to work inside where there’s air conditioner blasting away. You’ll get sick.

Back to the weather. This conversation. When you approach someone, anyone. Overcast. It’s cloudy. But no one talks about the sadness that visits them sometimes. It’s fine you say. I’m fine. I’m good, could be worse– an attempt at some honesty. Neither good nor bad because it could be worse. If honesty can be worn all day on the face, what would it look like? On women, when they’re really honest, when we’re really honest, it looks ugly. No smile. No sense of expression. Just the weight of having to perform so much, shown when we don’t want to carry anything anymore. You got to carry the carefree as if your life depended on it. You can’t be too passionate- it’s desperate. They only want desperation when you’re on your knees, mouth open, fingers and anything phallic in, like you’re some hole ready to be filled with the burdens men carry, calling them seeds as a way to deflect the fact that they could care less for living. Only caring if it meant that they can hold the reigns to a woman, to an animal, an extension to the truth that they’re born just like everyone else and nothing will ever make them special or apart. But they do sure try to wrangle anything to hide that and call the thing on the leash a monster to be tamed, trained, and disposed of when no longer useful.

But anyways, the state of things. Emotions. Greetings. The weather. And then lying about how we really are. Approaching someone without revealing the ugliness of the world as it is. We despise small talk but can’t be asked to reveal the truth of ourselves. How can you hate the question and the answer, when you can barely look in the mirror and accept yourself as you are? Always putting on something to disguise the impotence of your person. Always flanking yourself with others to hide the glaring loneliness in your eyes. But God forbid someone knocks on your door to ask you, how you been?

Awkward interactions. We chalk them up to curses from the rude people who couldn’t psychically read your mind- you were just having a bad day. So, how you been lately? The rain is running down the streets. It fell and fell. Soaking the pant suits, the flip flops slopping it about, your toes holding tight as you walk fast to shelter your summer dressings, the hair all puffed up or slicked down. No one can read your mind. The brick by brick; the fine by okay, I’m fine and okay, laid on top of each other creating a barrier. Yet the yearning for some magical, cosmical person to melt them down is staining your heart red. Red turns to anger, turns to hate, turns to love, and just plain fire in the end. You don’t want to be lit up. You don’t want to be struck down. You conclude- you just want to be. Because being becomes easier to bare than baring all the muck on your soul, plastered on by the disappointing interactions that you record unconsciously, letting it repeat until you’re blue in the face. Blue is sadness, and you’re blue all over. So how you really been? all fine? all okay? How about we start with a hello? a hi? a more casual hey? The sun is still hiding. The rain is just a shower and your heart seems non-existent today. Just a drummer pumping the red blood around your sack of flesh, the bones hurting from the weight of standing too still sometimes.

Enter changes. Locked up space in the lessons you run your fingers over and over again. What’s her name again? You can’t remember, but the way her lips felt on yours- that will forever be its own subject in your book, no? A chapter is the way she puts on her clothes after she fucks you. And the bookmark is you wondering whether you’d be good enough for anyone at all and when will that happen? The whole comedy is you sitting on the toilet looking at yourself wondering if you’re even real. The tragedy is the look of someone looking at you while you’re figuring it all out. The romance is the dark corners blaring out lost lyrics to different songs you can never forget. What’s his name? A shirt you keep. Socks you wear sometimes, and woman don’t it feel like a tragedy when he looks the other way when your face smiles too wide? How we forget ourselves in the moments?  You need the small talk, like walls to a cage we built for some kind of safety from God knows what. God knows way more than you and thank the heavens for that. Thank the angels for creating the barriers you need to heal. Insisting in the casual hey and the weather, my goodness when will it stop raining, we will definitely get sick.

We need the small talk ladies and gentlemen of the jury. We need to realize that we hide the little monsters even from ourselves, so why do we insist for everyone to lay them all out on the table in passing? You know that person is just logging information like NSA ready to divulge it to the next casual encounter, to some other person who logs it in, to be told to another acquaintance who will probably agree that you’re a boring fuck that does nothing with their life. But aren’t we all just boring fucks trying to do something with our lives? The desperation to live as the though the camera is always on is something akin to a tragic comedy. The tears in the eyes falling like rain while the mouth laughs. Continue please. The face desperate to keep living because what else can we do?

Wrap it up fuckers. The long-winded ones. The ones ready to let you know every single fucking detail that goes on in their lives. Not only theirs but others too. But how else are we to know what’s going on? The blaring horns of information to let us know we are not that sad and ridiculous all alone, we got the company of others to thank. Maybe, it may even make us feel a little normal. But hey, the rain is beautiful the way it washes away the piss on the street and temporarily lifts the stench of garbage and even provides a little hope that yes, I cried last night because I’m too poor to live like the camera is always on and I’m permanently hiding behind the I’m okay and I’m fine but either way, how have you been?