Fire

The eyes are windows to the soul, they say. But that moment looks like art. It tastes like marshmallows and hot chocolate in winter. It smells like a breathless night, hiding under covers, knowing our bodies will meet. When Silence was the only language you spoke to me in, I became fluent at speaking Silence.

When you touch it, it feels like the walls have evaporated. There is no border, no boundary between self and other. There is no me and you.

Falling faster, flustered, furious at you, finding a first.. a first what? This is a fever. Madness has finally caught up with me. I studied madness for too long. I had mastered the art of words, of language, and yet language cannot label, cannot serve. It falls at your feet, ashamed of itself. Language asks you to forgive, to scoop her up with your delicate fingers.

Take Language, take the Story, take it all. Rewrite it. Change it. Make it mine. Make this ending mine. I am sorry, I am greedy, I am wild and untamed before you. You have started the fire, and it is a beautiful disaster.

The Art of Losing

The Art of losing. Is loss an art? Is it possible to learn how to lose? As we grow older, our hearts harden. Call it wisdom, call it cruelty, call it age, whatever you call it, it feels inevitable that as we become accustomed to loss, we learn to navigate the world under the premise that all is eventually lost. Perhaps I am a pessimist. Perhaps I was born an optimist, and learned to master pessimism. I am not sure. All I know is that this human condition still confuses me.

Last night, I watched a film called ‘Reaching for the Moon.’ It tells the story of the poet Elizabeth Bishop. Bishop has always been a bit vague in terms of her sexuality, her love affairs, etc. But this film was very well-written, beautifully performed, and the portrayal of Bishop’s complex love affair is presented as having colored her writing. I was extremely touched by the performance, especially the recital of her poem ‘One Art.’  I won’t summarize the plot of the film, but I will insist that it is intense. Below is the poem, but it must be read out loud or listened to, to do it justice:

One Art: by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Wrong Medication

I thought I had found a safe haven in your arms. I thought you’d make it all better. But instead, you made me feel more alone. The world is a strange place. You are fine walking on your own, until one day someone stops you, asks you if you are okay. You asked if I was okay, and I should have avoided answering. To open up is to risk. And now I’m here wondering what went wrong.   

Gravity

What is this gravity that has your thoughts in my head, and my blood in your veins? Last night I thought I was in pain. It turns out it was you.

This is Gravity. This is the physical expression of it. Watch:

Thoughts on Random Disability

As a Disability Studies scholar, I have referred to Multiple Sclerosis (MS) as a random disability. I have unpacked this term in a couple of essays. Soon, I am publishing an essay in a Disability Studies Anthology. This is quite exciting and I feel a certain satisfaction in having established/coined the term.

Because MS is not predictable, not easily understood, it remains a mystery to scientists and the general population. I tend to shrug my shoulders when I try to explain it, in the same way that doctors shrug their shoulders at me.

This randomness does not make any sense to me, a logical person who demands answers, solutions, explanations. While I was presenting a paper at the International Conference for Innovation in Literature and the Sciences – I began to feel this crushing fatigue, and my vision was starting to blur. I felt estranged from my own body, from my self. I could not focus on the success of the moment, but rather, all I wanted was to retain my vision. I simply wanted to keep it. I was afraid and alone. Fear is yet another concept I am learning to grapple with. Strength and fear are more interconnected than we think. I am afraid of being too strong, forgetting vulnerability, and I am afraid of being weak, and unable to depend on myself.

And that’s all for now.