Uncategorized

أحبك (Ahebuke from kiss on the head to touch of your feet)

If the night turned cold
And the stars looked down

And you hug yourself
On the cold, cold ground

You wake the morning
In a stranger’s coat
No one would you see

You ask yourself, ‘Who’d watch for me?’
My only friend, who could it be?
It’s hard to say it
I hate to say it

But it’s probably me

When your belly’s empty
And the hunger’s so real
And you’re too proud to beg
And too dumb to steal
You search the city
For your only friend
No one would you see

You ask yourself, ‘Who’d watch for me?’
A solitary voice to speak out and set me free
I hate to say it
I hate to say it

But it’s probably me

You’re not the easiest person I ever got to know
And it’s hard for us both to let our feelings show

Some would say
I should let you go your way

You’ll only make me cry

But if there’s one guy, just one guy
Who’d lay down his life for you and die

It’s hard to say it
I hate to say it
But it’s probably me

When the world’s gone crazy, and it makes no sense
And there’s only one voice that comes to your defence
And the jury’s out
And your eyes search the room
One friendly face is all you need to see

And if there’s one guy, just one guy
Who’d lay down his life for you and die

I hate to say it
I hate to say it
But it’s probably me

I hate to say it
I hate to say
But it’s probably me

-Sting

Christlike song I fell for listening to it on Johnson Avenue above Manhattan. Ohdi would play it for me sitting in the livingroom just listening. In it’s melody and in his voice you can hear something—a man is clearly singing but in my head i’m him and the night walker he’s speaking to. Savior but not confident …”probably” and no hero…”i hate to say it.”

you can’t be a hero if you “give-up”. it’s a dirty thing to “give-up.” It’s about as bad as saying “I miss you” “need you” “love you.” but I’ve been asking lately what exactly is so terrible with “giving-up”…isn’t that to offer up? Isn’t that an action? We accuse it though of being an agentless inaction, but to even make mention (“to give up”) would mean that the subject/object in question is somehow worthy of being kept, it’s at least wanted, otherwise why would we care about its loss. If it didn’t mean anything and if it was easy to do in the first place, wouldn’t it have the same resonance as the tossing of an old blunt out the window. Maybe it’s disrespected because it’s easier to imagine that giving-up is easy to do, and it takes an easy person to do it. I’ll be the first to admit that “to give up” sounds like failure, as if we’re leaving ourself, the dream, our values, our faith. But doesn’t “giving-up” also sound like an offering up that releases your hands just as a burden is laid down.

I know it seems like a weak thing, a sad thing, out of line with beauty and strength, courage and independence and all the other biblical, American, right-wing, leftist, liberal, academic values that make our oppositions seem less so. We can all at least agree on this…that we won’t be vulnerable, (god forbid) we’ll keep a tight upper-lip, we’ll be strong god damn it, and when push comes to shove we won’t back down. We all agree to live up to these values and we do so in similar ways despite all our ranting on our “differences”. Lord knows I’ve flirted with them, i’ve wanted to be beautiful too but seeing myself marked as-less-than the male heroes that I can find with my $10 Loews ticket, is making me ugly. You and me both David are hopelessly impotent.

Shit, I’d like to join the consensus of what we (all) believe is beautiful and brave but I can’t say that i’m capable of that narrative. I mean it’s been the same story now for years. The struggle, the struggle, the struggle, the victorous struggle. What would you do to me if i told you i didn’t want to struggle anymore? I know you’d say, why not hold on to it just a little bit longer? Isn’t it “nice” for people to congratulate you on the struggle, on your bravery, even if that wasn’t the intention, but what does that matter since they insist on giving it to you anyhow. Twisted ain’t it how it takes absolutely no love and a shit load of suffocating pride to make you a mentionable. Head up, put together, walking tall especially, especially if you’re a dyke like me, right? Laid down your life for my children? Walked the street to bring money back home? Exchanged sweat for your brother? Jumping the fence to leave the pack and save your hind doesn’t count but in this town it does. Everyone wants a piece of that ass, since at the very least it murmurs back the wet dream we take with us that miracles happen and that we can be someone even if we feel like nothing.

Fear of giving-up the faith for you, on our dream, the vision, the feeling, the hope, the sweetness, the belief that things will get better, has kept me subject to holding on to the long-suffering virgin Mary version of myself for too long. Maybe, maybe, do you think like sometimes i think, that you have to give up in order to keep the faith. It’s not a laying away or a giving away entirely, but a going to where you started…small and low…that low that I reject because it’s a bottom. And we both know we don’t want to be bottoms. You don’t get on your knees. (That’s a female trait.) You don’t let some someone stand above you. You don’t get on your knees to pray. You don’t place your hands on the ground from getting dizzy from taking in too much…too much hash because you forgot, you forgot you were a woman. You’re my brother, not the “long-suffering martyr” who thinks she’s stronger, who misestimates her size and ends up curled over on the floor, forgetting that she is a woman, that she’s smaller then the men in the room who haven’t forgotten she’s a woman either. She forgets because she doesn’t feel small, she thinks she can carry the brunt of your symbols and your other worlds, but she’s on the floor now. You and her both won’t be a bottom in a world where someone’s gotta be on top. You don’t get low to that place even though that place is holding you up, that place where your body reaches from, that place where in your aim to fly away from here you’ve forgotten who you still stand on, the mother who is still holding you up. That physical place that you can barely touch on your own body that I can also barely touch on mine. It isn’t all that wired. It’s not wired at all that you wouldn’t touch yourself or let me see you there, because I barely touch myself at the base of my frame either. I barely think of it as part of my own body anymore. It’s a figment at the end of me and i hardly travel down. it isn’t wired. it makes perfect sense that we won’t give the hero up. i’m flirting though with the thought because i want to give UP. not for the ideal, not for the cause, not for the party line, not for the hero or for mutual understanding, not for world peace. not for anything at all. but maybe a little i think, for you. i don’t know if that’s wrong. but i think i’m doing it.

Advertisements
Standard