The first morning, I watched clutching my robe, my heart struggling to beat, hot tears stinging the backs of my eyes. I watched, paralyzed by the image of bombs dropping, of fathers running, carrying bloody children in their arms. I watched and felt so powerless.
It still amazes me, even though I know it's nothing new, that the media in the US can be so one-sided. It's appalling to me that they don't use their journalistic and investigative skills to look at the root cause. It is right for Israel to only "defend" itself? Why is it not okay for Palestinians to defend themselves? And why hasn't the Israel gov't said the truth about how many folks Hamas hasn't hurt with their retaliation?
I wonder and think back to riding the 18 bus from Ramallah to Jerusalem. Several times, I road back and forth between the West bank to Jerusalem. Being accosted by young soldiers with M-16's who were hot and bored and had itchy trigger fingers. I road in silence, trembling with the desire to say something of substance when they'd harass young mothers, other foreigners, teenagers who were equally bored or scared or frustrated with concrete walls and in guns in their faces.
Lets take a look at history and simplify it if we can. Lets say that you lived in a house a very very long time ago and it's been sold/given away and other generations have lived there. Other families doing just fine. And they know you're going through a hard time and are saying, "Okay, you're having a hard time, you can come and stay with us for a little while if you like," and their response is, "We're not going to stay for a little while, we're going to stay and you can go live in the dog house in the backyard and you can only go ten feet out on each side of the dog house and nothing more. And if you move, we'll shoot you." That's the situation in a nutshell. Of course there were Jews in the country already, but no one was trying to kick other folks out of their houses or off their lands.
I think back to my cousins and aunts and uncles not being able to leave the West Bank and see all the things I got to see in person. And being searched, having their bags looked in, having their trunks turned upside down, having their children scared.
I wanted to go to Gaza, but the farther south you go, the worse the soldiers are, the more security there is. No one rides the bus to the last stop I've heard. No one hardly dares unless they're with the news or an organization in their own car and even then, you need permission way in advance.
Human nature shows that when put between a rock and a hard place, you're going to want to fight back. You're going to push back against that rock because you're not going to sit there and get crushed. If someone, for example, from NY was only allowed to go from 14th street to 42nd street and only 125th when the Mayor felt like it and no where else and searched all the time, have your lights and water cut off periodically, be treated like an animal, you'd want to lash out too.
Palestinians and other Arabs alike didn't just start bombing and fighting out of no where. This didn't just HAPPEN because of boredom or evilness or Islam. This didn't just happen for no reason. Palestinians are fighting the way the Jews fought to stay alive during the holocaust. The Israels are treating Palestinians the same way they were treated. Just as a child abused might grow up and abuse their children.
So Israel can defend itself and Palestine can't? I don't condone either side. There shouldn't be any fighting. But there is. I just want folks to see why. Its not one-sided. Its not the mighty innocent Israel taking out those bad Palestinians. It's a genocide and a Palestinian Holocaust. Tell it like it is. For real and stop worrying about being PC. And why should Americans care? Because its our tax dollars that are paying for the weapons that Israel is using.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Friday, November 7, 2008
The demon inside
A few weeks ago I watched an episode of True Blood, where one of the characters is dealing with Alcohol addictions. Instead of seeking out another unsuccessful meeting, she went to a woman who performed an exorcism because they both believed that her Alcohol addiction was a demon possessing her and making her do these things, making her act out, making her drink so much that she couldn't live or function and was ruining her. When she talked about her addiction, she talked about it referring to the demon making her do things.
Conceptually I understand that. I understand fully from what she meant. From personal experience and from watching others with an addiction. You are, for all intents and purposes, possessed by a demon/addiction/disease that you have no control over. Similar to my own battle with my Lupus. My control is very limited. There is only so much you can do. And so goes it with addiction.
Recently someone I love very much described it the same way. Described their battle with addiction like a demon. An evil gnawing demon, eating away at their insides. Making them do things they didn't really want to do or couldn't remember doing.
The more I go to the meetings with them, the more I see how in denial I've been about having a problem myself. The more I see just how important it will be to have an intervention for my mom. The more I see how very important it is to go to these meetings every damn day.
I keep hearing so many folks say that being an addict is a disease. I disease that tells you you DON'T have a disease. But it is one. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain and in the DNA that causes you to not be able to control or stop using. That is what it does.
Let's hope it doesn't eat away at the people I care about who are battling it. Lets hope it doesn't eat away at me as I battle it.
Conceptually I understand that. I understand fully from what she meant. From personal experience and from watching others with an addiction. You are, for all intents and purposes, possessed by a demon/addiction/disease that you have no control over. Similar to my own battle with my Lupus. My control is very limited. There is only so much you can do. And so goes it with addiction.
Recently someone I love very much described it the same way. Described their battle with addiction like a demon. An evil gnawing demon, eating away at their insides. Making them do things they didn't really want to do or couldn't remember doing.
The more I go to the meetings with them, the more I see how in denial I've been about having a problem myself. The more I see just how important it will be to have an intervention for my mom. The more I see how very important it is to go to these meetings every damn day.
I keep hearing so many folks say that being an addict is a disease. I disease that tells you you DON'T have a disease. But it is one. It is a chemical imbalance in the brain and in the DNA that causes you to not be able to control or stop using. That is what it does.
Let's hope it doesn't eat away at the people I care about who are battling it. Lets hope it doesn't eat away at me as I battle it.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
To be a mother and have a demanding career is Haram?
In Palestine, like many other countries in the Mid-East and Africa (or even folks from those countries who are in the US), the role of the Mother is very important. She takes care of everything her child(ren) need. In Palestine, most people are married by at least 21 or 22. And they stay married 95% of the time. Divorce doesn't happen here much. Not because of being forced to stay though.
As my cousin Shyma explained, there are people in place to help mediate at every juncture of the marriage. She's one of those people. She's not a therapist or a lawyer. She's a nurse. But because she's the head staff nurse at 2 large clinics and a hospital (she shares her time between them), she has a lot of interaction with the women who come. She doesn't do the medical stuff with them and their children. She talks to them about their lives, their problems. How to best work things out. That's how many people work things out here. And it works.
She has many young mothers come through (pediatrics is her specialty, but she works with the mothers as well as people too) to help them deal with being a mother because so many of them just got married or have been married for a while and now have a baby to take care of and although they have the help of their families, they don't feel like they are up to being mothers. Sound familiar? Only here, someone will help you. You won't be left high and dry to just work it out. And people helping you actually care. I guess that's the difference between social work in the US and social work here. The people have BEEN directly affected by the issue and so they know what it's like. As opposed to so many Social Workie folks in the US who have no idea what its like and start to not care.
The problem though with this now is that my cousin is being there for all these women and working a lot. She's at home still, doing things, but with very limited she. She also has a 2 1/2 year old and 4 year old. She's there for them as much as she can be. But she also wants to do her job. Her kids are at my aunts house, their grandmothers, after school when she's done teaching so it's no problem and then my cousin picks them up. She'll hang out here and then go home. She says her husband use to never help out, but now he helps a little bit. It would be one thing if she wasn't working full time AND helping her father with his driving school, but she is. In the US, it's "Normal" behavior if you're working a lot for whatever reason and someone else has to watch your kids, you do what you have to do and spend some time with them. Here that's no acceptable. My aunt says it's a sin. It's a sin to have a demanding career and kids and have to sacrifice some time? Hm. Perhaps, but it's reality. She's trying to save up to build a house. That's going to take work. She's going to have to sacrifice some time. And besides, that's what grandma's are for, right? I'm sure if it was up to my cousin, she would have waited a little while longer to get married. She's 26. She's been married 4 years. They don't really do birth control here. Of course she could get some since she's a nurse, but like the Catholics, it's grow and prosper here.
And don't get me wrong. She loves her kids and her husband. She was in love with him before they got married, so it wasn't like a random forced marriage. They went to college together. He graduated 2 years before her, but they kept in touch. He went to her dad and asked to marry her and they said to wait until she graduated and they did. She was grateful that her father did that. She probably would have never finished school if she got married at 19. She probably would have had more children and not following her dreams.
She feels the stress though,as any young mother would, to have her children and her job. To not get burnt out from doing both full time and trying to make a house. Of course it's harder when her husband wont cook or clean. It makes it harder. But hell, that's not new. That's been the role play for a long time all over the place. Of course in the US, if the dad sticks around, it can possibly be more of a partnership.
I told her to talk with him. She has. He's better than he used to be, she says.
I told her that sometimes with men that come from this kind of thinking, you have to trick them into doing more. She agreed. It just is the way it is. What can she do?
She said that things were nice, all lovey before they got married and when they first got married and then after a bit of time, she saw that he was different than she though and he saw that she was different than she thought. Sounds familiar, but for different reasons. In the US, folks say it's because "people change" after marriage in terms of what they want and commitment and all that. Clearly folks aren't spending enough time with each other, living with each other, knowing each other BEFORE they get married. But in my cousins instance, it's more like he thought she'd be a submissive yes sir wife who would above all put her family before her career and do everything for him on hands and knees...or something along those lines. And she thought he was the perfect guy, who would do romantic gestures all the time and help her, not treat her like a servant and then be a more active father once the kids came. They both had a fantasy that wasn't very close to reality and after 4 years of marriage, they are learning that they're going to have to really work with each other and be a partnership...even if it still won't be equal, it's better than it use to be. Hopefully it'll continue to get better for her.
Why is it a bad thing to have your career and your family? Sometimes it's gonna be hard. Sometimes you're going to spend more time at work, than with your kids. Any young adult trying make a better life for their family is going to go through this. She's not rich. She has to work for what she needs to do. If she wants to send her kids to college. If she wants to build a house (folks don't really buy houses here... they buy a plot of land and build a house on it...it's waaaaaaay less expensive to do all of that than it will ever be to buy a house in the US...crazy huh?)
Just wanted to write about that a bit.
I'm getting distracted, so I'll leave it that that.
As my cousin Shyma explained, there are people in place to help mediate at every juncture of the marriage. She's one of those people. She's not a therapist or a lawyer. She's a nurse. But because she's the head staff nurse at 2 large clinics and a hospital (she shares her time between them), she has a lot of interaction with the women who come. She doesn't do the medical stuff with them and their children. She talks to them about their lives, their problems. How to best work things out. That's how many people work things out here. And it works.
She has many young mothers come through (pediatrics is her specialty, but she works with the mothers as well as people too) to help them deal with being a mother because so many of them just got married or have been married for a while and now have a baby to take care of and although they have the help of their families, they don't feel like they are up to being mothers. Sound familiar? Only here, someone will help you. You won't be left high and dry to just work it out. And people helping you actually care. I guess that's the difference between social work in the US and social work here. The people have BEEN directly affected by the issue and so they know what it's like. As opposed to so many Social Workie folks in the US who have no idea what its like and start to not care.
The problem though with this now is that my cousin is being there for all these women and working a lot. She's at home still, doing things, but with very limited she. She also has a 2 1/2 year old and 4 year old. She's there for them as much as she can be. But she also wants to do her job. Her kids are at my aunts house, their grandmothers, after school when she's done teaching so it's no problem and then my cousin picks them up. She'll hang out here and then go home. She says her husband use to never help out, but now he helps a little bit. It would be one thing if she wasn't working full time AND helping her father with his driving school, but she is. In the US, it's "Normal" behavior if you're working a lot for whatever reason and someone else has to watch your kids, you do what you have to do and spend some time with them. Here that's no acceptable. My aunt says it's a sin. It's a sin to have a demanding career and kids and have to sacrifice some time? Hm. Perhaps, but it's reality. She's trying to save up to build a house. That's going to take work. She's going to have to sacrifice some time. And besides, that's what grandma's are for, right? I'm sure if it was up to my cousin, she would have waited a little while longer to get married. She's 26. She's been married 4 years. They don't really do birth control here. Of course she could get some since she's a nurse, but like the Catholics, it's grow and prosper here.
And don't get me wrong. She loves her kids and her husband. She was in love with him before they got married, so it wasn't like a random forced marriage. They went to college together. He graduated 2 years before her, but they kept in touch. He went to her dad and asked to marry her and they said to wait until she graduated and they did. She was grateful that her father did that. She probably would have never finished school if she got married at 19. She probably would have had more children and not following her dreams.
She feels the stress though,as any young mother would, to have her children and her job. To not get burnt out from doing both full time and trying to make a house. Of course it's harder when her husband wont cook or clean. It makes it harder. But hell, that's not new. That's been the role play for a long time all over the place. Of course in the US, if the dad sticks around, it can possibly be more of a partnership.
I told her to talk with him. She has. He's better than he used to be, she says.
I told her that sometimes with men that come from this kind of thinking, you have to trick them into doing more. She agreed. It just is the way it is. What can she do?
She said that things were nice, all lovey before they got married and when they first got married and then after a bit of time, she saw that he was different than she though and he saw that she was different than she thought. Sounds familiar, but for different reasons. In the US, folks say it's because "people change" after marriage in terms of what they want and commitment and all that. Clearly folks aren't spending enough time with each other, living with each other, knowing each other BEFORE they get married. But in my cousins instance, it's more like he thought she'd be a submissive yes sir wife who would above all put her family before her career and do everything for him on hands and knees...or something along those lines. And she thought he was the perfect guy, who would do romantic gestures all the time and help her, not treat her like a servant and then be a more active father once the kids came. They both had a fantasy that wasn't very close to reality and after 4 years of marriage, they are learning that they're going to have to really work with each other and be a partnership...even if it still won't be equal, it's better than it use to be. Hopefully it'll continue to get better for her.
Why is it a bad thing to have your career and your family? Sometimes it's gonna be hard. Sometimes you're going to spend more time at work, than with your kids. Any young adult trying make a better life for their family is going to go through this. She's not rich. She has to work for what she needs to do. If she wants to send her kids to college. If she wants to build a house (folks don't really buy houses here... they buy a plot of land and build a house on it...it's waaaaaaay less expensive to do all of that than it will ever be to buy a house in the US...crazy huh?)
Just wanted to write about that a bit.
I'm getting distracted, so I'll leave it that that.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Would it be easier to be a man? [and then some]
I meant to write about this a few days ago, but got busy with being in Palestine and writing about that journey. But all the while (for the last few days) I've been thinking about this:
Would it be easier to be a man here?
AND
Would it be easier if I more Arab looking and/or more Muslima looking?
I've been thinking a lot about this for several reasons.
I thought about being a man instead. Probably would be worse off. These days being a Palestinian man gets you just as much trouble as being a black man in America. Just like when my brother walks the street and is looked at like a black man and is harassed, so I would be too. I suppose in some ways, it's helped that I'm a "harmless" looking woman. Aside from my name, you can't tell where I come from or whats running through my blood.
Then again, maybe in being here, I'd be given more power. Treated differently if I were a man. If only I could dress up, play the part. But my body screams woman. I'm not opposed to dressing like a man.
Of course I could go on and on about sexism everywhere. About the power of women anywhere in the world, including in the US, in NY, in my neighborhood in Queens.
Walking through the streets of Ramallah, Palestine, I get a lot of looks. And I've been thinking about these looks. Part of it, I've been told is that the men like how I look. Okay, fine. There's that.
And then there's being a woman who walks with confidence. Its of course not like women walk around here like they don't have confidence, but they walk different. Maybe it's all the high heeled sandals. Who knows?
And THEN I think it's also it's because they can't tell what else I am. They can see that I'm something more than just Palestinian. Of course the folks in the country look all shades of the spectrum, but there's something about them that says, yeah, you're Palestinian. I've got that and then something else.
Maybe it's the hair. I know the only arabs I've seen with hair more so like mine are some Egyptians. It's of course my black side that makes my hair curlier and kinkier. My dad had looser, wavier curls. Mine are tighter.
So that's some of that.
Maybe I'll write more about this later.
Would it be easier to be a man here?
AND
Would it be easier if I more Arab looking and/or more Muslima looking?
I've been thinking a lot about this for several reasons.
I thought about being a man instead. Probably would be worse off. These days being a Palestinian man gets you just as much trouble as being a black man in America. Just like when my brother walks the street and is looked at like a black man and is harassed, so I would be too. I suppose in some ways, it's helped that I'm a "harmless" looking woman. Aside from my name, you can't tell where I come from or whats running through my blood.
Then again, maybe in being here, I'd be given more power. Treated differently if I were a man. If only I could dress up, play the part. But my body screams woman. I'm not opposed to dressing like a man.
Of course I could go on and on about sexism everywhere. About the power of women anywhere in the world, including in the US, in NY, in my neighborhood in Queens.
Walking through the streets of Ramallah, Palestine, I get a lot of looks. And I've been thinking about these looks. Part of it, I've been told is that the men like how I look. Okay, fine. There's that.
And then there's being a woman who walks with confidence. Its of course not like women walk around here like they don't have confidence, but they walk different. Maybe it's all the high heeled sandals. Who knows?
And THEN I think it's also it's because they can't tell what else I am. They can see that I'm something more than just Palestinian. Of course the folks in the country look all shades of the spectrum, but there's something about them that says, yeah, you're Palestinian. I've got that and then something else.
Maybe it's the hair. I know the only arabs I've seen with hair more so like mine are some Egyptians. It's of course my black side that makes my hair curlier and kinkier. My dad had looser, wavier curls. Mine are tighter.
So that's some of that.
Maybe I'll write more about this later.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Wednesday Oct 15th 7:20pm Adios Bar
A small journal entry I wrote the other night. Sort of Palestine related, BUT more about how I was feeling at the moment. So it's here instead of in the other blog.
I feel sick, like I have a cold. My head aches. My nose has been stuffy and runny. I can't really breathe. I'm having a good time, yes, BUT I'm feeling sick.
I'm at a place called Adios. Stone walls, soft candles, flowing alcohol and Spanish Music. Reminds me of Mexico. But this is not Mexico. This is Palestine.
This is a very relaxed Wednesday night in an Arab Community. Some Muslim. Some Christian. Some don't care. I needed some time away. To myself. The family worries. They don't want me out alone or with friends they don't know. Really? Hm.
They know me, but they don't really know me. My arabic isn't good enough for them to know my struggles. To know what I've done my entire life and what I've been through. They don't know me. And even when my Arabic gets better, they still won't.
The pain, torment, depression, addiction through out my life and in the family. How do I explain?
Abuse, self-destruction, complex sexuality. How? And why?
They knew where I was all this time. Why was it my job to seek them all out? Why was I the one who had to pursue them when they were the older aunts and uncles and family? They were the adults. It's their job to take care of me. Maybe that's why they want to do all these things for me.
Of course obligation in Arab and muslim culture make it so, but also guilt. They didn't know I had been sick this whole time. Or that I struggled to do schoo and worka t the same time. They still don't know the financial struggles I had and we had at home. Of course they didn't. How could they know? Was my uncle in NY going to tell them? Was my mom?
The more I think about it, the more my head feels the pressure. The more my head aches with this feeling of, "if I never wrote to them, would they have bpthered to look for me, to want me to be part of them?"
Maybe they did try and were unsuccessful. Maybe things were too busy and life was too hard. Maybe they forgot about me. Maybe. Maybe.
I sit in this place, watching Arabic music videos. The women who sing are clearly not Muslim Arabs. Or not very religious Muslims. All the songs ooz sexuality without showing too much skin or sexual contact between them and the men. It's sexual without being tasteless, like American videos. They all have very thin eyebrows. Very dark eye make up that brings out the color and almond shape of their eyes. Light skin. Long wavy or curled hair. Very beautiful. Syrian. Turkish. Lebonese. Egyptian. Not sure if any of them are Palestinian. Maybe there are and I don't know. Maybe I should do more research. My little cousin knows. She's about 12 or 13. Of course she knows all the Arab singers.
She thinks my life is like on TV because I'm in Amreeka. They thought NY was a different country from America. They think we're all like Bush. How can I blame them for thinking that? The US shows the world its ass. And we suffer for it.
I sit with my wine. Men come in here slowly but surely for beer. It's now 8pm. I write. Eat carrots with vinegar and nuts. Drink red wine. Maybe I look out of place here. The man who runs this place talked to me about the hotel for a while. The Grand Park is above Adios. I read about it in my travel book and decided to check it out. It's different from what the book says because they renovated the previous year. I was looking forward to the pool table, but it's gone. They're going for a more classy, membership based type feel. Thats what he says at least.
The man changed the music from Spanish to Russin. Now to John Lee Hooker.
I have this JL Hooker album at home.
All the men sit at the end of the bar. They drink tall glasses of beer, chain smoking their cigarettes, looking at me.
I wear my hair straight back out of my face in a bun. I've heard I look so different when my hair is straight back instead of curling all around my face. I wore my new green and silver coined earrings and necklace. I bought them in Jerusalem and the coins are older than my great grand father. Dark green scarf wrapped around my shoulders. A long sleeved black shirt I borrowed from my cousin. Olive green pants my aunt bought me. Black flip flops.
My hands fliding over my notebook. My pen and paper the guide. Arabic tongue surrounded by African American blues. How poetic. How me. The manager tells me he feels connected to southern blues. He feels the words. The music. The message. Rhythm and guitar vibrating softly against the stone walls. The softness of the candles. The light from the television glowing on the faces of the men.
I continue to eat peanuts and carrots.
The men look down. They want to be up again. The manager asks me if I mind if we listen to Arabic music. I tell him I love Arabic music. One of the men hand him a cd. John Lee Hooker and his blues is paused.
The music starts.
A man sings about a woman named Leila. Drums and flute. Accordian and guitar. His voice vibrates, moves me. Is smooth like this wine. The music gives me chills. The hairs stand up on my arms and legs. I feel the need, desire to dance. But I am immoble. I feel bashful. The men here are much older. Different. The atmosphere isn't that of other bars whether in NY or Palestine. It is what it is.
They change the music again. A southern country blues. Black man singing. Music sounds from around Alabama or somewhere down there. A video that played 30 mins ago is playing again.
It's 8:35pm. Almost time to go. I ask for my check. The manager tells me to bring my friends here and we'll have a good time. Tells me if I want a membership, I can get one. I tell him sure, I'll tell people. I pay. I spend $20 on 3 glasses of wine and me time. I'm sated. I leave. Time to go back. I still feel sick. But I am having a good time. Yes, I am having a good time.
I feel sick, like I have a cold. My head aches. My nose has been stuffy and runny. I can't really breathe. I'm having a good time, yes, BUT I'm feeling sick.
I'm at a place called Adios. Stone walls, soft candles, flowing alcohol and Spanish Music. Reminds me of Mexico. But this is not Mexico. This is Palestine.
This is a very relaxed Wednesday night in an Arab Community. Some Muslim. Some Christian. Some don't care. I needed some time away. To myself. The family worries. They don't want me out alone or with friends they don't know. Really? Hm.
They know me, but they don't really know me. My arabic isn't good enough for them to know my struggles. To know what I've done my entire life and what I've been through. They don't know me. And even when my Arabic gets better, they still won't.
The pain, torment, depression, addiction through out my life and in the family. How do I explain?
Abuse, self-destruction, complex sexuality. How? And why?
They knew where I was all this time. Why was it my job to seek them all out? Why was I the one who had to pursue them when they were the older aunts and uncles and family? They were the adults. It's their job to take care of me. Maybe that's why they want to do all these things for me.
Of course obligation in Arab and muslim culture make it so, but also guilt. They didn't know I had been sick this whole time. Or that I struggled to do schoo and worka t the same time. They still don't know the financial struggles I had and we had at home. Of course they didn't. How could they know? Was my uncle in NY going to tell them? Was my mom?
The more I think about it, the more my head feels the pressure. The more my head aches with this feeling of, "if I never wrote to them, would they have bpthered to look for me, to want me to be part of them?"
Maybe they did try and were unsuccessful. Maybe things were too busy and life was too hard. Maybe they forgot about me. Maybe. Maybe.
I sit in this place, watching Arabic music videos. The women who sing are clearly not Muslim Arabs. Or not very religious Muslims. All the songs ooz sexuality without showing too much skin or sexual contact between them and the men. It's sexual without being tasteless, like American videos. They all have very thin eyebrows. Very dark eye make up that brings out the color and almond shape of their eyes. Light skin. Long wavy or curled hair. Very beautiful. Syrian. Turkish. Lebonese. Egyptian. Not sure if any of them are Palestinian. Maybe there are and I don't know. Maybe I should do more research. My little cousin knows. She's about 12 or 13. Of course she knows all the Arab singers.
She thinks my life is like on TV because I'm in Amreeka. They thought NY was a different country from America. They think we're all like Bush. How can I blame them for thinking that? The US shows the world its ass. And we suffer for it.
I sit with my wine. Men come in here slowly but surely for beer. It's now 8pm. I write. Eat carrots with vinegar and nuts. Drink red wine. Maybe I look out of place here. The man who runs this place talked to me about the hotel for a while. The Grand Park is above Adios. I read about it in my travel book and decided to check it out. It's different from what the book says because they renovated the previous year. I was looking forward to the pool table, but it's gone. They're going for a more classy, membership based type feel. Thats what he says at least.
The man changed the music from Spanish to Russin. Now to John Lee Hooker.
I have this JL Hooker album at home.
All the men sit at the end of the bar. They drink tall glasses of beer, chain smoking their cigarettes, looking at me.
I wear my hair straight back out of my face in a bun. I've heard I look so different when my hair is straight back instead of curling all around my face. I wore my new green and silver coined earrings and necklace. I bought them in Jerusalem and the coins are older than my great grand father. Dark green scarf wrapped around my shoulders. A long sleeved black shirt I borrowed from my cousin. Olive green pants my aunt bought me. Black flip flops.
My hands fliding over my notebook. My pen and paper the guide. Arabic tongue surrounded by African American blues. How poetic. How me. The manager tells me he feels connected to southern blues. He feels the words. The music. The message. Rhythm and guitar vibrating softly against the stone walls. The softness of the candles. The light from the television glowing on the faces of the men.
I continue to eat peanuts and carrots.
The men look down. They want to be up again. The manager asks me if I mind if we listen to Arabic music. I tell him I love Arabic music. One of the men hand him a cd. John Lee Hooker and his blues is paused.
The music starts.
A man sings about a woman named Leila. Drums and flute. Accordian and guitar. His voice vibrates, moves me. Is smooth like this wine. The music gives me chills. The hairs stand up on my arms and legs. I feel the need, desire to dance. But I am immoble. I feel bashful. The men here are much older. Different. The atmosphere isn't that of other bars whether in NY or Palestine. It is what it is.
They change the music again. A southern country blues. Black man singing. Music sounds from around Alabama or somewhere down there. A video that played 30 mins ago is playing again.
It's 8:35pm. Almost time to go. I ask for my check. The manager tells me to bring my friends here and we'll have a good time. Tells me if I want a membership, I can get one. I tell him sure, I'll tell people. I pay. I spend $20 on 3 glasses of wine and me time. I'm sated. I leave. Time to go back. I still feel sick. But I am having a good time. Yes, I am having a good time.
Hope you're reading my Palestine blog!
Hey folks. In case you didn't see the link on the Palestine blog, here it is again.
I will have some writing in here during my stay, BUT most of the writing will be in the palestine blog.
Take a look see. www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com
Let me know what you think
I will have some writing in here during my stay, BUT most of the writing will be in the palestine blog.
Take a look see. www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com
Let me know what you think
Friday, September 26, 2008
My Palestine Blog-- stay informed
Don't forget to read that too! :)
www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com
I'm leaving next week, so you're going to want to be up on ALLLLLLLLL thing Pali that I'm doing :) Of course I'll still be writing on here, but this will be about all kinds of things.
ok. self-promoting done.... for now! :)
www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com
I'm leaving next week, so you're going to want to be up on ALLLLLLLLL thing Pali that I'm doing :) Of course I'll still be writing on here, but this will be about all kinds of things.
ok. self-promoting done.... for now! :)
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Desires of the body. Desires of the mind
When we deprive ourselves of the things we want; the things we need, we start to lose it a little. Well, maybe not lose it in the sense of not being able to control yourself. Lose it in the sense of having heightened senses. Where touch, taste, smell, sound, sight.... it's all louder, all brighter, all the more intense to distract you with.
When we deprive ourselves, we become more out of tune with ourselves and can't see past the senses. So someone crossing their legs, the way lips move, the smell of skin, the rhythm of a voice. It's all too much to bare. All too much. All too intense.
Almost to where you live in your day dreams until someone finally grabs a hold of you and gives you what you desire. Or until you're finally able to get it.
Let's see which'll come first.
When we deprive ourselves, we become more out of tune with ourselves and can't see past the senses. So someone crossing their legs, the way lips move, the smell of skin, the rhythm of a voice. It's all too much to bare. All too much. All too intense.
Almost to where you live in your day dreams until someone finally grabs a hold of you and gives you what you desire. Or until you're finally able to get it.
Let's see which'll come first.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Fear: An illusion of the mind or a warning of what's to come
Why do we fear the things we fear? What happened in our past lives, in the womb, in our childhoods to make us afraid of the things we are afraid of? Why does the dark make us uneasy? Or crawlie things. Or is it something in our genetic make-up to make us fear things in general.
What is fear?
Fear is:
What is fear?
Fear is:
| 1. | a distressing emotion aroused by impending danger, evil, pain, etc., whether the threat is real or imagined; the feeling or condition of being afraid. |
| 2. | a specific instance of or propensity for such a feeling: an abnormal fear of heights. |
| 3. | concern or anxiety; solicitude: a fear for someone's safety. |
| 4. | reverential awe, esp. toward God. |
| 5. | that which causes a feeling of being afraid; that of which a person is afraid: Cancer is a common fear. I find now that I don't do what I did sometimes when I was a child. If I was afraid, my first instinct was maybe to duck and cover. I grew out of it and now when I'm afraid, I seek out that which scares me. I find that even though it makes me afraid, facing it is better than being a coward. I still have the fear of course, but I face it either way. Heart pounding sweaty palmed and all. Why not, right? Let's hope I can keep that up. |
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Ours: a collection of videos and thoughts
I'm going to see them this friday.
Sometimes when it's late and I can't sleep, I listen to their songs and the lyrics help to sort of put things in perspective. His voice is also just really nice. Jimmy is a lot like Jeff Buckley in voice and even with some of the lyrics. Maybe thats why I like him so much. So melodic.
Here are a few more songs/videos I like
an oldie but goodie and also very amazing lyrics and voice
I love that he sang this song... the sound is a little yucky, but I know how his voice sounds :)
great video
and yes, mercy for the meek, please
http://www.ours.net/
So, who is Ours, you ask? Well Ours began in 1992, and built a strong following playing shows in New York City. By 1997, the band had sparked a label bidding war, and when the smoke settled, they signed a deal with Dreamworks Records. For their first record, Distorted Lullabies, Ours worked with legendary producer Steve Lillywhite. The record was released in 2001, and was met with beaming critical praise, and fervent fan appreciation. Their single "Sometimes" enjoyed heavy rotation at both radio and MTV2. Ours followed up Distorted Lullabies in 2003 with Precious, helmed by critically acclaimed producer, Ethan Johns. For the past 4 years, Ours have been meticulously crafting their 3rd record with world renowned producer Rick Rubin. NOW ON SALE, the lush, sweeping, and transcendent Mercy (Dancing for the Death of an Imaginary Enemy) is the record Ours were destined to make.
Sometimes when it's late and I can't sleep, I listen to their songs and the lyrics help to sort of put things in perspective. His voice is also just really nice. Jimmy is a lot like Jeff Buckley in voice and even with some of the lyrics. Maybe thats why I like him so much. So melodic.
Here are a few more songs/videos I like
an oldie but goodie and also very amazing lyrics and voice
I love that he sang this song... the sound is a little yucky, but I know how his voice sounds :)
great video
and yes, mercy for the meek, please
http://www.ours.net/
So, who is Ours, you ask? Well Ours began in 1992, and built a strong following playing shows in New York City. By 1997, the band had sparked a label bidding war, and when the smoke settled, they signed a deal with Dreamworks Records. For their first record, Distorted Lullabies, Ours worked with legendary producer Steve Lillywhite. The record was released in 2001, and was met with beaming critical praise, and fervent fan appreciation. Their single "Sometimes" enjoyed heavy rotation at both radio and MTV2. Ours followed up Distorted Lullabies in 2003 with Precious, helmed by critically acclaimed producer, Ethan Johns. For the past 4 years, Ours have been meticulously crafting their 3rd record with world renowned producer Rick Rubin. NOW ON SALE, the lush, sweeping, and transcendent Mercy (Dancing for the Death of an Imaginary Enemy) is the record Ours were destined to make.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
A letter never sent OR Family is a Promise 2
I had to write something. To someone and you're the first person that came into my mind. I wanted to call, but you're sleeping and hopefully I'll be sleeping soon too.
My heart feels so full. I wish it was of love, but tonight if felt as though it was going to shatter. And the shards would scatter about like shiny crystal jewels waiting to cut an unsuspecting admirer. I wish sometimes that I could just run away from everything. To pick up and leave, turning my back completely and turning off everything I feel for those around me.
I remember being 9 years old and writing a letter. I wrote it over and over a few times, trying to get down everything I wanted to say, but being short enough not to bore anyone. My run away letter was something I started at 9. And I feel as though it recited and written along my heart, following my journey every where I go.
Most of the times I don't even think about it. I don't even remember the memory. But days like today make me remember. It brings me back to that place where I hate my mother a little because of how's shes been and what she's done. It brings me back to who I really am and who I think and everyone thinks I am. Brings me back to how painful it feels to really truly think about whats going to happen between us.
It brings me back to the guilt, the shame, the pain I feel.
I feel sometimes that the deeper I go into therapy, the harder it is to forget the 9 year old me. This is the bottom and I am working my way back up to being healed I suppose. I write this and I'll probably never send it to you. Probably put it in my blog and leave it be. Because the truth is hard. The truth is painful. The truth is what makes me want to run away. It's hard to breathe when the truth feels like this. Hard to want to be alive. And yet I am.
I sit here and cry these tears and try to let go. And a big part of me can't. I'm 24, almost 25 already and feel like nothing. And yet I know how accomplished I am. I know whats I've done with my life. But I also know that I am less than I use to be. I am held back. I am damaged. And that leaves me alone. All by myself. In the darkness. And I welcome the darkness because no one can really see me. It feels safe. But it's not all that good.
I wish. I wish to God that we could be. We could just be who we are supposed to be, in the world, to each other. But we can't. You are not going to change. You just aren't. And I have to ask myself: Am I willing to sit by and let you do what you want to do and just take it OR do I admit the truth and walk away? Let myself mourn my loss and move on.
My deranged aunt get out of jail in December. I don't know who she'll come looking for, but I don't want her to find me. My mother won't stop drinking and for all the problems she has, she blames someone else. My father was mean to me a lot of the times, a womanizer and I look just like him. The man I love just can't stay faithful... its just not in his nature, but he says he loves me.I love them. I love them all so very much and yet they pain me. Their humanity pains me.
I'm trying not to be an addict. To fight whats inside of me. I'm trying to live and survive and be. Especially out of all the imperfections I come with.
I was ok. Last couple weeks, the darkness was there, but I was ok. Focusing on my manifestation board. Focusing on all the good that was happening and continues to happen. And then the darkness got darker, sucked me under, plagued me with its sweet sweet song and lulled me into its arms. And now my face is tear stained and all I can't think about is running away.
And I have therapy tomorrow. Sigh.
I don't know if I can write anymore. I still have all this light from other angles in my life. My trip. My work. My apartment. But the darkness is there, creeping along.Reminding me of all the problems in my life. Reminding me that they are the constant, not the light, joyful things.
I need to breathe, take a moment and get back out there; collected and ready to keep it moving.
If only it were that easy.
My heart feels so full. I wish it was of love, but tonight if felt as though it was going to shatter. And the shards would scatter about like shiny crystal jewels waiting to cut an unsuspecting admirer. I wish sometimes that I could just run away from everything. To pick up and leave, turning my back completely and turning off everything I feel for those around me.
I remember being 9 years old and writing a letter. I wrote it over and over a few times, trying to get down everything I wanted to say, but being short enough not to bore anyone. My run away letter was something I started at 9. And I feel as though it recited and written along my heart, following my journey every where I go.
Most of the times I don't even think about it. I don't even remember the memory. But days like today make me remember. It brings me back to that place where I hate my mother a little because of how's shes been and what she's done. It brings me back to who I really am and who I think and everyone thinks I am. Brings me back to how painful it feels to really truly think about whats going to happen between us.
It brings me back to the guilt, the shame, the pain I feel.
I feel sometimes that the deeper I go into therapy, the harder it is to forget the 9 year old me. This is the bottom and I am working my way back up to being healed I suppose. I write this and I'll probably never send it to you. Probably put it in my blog and leave it be. Because the truth is hard. The truth is painful. The truth is what makes me want to run away. It's hard to breathe when the truth feels like this. Hard to want to be alive. And yet I am.
I sit here and cry these tears and try to let go. And a big part of me can't. I'm 24, almost 25 already and feel like nothing. And yet I know how accomplished I am. I know whats I've done with my life. But I also know that I am less than I use to be. I am held back. I am damaged. And that leaves me alone. All by myself. In the darkness. And I welcome the darkness because no one can really see me. It feels safe. But it's not all that good.
I wish. I wish to God that we could be. We could just be who we are supposed to be, in the world, to each other. But we can't. You are not going to change. You just aren't. And I have to ask myself: Am I willing to sit by and let you do what you want to do and just take it OR do I admit the truth and walk away? Let myself mourn my loss and move on.
My deranged aunt get out of jail in December. I don't know who she'll come looking for, but I don't want her to find me. My mother won't stop drinking and for all the problems she has, she blames someone else. My father was mean to me a lot of the times, a womanizer and I look just like him. The man I love just can't stay faithful... its just not in his nature, but he says he loves me.I love them. I love them all so very much and yet they pain me. Their humanity pains me.
I'm trying not to be an addict. To fight whats inside of me. I'm trying to live and survive and be. Especially out of all the imperfections I come with.
I was ok. Last couple weeks, the darkness was there, but I was ok. Focusing on my manifestation board. Focusing on all the good that was happening and continues to happen. And then the darkness got darker, sucked me under, plagued me with its sweet sweet song and lulled me into its arms. And now my face is tear stained and all I can't think about is running away.
And I have therapy tomorrow. Sigh.
I don't know if I can write anymore. I still have all this light from other angles in my life. My trip. My work. My apartment. But the darkness is there, creeping along.Reminding me of all the problems in my life. Reminding me that they are the constant, not the light, joyful things.
I need to breathe, take a moment and get back out there; collected and ready to keep it moving.
If only it were that easy.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
My Palestine Blog
Ok folks. So I know it's a little redundant to have TWO different blogs, but I actually think it's a good idea. Dave suggested it for a very simple reason and I thought it was a good idea. I'm working on a manuscript for a book about my whole finding my Palestinian self. And since I'll be writing about it all the time before I go and during my trip, it just made sense to do it that way. A lot of the writing might be in the manuscript, so why not. I'll also put some pics and videos on there too.
Most videos and pictures will be up on my website (www.emanrimawi.com) though, BUT if you'd like to come on my adventure of self discovery, then read the blogs. Both of them actually.
This one is opened to everything and anything that comes to my mind. The Palestine one is going to be dedicated to my trip, my heritage and my continuous journey with that.
Just thought I'd say that.
www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com is the link. If for some reason its not working, the link is in my profile from this blog :)
Happy Reading! And Happy Ramadan for those who celebrate!
Most videos and pictures will be up on my website (www.emanrimawi.com) though, BUT if you'd like to come on my adventure of self discovery, then read the blogs. Both of them actually.
This one is opened to everything and anything that comes to my mind. The Palestine one is going to be dedicated to my trip, my heritage and my continuous journey with that.
Just thought I'd say that.
www.emanrimawiinpalestine.blogspot.com is the link. If for some reason its not working, the link is in my profile from this blog :)
Happy Reading! And Happy Ramadan for those who celebrate!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Hell and Damnation :OR: Trials and Tribulations of the Diseased 2
A continuation of the writing I started the other day. Felt as though I needed to finish my thought on the very physical manifestation of the monster that is my lupus.....
Its skin shines off the distant light, smooth and hairless. A black so dark that hints of blue and purple shimmer as it moves to take me. Almost as if beauty lies within the dark shades of its skin. A dark that comforts me most days, a dark that gives me warmth, keeps me safe. And in the same breath, snatches the breath from my throat, chocking the life from me, chocking the life from body. Bringing claw to flesh to darkness to swallow me whole, swallow me into the dank air.
It pulls hard and fast, almost to quick for a reaction right away. And I. I am never quick enough to react. Who could be? The claws are long and sharp. A wrong twist or turn could split open a vein, cutting away more of my mortality.
It's voice though is smooth. As smooth and beautiful as its blue blackness. Sweet and sickly like too much honey, it shivers the lining of my soul, warming my flesh into inflammation and pain. A slow throbbing ache brought on by the melodic chanting of its voice. A Rapture-like thrumming, like the chime of the end time trumpets. It calls to me.
"Eman," it whispers. A slow winding river of that sickly sweet honey. "Eman, let me in."
Sing-song in it's approach, the sickness is tempting. Creeping up slowly, clawing quietly as it makes its way towards me. Its voice disguised as something good. As a means to an end. And that is what it means to do. End the "suffering" it causes and that life causes. That is what it wants to be let into. Into the depths of my soul to unleash me into and back to the earth and heavens from whence I came. That is its desire. After all, that is what the Lupus is. That is what it means. That is what it does. It attacks me. It treats my body, my blood, my heart, me as if I am the enemy. As if I am a sickness. As if I am the disease that needs to be fought. And it fights hard. Because what match am I against claws and strength and darkness. It's everywhere, surrounding and all knowing. And I am solitary and knowing only what a human can know.
"Eman, let me in. Let me do what must be done." Sssssickly sweet is its voice. You almost want to let it take you. Like the cool rush of pain and pleasure from a bite. Almost too much, almost not enough. Almost wanting the bite to be harder, to draw blood, to drain you of life. Almost. Almost. But never entirely. Never. Or maybe the temptation is too great. The voice too sweet to deny. The bite too drawing in its darkness to resist.
There is one difference though. There is NEVER any pleasure in the pain I endure from the darkness that is my Lupus. Never anything tempting me to want to dive deeper into it. I'd rather it the tempting fangs of an evil vampire ready to strike, to kill me, than this god forsaken disease which wishes to kill me off this planet. That is its desire. Because, after all, that is its nature. Who am I to deny nature? I usual circumstances, I'd be fine with letting nature take its course, only this is my life.
It beckons for me to do so though. It whispers to me through the dark, making death sound so sweet. Soothing and cooing me through dreams of lying in coffins and eulogies. And if sweetness doesn't work on it, that is when I am snatched from my surroundings and pulled under by claws and darkness. That is when sharp nails grab into my flesh, bruising and bleeding me. Attacking heart and spleen and brain and joints and muscles and bones and sanity. Attacking all of me, leaving me weak and hopeless after the fight.
It toys with me, making me think I've maybe won after getting away for a moment. But there is no winning. It is the master of the game. It is in charge. It made the game, nows every rule, every passage, every way to play. There is no winning for me. I'm not even sure what the game is in the first place, so how can I play?
But the battle goes on. So it goes and goes and goes.........
Its skin shines off the distant light, smooth and hairless. A black so dark that hints of blue and purple shimmer as it moves to take me. Almost as if beauty lies within the dark shades of its skin. A dark that comforts me most days, a dark that gives me warmth, keeps me safe. And in the same breath, snatches the breath from my throat, chocking the life from me, chocking the life from body. Bringing claw to flesh to darkness to swallow me whole, swallow me into the dank air.
It pulls hard and fast, almost to quick for a reaction right away. And I. I am never quick enough to react. Who could be? The claws are long and sharp. A wrong twist or turn could split open a vein, cutting away more of my mortality.
It's voice though is smooth. As smooth and beautiful as its blue blackness. Sweet and sickly like too much honey, it shivers the lining of my soul, warming my flesh into inflammation and pain. A slow throbbing ache brought on by the melodic chanting of its voice. A Rapture-like thrumming, like the chime of the end time trumpets. It calls to me.
"Eman," it whispers. A slow winding river of that sickly sweet honey. "Eman, let me in."
Sing-song in it's approach, the sickness is tempting. Creeping up slowly, clawing quietly as it makes its way towards me. Its voice disguised as something good. As a means to an end. And that is what it means to do. End the "suffering" it causes and that life causes. That is what it wants to be let into. Into the depths of my soul to unleash me into and back to the earth and heavens from whence I came. That is its desire. After all, that is what the Lupus is. That is what it means. That is what it does. It attacks me. It treats my body, my blood, my heart, me as if I am the enemy. As if I am a sickness. As if I am the disease that needs to be fought. And it fights hard. Because what match am I against claws and strength and darkness. It's everywhere, surrounding and all knowing. And I am solitary and knowing only what a human can know.
"Eman, let me in. Let me do what must be done." Sssssickly sweet is its voice. You almost want to let it take you. Like the cool rush of pain and pleasure from a bite. Almost too much, almost not enough. Almost wanting the bite to be harder, to draw blood, to drain you of life. Almost. Almost. But never entirely. Never. Or maybe the temptation is too great. The voice too sweet to deny. The bite too drawing in its darkness to resist.
There is one difference though. There is NEVER any pleasure in the pain I endure from the darkness that is my Lupus. Never anything tempting me to want to dive deeper into it. I'd rather it the tempting fangs of an evil vampire ready to strike, to kill me, than this god forsaken disease which wishes to kill me off this planet. That is its desire. Because, after all, that is its nature. Who am I to deny nature? I usual circumstances, I'd be fine with letting nature take its course, only this is my life.
It beckons for me to do so though. It whispers to me through the dark, making death sound so sweet. Soothing and cooing me through dreams of lying in coffins and eulogies. And if sweetness doesn't work on it, that is when I am snatched from my surroundings and pulled under by claws and darkness. That is when sharp nails grab into my flesh, bruising and bleeding me. Attacking heart and spleen and brain and joints and muscles and bones and sanity. Attacking all of me, leaving me weak and hopeless after the fight.
It toys with me, making me think I've maybe won after getting away for a moment. But there is no winning. It is the master of the game. It is in charge. It made the game, nows every rule, every passage, every way to play. There is no winning for me. I'm not even sure what the game is in the first place, so how can I play?
But the battle goes on. So it goes and goes and goes.........
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
May 7th 1983- A Wedding took place
It's May 7th, 1983 and Evonne Walton took her vows with Firas Hamzeh Rimawi and became Mrs. Rimawi, his second wife after the first one didn't work out so well.
I don't know anything about his first wife. Only that she was Indian (from where I don't know). I'm sure if they had children, I would have known. I think.
Their smiles are so hopeful. So full of the promise of a new marriage. They'd known each other for a while by then. And by then it was "okay" for them to marry. In this picture, she's 17 and he's 25. They loved each other very much. Wanted to be parents. Wanted to have a wonderful life together. She wanted freedom from my Grandmother. He wanted to have the American Dream.
Less than a year later I was born April 23rd. Their first child. The bearer of their hopes and dreams and all that. A year a half after, my little brother was born July 9th. Also a bearer of their hopes and dreams. My fathers first son. His pride and joy. His mini-me. My mother lost children on the way. Siblings that I'll see on the other side. Siblings that never got to bear the brunt of this life. Siblings that were possibly reincarnated into other children, into cats, into trees, into air. Then the last of my mothers children was born September 20th 1989, my little sister. A prediction I foretold before anyone knew who she'd be. I just knew.
My parents had also been separated before her birth and then again a little while after. Too strong willed to let their love help them through it.
My father had another child in Jan 1998 with his third wife. I haven't seen my youngest brother since he was about 4 or 5 months old. After my father passed away, she decided to go back to Palestine.
So much has happened since those vows 25 years ago. A lot can happen in 25 years. People are born. They get old. They change. No longer bearers of affection. Gaining scars and scabs and tracks along the skin. No longer fresh, no longer doe eyed.....
Monday, August 25, 2008
Hell and Damnation :OR: Trials and Tribulations of the Diseased 1
Should we be afraid of some kind of eternal hell? Is it not a worse punishment to be left to suffer with your own fragile mortality? Especially if you are alone, if you are sick, if you are already being tormented, already in pain. Isn't that already a living hell?
Daily pain. Daily torment. Daily solitude. Is that not hell?
I sometimes feel as though I am trapped in the hell of my body. Trapped with a sickness that only tears me apart, brings me down farther into the depths of darkness. Every time I feel I've brought myself back up, every time I feel as though I've come through another hurtle, it grabs me by the ankles while I'm watching my back for other things hiding in the dark and drags me kicking and screaming and biting and clawing. It drags me deeper and deeper into the dark abyss. Farther from the light, farther from those who are screaming out my name trying to save me, farther from the goodness and love and compassion and warmth that is in me. I struggle, fight against it. Sometimes breaking loose. Until it grabs me again, digging into the meat of my skin as its grip gets stronger, gets tighter, squeezes harder.
Do you know what it looks like? What it smells like? What it feels like? The claws are long and black, sharp and shiny like the corners of an obsidian blade. Beautiful and deadly. Ragged and smooth. It's claws are attached to long black fingers. Thin and arched for attack. Its skin shines off the distant light, smooth and hairless. A black so dark that hints of blue and purple shimmer as it moves to take me. Almost as if beauty lies within the dark shades of its skin......
Daily pain. Daily torment. Daily solitude. Is that not hell?
I sometimes feel as though I am trapped in the hell of my body. Trapped with a sickness that only tears me apart, brings me down farther into the depths of darkness. Every time I feel I've brought myself back up, every time I feel as though I've come through another hurtle, it grabs me by the ankles while I'm watching my back for other things hiding in the dark and drags me kicking and screaming and biting and clawing. It drags me deeper and deeper into the dark abyss. Farther from the light, farther from those who are screaming out my name trying to save me, farther from the goodness and love and compassion and warmth that is in me. I struggle, fight against it. Sometimes breaking loose. Until it grabs me again, digging into the meat of my skin as its grip gets stronger, gets tighter, squeezes harder.
Do you know what it looks like? What it smells like? What it feels like? The claws are long and black, sharp and shiny like the corners of an obsidian blade. Beautiful and deadly. Ragged and smooth. It's claws are attached to long black fingers. Thin and arched for attack. Its skin shines off the distant light, smooth and hairless. A black so dark that hints of blue and purple shimmer as it moves to take me. Almost as if beauty lies within the dark shades of its skin......
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