December 2007

exactly two years ago, i was getting off a plane in munich, germany, and heading for another that would take me to dusseldorf. this is what i wrote in my journal on the 29th, when i left my parents and little brother:

it’s a strange feeling when someone tells you to say goodbye to your family. there i stood, following a man who stopped to say, “um, you can… say goodbye here.” those words went straight to my heart. say goodbye? to my mother and father and brother?

i wish paper and wood weren’t so unresponsive.

especially paper. i deal with it a lot. i run my hand across it’s surface, pick up a wooden pencil, sense the interface between paper and pencil. it’s all dead forest. lifeless, lifeless tree.

when you walk into a forest, though, everything is breathing. put your hand against the soft bark and feel it sink in. feel your feet embed themselves in the vines and moss. currents of air encircle you, daring glances, slide past, touch your face.

my room is made out of wires. wires and dead forest. the wires crawl under my bed, tangle together in my closet. my desk, my shelves are cold, dead. i grip them, scratch their surfaces, while the wires laugh.

then the wires take hold of my arms; bind them behind my back. crawl up my spine, wrap themselves around my neck. the forest is far away, not even the dead wood in my room can carry the sound to it.

and i remain searching for their relationship. i remain searching. i remain.

when i lived in brazil, i went to my capoeira school and told everyone that i would die the next day.

i came back the next day. they asked why i didn’t die. i told them that i couldn’t die on a wednesday. i would die on thursday.

i came back on thursday. told them i was a ghost. that became a nickname. none of us knew anyone’s real name, but we were family.

i walked down a dark street, slave songs ringing in my ears.

i remember germany. i turned my face to the forgotten lake, the gloaming a miasma of ghosted rage.

beautiful how we whispered words to the wind, to whisper to the other. reminiscent of times we whispered directly into each others ears, encapsulated by darkness. he listened to my loving cynicism (i wasn’t always like that- i believed in fairies before THEY came along).

side note: for a long time, “christian” meant “person who doesn’t believe fairies are real (because God NEVER creates mysterious things)/believes they are demons (naturally!)/believes everything is an evil demon (especially things they can’t understand)/really doesn’t believe anything, for a people whose bible is filled with ghosts and zombies and unexplainable occurences.”

i got lost in a cemetary. the moment i saw the tombstones before me, my ipod decided to tease me by playing a song called “ghosts”. i wish it were a joke. i knew that God saw me in that moment. he was so tangible, not like olorun- the god of so many brazilian and african religions, who is unattached and unconcernced when it comes to humans. he melted the ice around my skin until we were in thermal equilibrium, and he kept touching me! i didn’t flinch. i didn’t quiver.

thailand. long, narrow boats filled with wooden dolls. mountain shrines, emerald palaces, wind, boys playing in a river. i remember having my hair touched unrelentingly. honey comb, sticky fingers, polaroid camera, silk dress, monitor lizard the size of a dragon, cave full of bats.

sometimes i feel like i’m 100 years old. how do i justify these experiences? how do i justify them?

what color is a mirror?

it must be really difficult to be one. it has no identity of it’s own… it just reflects everything it sees. i have never seen a mirror. not without seeing what it sees. i look through it, i look past it, i look behind it, where is it where is it where is it? i want to see you… people forget that they can’t, you do such a good job of hiding in plain sight.

glass really confuses me. glass and plastic. they’re both solids at room temperature yet we can look through them. we can see through their solidity. strange strange strange! i look at the glass, then through it, at it, through it. focus, unfocus. precious.

water is the worst. what color is water??? where is it! it changes color with its background! no no no!! i move it, i move it, i move it, i can’t see it ever ever ever!

my skin is transparent. i look at the veins. precious veins. surrounded by transparent skin, i feel the veins placed inside of me. blue blood rushing through me… why do i have the same blood as the others? i am still human. if their blood is blue, mine is orange. i am the only one who has ever felt my veins. how many have touched my arm? precious few.

if a heart is ice, it can’t be burned
if my heart is ice, you’re melting it too fast, too fast.

actually, i don’t know the word for how i feel.

nervous? anxious? excited?

i’m opening for doSul tonight at the vox culture pub in winter park, FL. it’s going to be really fun and awesome!!

here’s my M: http://myimn.com/profile/ansusberkanamusic

and that of doSul: http://myimn.com/profile/dosulmusic

i wrote this story today in chemistry, while everyone was still working on naming binary acids and oxyacids (soooo easy). it’s part story, part poem, part song:

“Who are you Azriella? Why didn’t you accept his offer?”

…Selfish…

The word was airborne like a virus. At least they would speak to her. Most people were so envious they pretended they knew nothing of Azrah and the offer. Ha. The village was so small; it was impossible not to know every detail of every other person’s life. Who were they kidding? But all the same, they were given another reason to despise her. What became of nobility? The other girls, these other people, could they not understand why Azrah could not go into the city? Her mother would die out here alone, as Azrah did many years ago. Strange world where you are selfish for self-denial and not abandoning your blood. Strange world.

Azrah is not a voice; she is a mind hard at work. Visual creature, solitary, self-sufficient. Hold on, dearest, don’t be unattached. She looks into mist and believes whatever emerges. Her blood is thick, it wanders through mountains while the images fall into cauldron. Vortex. Sponge.

Mist colored hair teases the breeze, snow-flaked eyelashes frame crystalized stare. She grins at the forest, at the simpering wind. The soil knows her feet, the trees know her hands.

Chi-Rho [cai-ro]

Chi [X] Rho [P]

in greek, the first two letters in Christ (christos: XPETOE), Kristen (XPETEN), and the first two consonants in Erica backwards (EPIXA).

and the monogram is really cool. it’s my new thing.

by the way- i wrote this REALLY awesome song and i accidentally deleted it on garage band! i’m sooooo upset! argh!!!