Monthly Archives: September 2012

20 days remain. there is no solemn way to drink this tea. i send letters with no notes. i uncover memories, i box them in. (my childhood prayer veil; worn reluctantly at least twice a day, from the ages of 5 to 19—now a faded, if beautiful and sacred artifact.) this is my spring in autumn. i walk outside in circles with the pavement in my bones, knowing there is no proper way to say goodbye to streets, stones, and currents. who will take over these spaces? which corners will remain untouched? there is no torch burning, and nothing to commit to memory that hasn’t yet left its mark.

there was a short albeit essential respite in the capital city with esperanza. we stayed up for as long as our body would let us, biting on silver apples and bowing to starry skies. if i could fuse all of our nights, there would be a glorious diamond. all eyes upon eyes. all days long, all days short. time split in several different tracks. i captured in black in white, swiftly, for all the quiet turmoil, for all the brewing, for all the air growing colder—the air i cannot breathe.

j’ai la peau de l’automne,
l’épiderme cyclique des saisons,
l’humeur des nuages rôdeurs
et le regard qui ne fuit pas.

in 2003, i wrote the following:

“it has come to my knowledge — how i could have forgotten given my latest mindstates is beyond me, but i digress — it has come to my knowledge that i have dual citizenship, and if i am to flee, i could, no questions asked. the key term in the previous sentence is “flee”, which entails running from, in occurrence, something. determining the source is an easy task, cliched at best. it involves dissatisfaction on many fronts; mainly feelings of non-future in important life-areas coupled with a blooming desire to reconnect with blood-related roots. would this mean, then, that i would understand? that i would suddenly and finally be granted the light that so dimly shines within? this is matter-of-factually stated, as i am not particularly overthrown, just merely curious as to the effects of potentiality.”

it is now almost a decade later. i reflect back upon these thoughts, seemingly written by a younger sister or an old friend. it is no surprise to say that i have always had the want, the desire and the hypothetical drive to leave, but i have never had the opportunity, the means, the down-to-earth design to go along with it—until now. (the barriers we put up for ourselves are certainly multiple and stifling, in hindsight.) today, my reasons are less easily boxed in. life-areas are malleable. am i fleeing? am i running from? no. i am running toward, with tactile arms ready to entangle, mind aware and eyes open. i am wanting to reconnect with blood-related roots, absolutely, but i am also wanting to express, and live the second half in that second half, however it may go.

what can be said of the indivisible dual individual, then? un peu des deux, donc. ni l’une ni l’autre, mais l’une dans l’autre et l’autre dans l’une. méditerranéenne, fluvienne. la mer dans les os, la sirène sous la neige. ni francophone, ni anglophone, ni québécoise, ni turque. montréalaise, peut-être (certes); stambouliote, pas encore. l’entre-deux aux limites invisibles. look deep within to see further out: la terre est vaste. on commence par se perdre pour finir par se retrouver.

“accept that you are part of the world,
that you cannot understand the world,
that it won’t speak the way you speak.”

with a transatlantic move comes the inevitable purging of things. decades of trinkets, clothing and mementos, following you from house to home. these inanimate objects emote all your memories and associations. they become sacred vessels, personal mnemonic devices, soulful entities. yet unlike your thoughts, intangible and absolute and unfettered by material bounds, they cannot all cross the ocean with you. you have to let them go.

it is not so much having to rid myself of things; i have mourned the attachment of many things already, just by acknowledging that i must rid myself of them. it is not so much having people go through them, either—i have already relived the associated memories through the mere act of sorting. by sorting through my things and by acknowledging that they must go, i am separating myself from their physical reality and, by the same token, allowing them to simply be, in their inanimate state, without me.

(until another grants them a second life.)

take the backless red silk shirt. when edith extracted it from the pile and inspected it for herself, it reminded me of that time i went to a cocktail lounge on bleury and de maisonneuve, 12 years ago. i wore a long black skirt with two black feathers dangling at the heart. i also wore that shirt, shimmering red; it was an intricate delight held by strings, so light and so young. i remember walking from the back of the lounge to the front. as i passed by the bar, a woman muttered something under her breath. it was a single word, unkind, and judging by the emptiness of the room, meant to no one else but me. i remember thinking about the layers of offense, the way it can be woven with envy, unknowing and misconception. an exposed back is an easy target. i rarely wore that red silk shirt afterward, but i kept it until yesterday, if only as a reminder.