48.

If we were to meet on the street today, in a bizarre chance encounter, you'd probably comment on how I am a spitting image of someone you once loved dearly. I'd stand motionless on the pavement, deliberating over an indisputable thought; that after 12 years of not seeing each other we would, in fact, be complete strangers.

You'd still be my 36 year-old frizzy haired dad, of course. A quiet and contemplative man to untrained eyes, but a fireball phenom that never failed to fascinate me. You would be fixed in time, impervious to change.

But I am no longer that doe-eyed, curious little girl you once knew. I don't look like her, I don't talk like her. These twelve years have taken its toll on me. I'm not your dazzling ball of sunshine anymore.

To my 8-year old mind, you were as mystical as a parting sea. I wonder how much that innocent perception would have changed had you lived to raise me. One can never be too sure of these things.

But there is one bitter truth I'll always be sure of- no one lights up when they see me as wonderfully as you did back then.


If the cosmos intervenes and we meet each other as strangers today, I would give you a hug and tell you how much I love you. Just for a second, you would recognize the strain in my voice as the same one you used to hear from your little girl who called her Ayah late at night, begging him to come home from work.

I'd wipe away the tears from your confused face and with that, we would part once again.


Happy Birthday, Ayah.

Three Apparitions.

i.     A long time ago, the balance scale in my head tilted its rusty arms and I was overcome with a harsh realization that I wasn't cut out for the russian roulette world of music. So I went cold turkey; no performances, conjuring up third-rate melodies or even weekly practices at beat up studios. I gave up under the pretext of diverting my focus towards the messier parts of my life. From then on the only outlet for my musical frustration was a bleak Youtube account.

      I've always tried to find a different way back in. Right now, the most conceivable idea sledgehammered in my noggin' is to get involved in the tech side of the scene. I can't see myself doing anything else, even after years of trying to shake it off. It's my Fermina Daza, my Tereza, my end to all ends.

ii.    I'm tired of the cyclic hula hoop dance of the dating scene. We're so held back by by our unwarranted need to multiply. Once the facts are laid out straight, that's all there is to it: a biological obligation.
So then why am I willing to contort my thoughts and actions into finding a competent -if not complete- match?
Why do I let myself fall for the archetypes of toxic males when there are plenty of quintessentially good-natured men who would do (quite possibly/close to) anything to "make it work"?

Two contradicting questions that bounce off my bedroom walls late at night when I have chills in places my blankets cannot warm.

iii.    Today, the mom-ster commented on a newspaper article about a well-known figure who recently underwent a dramatic physical transformation. After listening to what she had to say, I imagined a different reality (in a purple house, 600 trillion light years away, where I am named Avtryssia La Lune) wherein the same figure was spotted with a plump jelly belly instead. I wondered if my alternate mother (different name, same attitude towards life) would have commented on this person's appearance as my mom-ster had in my reality?

I believe that all of our conversations/actions each have an equal possibility of going in different directions. Sometimes I think God tests out all of His combinations in this expanding legoland of a Universe to see what fits and which butterfly's wing flap would cause the hurricane on the other side of the world. Just a late night thought.

I Wish I'd Never (Cover)

I go to this song on nights when I need to calm myself down. Zee Avi can do no wrong.

Double Whammy.

Woke up from a nap on Monday with my first surprise of the year and lingerie themed cupcakes! Too bad I can't upload the video. Add a bad jazz track and a vignette to that baby and BOOM you've got yourself home-made softcore porn. Give me a chance to turn 21 first before I land myself a reality show.

 

 

I was blindfolded for the second one. By the end of it all I had massive amounts of cream on my face and in my tresses. 

Come to think of it, my birthday celebrations this year were highly suggestive, if you catch my drift. Ehem.

Photograph.

Source: womenreading.tumblr.com

Have you ever had a fleeting moment where you looked at a something and idealized everything that it symbolizes? Even though I identify a large part of myself with my book collection, I've never been one to romanticize the act of reading. Bookworms are not elitists, though many try to convince you otherwise. It's a preference. It's a gravitation towards a structured world of words. You either like it or you don't and you're still human either way. At least, that's how I see it.

I try not to associate fulfillment with materialistic possessions, either. So I was really taken aback when I looked at this picture -which isn't all that special once you start to dissect it pixel by pixel- and started to feel a sharp ache.

In that split second, I wanted the wicket chair covered in a Navajo inspired blanket. I wanted the russet brick house with a lancet arched entrance and a willow tree weeping beautiful olive-coloured leaves on my lawn. I can already imagine myself crazily reenacting 'Singing in the Rain' around that lamp post. I can already see the kind of books I'd read there.

I know all too well the dangers of methodically planning out a future. No matter how much you try to hold the reins, things never turn out the way you want them to. It might be the New Year goggles -it could be this need to fill a void that I've kept under wraps for the last 12 months- but my pictured future (if there is even a picture at all) looks a lot like this one.


Good night, 2011.

2011

It wasn't just my year, it was theirs. It was ours.

A Scattered Thought.

When my kids ask me where they came from, I'll remind them that they are made of stars. Before they fall into their serene slumber, they'll hear stories of how parts of them were cherry-picked from supernovas & neutrino speckled gasses; that their life began in meticulous fusions similar to the creations of heavenly bodies resting higher than the cookie jars on our shelves.

I will never let them feel insignificant.

I'd like to believe that our hands are made of recycled planets. Perhaps there were other life forms inhibiting those stars before their cruel explosions. Having alien substances interlaced in our genome would explain quite a number of things.
If this were true, maybe you'd find me a little less odd. Maybe the thought of holding my hand will finally cross your mind.