As a Woman I Have no Country…

As a woman my country is the whole world. (Virginia Woolf)

She must have known a thing or two about abandonment, pain and loss. Suffering and instability. Heck. She did write To the Lighthouse and Mrs. Dalloway after all! My love and adoration for this woman is immense. A soul so troubled such as hers has often rendered me speechless and, dare i say, almost exulted.

This frightens me.

As i sit here, contemplating my pitiful, oh-so-microscopic, existence…as minutes turn into hours and those into days…as my spine grows more crooked…as i grow bloated from alcohol consumption, cranky from too many sleepless nights, incredibly dazed and sluggish from the complete annihilation of my darling brain cells…as i perpetually walk this self created pathetic path…as i carry the burden of this water bucket, chuck full of holes…i realize my once glorified perception of this pile of shit i call life has been but a beautiful lie.

A beautiful lie.

I guess there was a time in which i was truly, really, utterly happy.

I don’t remember it.

Though brave at heart, fear has been my constant companion. I know this now, though I’ve continuously defined myself as fearless, for my personal journey has concluded so. My compulsive obsession with life’s transience, my reality’s subjectiveness and my life’s meaning through art, has been thoroughly led and at times misled by my perpetual fear of shattering “stability.”

And then again…a beautiful lie.

I need stability. I crave it. It has, quite simply, become my fix. In the stage of my life I see myself as that character repeatedly searching for meaning and struggling for order out of mind chaos–chaos so deeply and unnecessarily tangled, that it renders itself moot. Powerless. Ultimately however, all ends, thus to yearn stability is purely absurd. Whether the persistence of my memory is paralyzed, for it cannot bear the idea of no longer cultivating precious moments, or out of fear that those heart wrenching turning points will ultimately detour me back to the entrance, i know…I KNOW! that no-thing is permanent.

I also KNOW! that when i attempt to make my personal mark through reasoning, philosophical and intellectual thought, i merely present myself as a fraud, really. Because no matter the experience or its profundity, each moment is but a fleeting one, proving entirely inadequate of holding the true essence. I claim to hold no fear toward that ongoing evolution we call change. Truth be told: i am scared to death, though i know everything is in a constant state of change.

Plagued by continuous self-doubt and an overly inflated ego i live each day… over and over and over. It’s all the same fucking day. I know this. And yet, i wait for tomorrow. And the day after. And the one after that. So that i can start over. So that i can die to old ugly ways of being. So that the old me is buried once and for all. I wait. For my resurrection. For stability. For meaning. For order.

I wait. Sometime patiently. Other times, not. I wait as i am held together by pills and buttons of many sorts.

I wait.

Klodi

‘Til death

Today’s article in the daily Metro newspaper mentioned that people that develop cervical or testicular cancer may face another harsh reality: “They are more likely to get divorced than those without the disease”.

– Men and women with cancer are more likely to divorce than those without it.
– Older couples are less likely to divorce since they might be more committed.
– Those who get get cervical or teristical cancer at an older age are less likely to divorce.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the article. God forbid if one person faces a problem or a terrible sickness like the one mentioned from the European Cancer Society, otherwise we would be doomed for life, because our chances of getting divorce are higher.

What’s happening in today’s society? What happened to the core values that molded each one of us? What happened to the promises that people give to one another? I guess the vows for better or for worse don’t mean anything because when life crisis or health problems arise their solution is divorce:( I have never been pro divorce unless in extreme situations. Sometimes, things don’t work out between two people and its better for them to go their separate ways. But, reading this saddens me even more. The chances to get a divorce are higher if one of the partners is diagnosed with cancer. Instead of, being close to each other, going through such a unpleasant experience, showing more affection and telling your loved one that no matter what happens we will see it through together, one of the partners, decides to walk away and leaving the other one in the field of battle all alone. Wow! Do such people really exist? Can they really plug the life out of the person that once upon a time declared their unconditonal love until death separated them? Apparantly not! Their egos is much higher than the welfare of their beloved wife/husband, all they can think of is “me, poor me, what’s happened to me”. How pathetic?!

I guess the real promises and vows that people make now days do not count. So, dear friends be careful of who you choose to share the rest of your life with? It might happen that the one person you would have given your life for would not do the same thing for you.

Belle

america’s next top model

so.

on the nights i don’t*ahem* read War and Peace or do the Times crossword puzzle *snort* i like to watch a little massively dumb show, with superb faux drama and legs that start at the chin, so humbly known as america’s next top model.

yes folks.

i like to sit on my red couch, quite possibly with some ice cream or some other ridiculously high fat content food, and watch the girls faint from starvation and clawing at each other over stolen poses, weaves, make up, clothes, gossip, red bull and peas. drowning my sorrows (pertaining to the sad, sad affairs of the world, obviously) into this mess of insanely excited, high pitched screaming legs – did i mention the legs? – gives me some sort of a weird satisfaction. it’s quite the circus experience. and i love it.

the faces are good too, by the way.

last night, as i watched my beloved (and recorded. what?) america’s next top model premiere its new season, apparently chuck full of nuts boarding all sorts of crazy trains, it occurred to me that the producers had really upped the ante on diversity this time. every season (and i’ve watched them all. shh.) they introduce a new character to prove just how layered and diverse the show is, because…hello, look at tyra banks! she all fine and rich now, but homegirl had it really rough, possessing a giant forehead and a single momma and all that jazz. so she says.

anyway…

the tyra chooses each competitor and she’s been quite creative in the past. we’ve seen the anorexic girl, the fat girl, the ghetto girl, the muslim girl, the jesus girl, the jewish girl, the blewish girl (remember that? black dad, jewish mom.) the science girl, the dumb girl, the ‘i-don’t-give-a-shit’ girl, the molested girl, the long suffering girl, the yale girl, the druggie girl, the psycho girl and the miss J. alexander girl. just when you thought it couldn’t get any better, i mean crazier. shit, i mean diverse. i mean ridiculous. BAM!

introducing: the retarded girl. i mean, special, challenged, whatever.

you know they’re gonna drag her ass along for good ratings and then drop her like a hot potatoe because twiggy, hot nigel and the gay dudes are going to determine she lacks the social skills and she has a hump. and no, it ain’t lovely. miss J. wants perfection girls, ya’hear?

now…watch the autistic chick win. i contradict myself. i know. this is gonna be so good. just sayin’.

that’s all.

Klodi

The difference between them and us

evi and i were casually drinking our morning coffee while breaking the yolks over the whites and discussing the state of our affairs as dea, evi’s five year old daughter, laid on the carpet, stomach down, and drew a little boy throwing a big boot into a giant trash can. a peculiar imagination, i know. i randomly mentioned how a certain health problem was becoming the catalyst that stirred quite a few heavy aspects … not to mention the severe damage being done to pockets, wallet and bank accounts. we sipped and chewed in between exchanges when dea suddenly sprang up and ran to her room. after some considerable amount of time in her own space and world, dea usually returns to the adult territory made over as a princess, or wearing some ridiculously glittery outfit, or dressed as a skater, headband, wristbands, skates and all, or simply with some very long “hair” by way of mom’s t-shirt on her head. that morning we heard her come back to us with what sounded like the jingle-jangle of coins. lots of them. she appeared at the door and was met with our wondering eyes. she held her piggy bank. “here klodi,” she said. “i have money.”

suddenly things didn’t look so bad.

in a social gathering that evi and her husband held, i stared at my tired face in the bathroom mirror and tried plastering some fake smile over it, preparing myself for the inquisitive minds outside. i looked and felt like utter shit but was determined to have a good time. i wear my heart on my sleeve and find it particularly hard to act against my feelings, but i would damned before i let myself shed another tear. just not on that day. i had promised myself. and so i carried on smiling. talking, but not really. listening, and yet so far. participating, but not quite. sneaked outside, into the backyard, for a minute, sat down and let my cheek muscles relax. took deep breaths and silently told myself. not another tear. not another tear. you promised. and then some movement behind me. “klodi, why are you so sad?” she asked in her little voice.

i broke the only promise i had made that day. and somehow, the load felt a bit lighter.

when her parents threw her a surprise party she was stunned. she just stood there and blushed and blushed and blushed. i could see her as a teenager or even a woman and marveled at her amazing sensibility. her many little and big friends and family gathered around her and sang to her. happy birthday dear dea. her eyes kept hopping around the room and the many faces and when she saw me she stopped. with smiling eyes and a pointed little finger toward herself she mouthed silently “I,” fingers in the air drawing a heart shape, “LOVE,” little finger pointing back to me, “YOU.” i did the same. she walked to me and gave me a hug.

indeed, the world seemed brighter and better.

Klodi