Becoming a Jackal

Whenever I make myself something to eat, something from scratch, I always wish that there was someone to share it with. Not because I am the sort of person who always needs someone to share something with. On the contrary, I love my own company just fine. But in this fantasy of mine, the person who eats the miracle that I have created gets to tell me in minute details how the food tastes like. They have an uncanny ability to describe the specific texture of [rice] as they put a spoonful into their mouth, how this texture changes as they chew, how various flavours burst into their mouth and how they finally realise it is time to swallow. I want to compare their description to my experience and if there are discrepancies, where do they come from? Could it be that our saliva are different, in taste and smell? In real life, I think that would be a weird thing to ask someone.

I have narcissistic tendencies. I don't know if this is a bad thing. But I dedicate my favourite love songs to myself. I am attracted to people like me. I want my future partner to be a reader, an avid reader. I want them to read and reply to everything I send them -that's a minimum of five articles and short stories per day. I want them to read everything I write. I want them to have an opinion on everything, because I am very opinionated. I want them to be self aware, like I am, or aspire to be. I want them to find and appreciate the underrated joys of window shopping. I want them to be a story teller -to tell me about that poster they saw while in transit and what memories it brought back, that specific line in a book that made them cry, that line in a song they always wait to hear, to tell me that point while eavesdropping in a conversation they stop and think, 'if I were the one telling this story, would I have used those exact words? if not, what would be different, the word order, different words altogether?' This is a very specific list, I realise. A list that specifies my attributes, attributes that I find attractive in myself and want to find them in someone else.

Some time back,  I went to the Immigration's office to run an errand. I sat listening to one of the immigration officers explaining to a middle aged man why his passport application had not followed through. Apparently, he had written in his application that he was married to a woman who had written in her application that she was divorced to this same man. As I sat there pretending not to listen, I thought to myself, 'how can something that looks straightforward to me, that should be straightforward, elicit such different responses to the people it concerns? surely, both parties in a marriage should be able to know if and when they got a divorce.' But I was an outsider, with a little bit of contract law knowledge (in which marriage is defined as a contract). Then, all of a sudden, my fantasy of someone telling me how exactly the food we are both eating tastes to them isn't weird at all. In a whole new light, I saw the need to question (again and again), to be answered in black and white, to never make assumptions, to (sometimes) listen through silence.

The title of this post is from the Villagers' album Becoming a Jackal (and the song from which the album gets its name)

Memories

A few years ago there was this girl who, for a whole semester, sat behind me in Ethics class. Or it could have been Theology class. My memories of this class and what I learnt are blurry, but I remember the lecturer was a Spanish priest who (and this is where my memory becomes particularly unclear) we called Father Juan because of his uncanny resemblance to the character of Father Juan in the most popular Mexican soap opera at the time. Other times though, I remember the lecturer not as Father Juan but another younger priest, who was also Spanish. To this day, every time I think about a priest, the picture that comes to mind is of those Spanish priests. I don't know why this is the case. For instance, in my last semester in university, I took Sociology of Mass Communication and this was taught by a priest, who despite having an African name, who despite being the Dean of Students, who despite me having seen him before I registered for the class still surprised me with his being African, with him coming to class in jeans instead of those priestly garments. So one day in this Theology class that might have been an Ethics class, the lecturer who might or might not have been Father Juan showed us a video of this disabled woman who did her own chores. The woman couldn't use her hands but did everything using her legs. There was this part where the woman was preparing an omelette and this girl who always sat behind me whispered to the person she was sitting next to, 'Don't tell me the omelette won't break. My omelette always breaks,' a little bit too loudly that I could hear it.

Now every time I make an omelette,  I remember that girl. And every time I turn my omelette over without it breaking, I hate myself for the missed opportunity of sharing my technique with her.

Are We There

Sharon Van Etten and I have a very interesting relationship. I dislike her for indulging (and enabling?) me in my feelings while at the exact same time I love her because she gives words to my feelings, those feelings that are buried so deep inside me that on good days, I convince myself that I don't have them. She is my go to person when caffeine and alcohol (and sometimes nicotine) have failed to calm me down. She is the one I go to when I want a good cry, the kind of cry that makes me feel better when I am done. She reminds me every night when I am up at 2 am, when everyone else has gone to sleep that I am not alone in my feelings, that she feels them too. She creates a good kind of background noise when I am deep in my own creations.

Sharon and I started our relationship about a year and half ago, we are nearing our second year anniversary (yay!) which we have to celebrate. Have you ever met someone and knew right away that you guys would be in each others lives forever, whether in a platonic or romantic capacity? She came into my life at precisely the moment I needed her the most. I know that sounds cliché, but I believe for a relationship to work, time plays a big role. Two people could be perfect for each other but if they meet at the wrong time, then the relationship can't work. Won't work. That said, I still think that it doesn't really matter when we were meant to meet, Sharon and I. But I have the mind to realise the concept that everyone thinks they are different is the one at work here. Our -seemingly- humble introduction was by the song  All I Can from her 2012 album Tramp. But really, there was nothing humble about our introduction. She told me then, 'we all make mistakes, we all try to free the sighs of the past. We don't wanna last.' And my first thought was, "Who is this new person?" There is a special kind of connection I have with the people with whom our first interaction is not small talk, but a kind of bonding that, in normal polite company, is not meant for strangers. When the conversation is about our deepest desires, our worst mistakes, our broken hopes, the regrets that we lie to ourselves that we don't have, then small talk is not only unnecessary, small talk is criminal. It was then that I decided to get to know (and own) all of her songs.

And so began my quest. I started with sampling a few songs here and there and then decided to go big or go home. 2009's Because I was in Love was first in line and my favourites from the album are Same Dream and Consolation Prize. Then there was the 2010 album Epic in which I couldn't get enough of A Crime. With Tramp, I loved Give Out, We are Fine, All I Can and Serpents.  And so last year when she released Are We There, I was beyond excited. Every time I say Are We There, I am tempted to add 'Yet' not because Are We There is lacking but because it speaks to me, to my life. I have talked before about how I am in this constant state of waiting for something(s) that I can't quite describe even to myself. I am in a sort of journey to an unfamiliar place. I'll know it when I get it, I'll know when I have arrived, but that doesn't stop me from hoping that every new thing I try, every time something happens to me is 'it' is 'there'. I can't help but ask myself, 'is this it? am I there yet?'

In Tarifa, Sharon says 'Tell me I am not a child.' I mull over this particular line everyday in my quest to be the adult that I think I should be, that I ought to be, but I feel like a fraud taking and using the word 'adult' to describe myself while deep down the term feels like a misnomer especially since I feel like a child. In I Know, she says 'I cannot tell the poet eye apart from mine.....I sing about my fear and love and what it brings.....I know it's hard to find out what I am not.' I can't tell you how many times I have had this song on repeat. Partly because it reminds me of a person I used to know, but mostly because this song speaks so truthfully of the relationship I have with myself.

I could go on and on about Sharon (and me). But since everyday for me is a different version of 'am I there, yet?' I'll just leave this here.

Sharon Van Etten - Are We There (full album): https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLZqsyBiYZFQ2xCvI-HaocJOOUAGhV7MN-

on beginnings

ours was a messy beginning: a convoluted nonbeginning of starts and stops. of starry friday nights. of melancholy late saturday evenings. of glorious early sunday mornings. of trying to read each other. of looking at each other for clues. of saying no but meaning yes. of embracing each other. of pushing each other away. of getting mixed signals.

our beginning was full of (un)ending frustrations. full of wanting. something, anything. that only begot more wanting. and then realising -finally!- that we hated what we are not. that we could and couldn't be.

ours was a passionate beginning. of not getting enough of each other. of wanting to get inside of each other. of wanting to exist in each other only. of existing only for each other. of needing only each other. of wanting to be seen. of not wanting to be seen. of being seen. of getting only disapproval and judgement. of being together because of the disapproving looks. of being together in spite of the judgement.

our beginning was different. one in which we could see the end as it began. one in which we could see the end on the horizon, but the horizon kept moving further as we approached. one in which we had our doubts as we began. one in which our hope for a future nodding acquaintanceship was the only thing that kept us going. one in which we persisted despite knowing that one day soon, we would (will) part.

The Strange and Twisted and Deranged

Whenever I am sad,  I find that all I want is to steadfastly hold on to this feeling of sadness because I fear that I won't have it for too long. Sadness, unlike happiness, is a familiar emotion. An emotion that I crave. I like myself more when I am sad. So to satisfy this craving, I project sadness onto things that don't have anything to do with melancholy. Like how alone, even in the company of others, the stars seem. Sadness, for me, represents several things: the need to be alone; the packing, unpacking, shelving, reshelving, arranging and rearranging of dreams; the repairing of broken hopes that I never knew I still kept; and as unoriginal as it may sound, the motivation and inspiration to create something, anything. And so I hold on to sadness for however long it chooses to stay. But with the impermanent nature of emotions, it is hard to hold on to it. So in the absence of my own melancholy, I seek it in literature, in music and in films.

While I have spent a huge part of my life trying, with fervour, again and again, to chase happiness, I have never been certain that I have ever fully attained it. And so in the privacy of my own thoughts, in the dark recesses of my mind, several questions sit unanswered: how does happiness feel like? What does happy look like? To appease my inquiring mind, I've settled on the absence of misery. It's not sadness. And it's not quite happiness either. But every so often, I'll experience something resembling happiness. But I rarely enjoy this fleeting emotion. I merely pause to revel in this feeling, to try and understand it and before I put it into words, it rolls off to the edge and my reflexes are never fast enough to grasp it before it tumbles over the precipice and into the free fall. It's the sudden disappointment that quickly replaces that happiness, however fleeting,  that keeps me from falling over. These are the times that I am acutely aware of the ephemerality of life. Nothing lasts forever. Even happiness. Especially happiness.

The title of this post is from the song Crying Lightning by Arctic Monkeys.

I Wanna Live Like Common People Like You

There is a game that I love playing every night. It is a mindless game and that's partly the reason I haven't given it a name, yet. I always lose in this game. Which is sad because I invented it. The main rule of the game is that I try to stay as long as I can without wearing socks. That sounds like a silly game. But here is the thing: my hands and feet are usually very cold. The reason is because of poor circulation but I tell myself and whoever asks it's because I have a warm heart (whatever that means). I can't fall asleep until my feet are warm enough. And to speed up this warming process, I wear socks. Except that I don't like speeding up that process. There are just so many books that I need to read with so little time. And so I read until I can't and I am forced to wear the damn socks because I am too exhausted to stay awake.

The title of this post is from the song Common People by Pulp.

Old Age is Just Around the Bend

As I inch closer, ever so slowly, to the half century mark, am in awe of how little things add up to being something big, in the grand scheme of things. The sound of the ticking clock, the ticking being representative of the seconds that pass, a collection of seconds turn into minutes which turn into hours which accumulate into days then months then years. It's a whole cycle yet things change so subtly that I barely notice until a whole metamorphosis has taken place.

The concept of time has always been elusive to me, hard to grasp because every time I try, it slips through my fingers. And I mourn the hours that pass without being productive; the days that I lose seemingly busy but achieving nothing; the months that go by that I only realise because life demands that I pay bills monthly; the years that fly at the end of which I take notice because there is the pressure of looking back and seeing if I have achieved my expectations of the said year and making new resolutions. Some years are good, while others I spend trying so desperately to keep my hopes unbroken.

Time is fickle. My youth is fleeting. I am accumulating days and years at a very fast rate. And I realise that today is the oldest I have ever been and the youngest I will ever be.

The title of this post is from the song The Sound of Settling by Death Cab for Cutie.