sesquipedalien

Weather has become increasingly mundane as a topic of discussion. Used as a secondary greeting somehow garners you an “uninteresting” label. The answers then become equally mundane. One-word, common twists of the mouth. As if this weren’t sad enough, it also becomes the part of a conversation no-one ever remembers.

Why sad? Well, weather wasn’t always so boring. Think back to the value weather held for Native Americans. They worshiped Nature’s ability to be so unpredictable! This hasn’t changed today. Even though science is helping us practically predict weather, there is a reason why weathermen still use percentages. One small shift in Nature, and suddenly you might have hail instead of the sleet the pretty-faced man on your TV screen proclaimed. Or some clouds wafting around instead of a clear sky. Or be thankful that you forgot that bulky umbrella in your car because the rain never fell.

Isn’t this awesome? Doesn’t it make you smile? Even a little?

Maybe I’m too sensitive. But allow me to point out that the food you eat depends on weather…go ask the farmers. The shirt you decided to keep in the closet instead of the one you’re wearing now most probably depended on your glance out the window, among other things. The electricity bill you’ll receive by the end of this month depends on weather. The drink you last ordered at Starbucks (which was NOT your daily cup of black coffee) probably depended on what the skin of your underarms felt like. The programmed flash on your newest digital camera depends on weather. The way you ~want~ to spend your day instead of the way you ~have~ to? Yep.

Poe understood this. So did Melville. So did Morrison. So did every other major author you may not have heard of who heavily depended on wispy clouds, lightning, brilliant sunsets, and glowing spring meadows. Oh but even if you don’t read, it’s everywhere. Remember that sexy kiss in “The Notebook?” A soggy Gosling and McAdams clinging like the world depended on nothing else but each other? Heart-wrenching, right? Girls swoon and sigh. Guys have a love/hate relationship with that scene and can’t decide what to go with.

But what if the rain was missing?

Yeah, I thought so too.

Perhaps the most saddening thing for me is disregarding the genuineness of a weather related question. Given that it can affect so many physical and emotional properties of an individuals present moment, I really am interested in what the weather is like! My day might be sweltering and sticky, but yours might be wet and chilly. How wondrous that we can talk about something in two utterly different (or similar!) settings! How fascinating that my fan is running and yours is still! How completely mind-blowing that we are laughing under the same sun and moon, but sitting where one is overcast and the other is unsheathed?

How is it bourgeois?

And yet, I am left feeling afraid to ask it, because I can get something like:

“Google it.”

What a thing to hear…

I know for a fact that no one is reading this blog anymore. I myself have stopped writing in it. The reason is probably embedded in various excuses, but I suppose I tired of complaining or displaying my utterly mundane life with a butter knife.

But this post isn’t about that drivel!

I have started an experiment, a rather selfish one at that, but an experiment nevertheless. I am asking people for 11 words/thoughts/phrases. I’ll take them and compose a short piece of writing with it. In return, all I ask is that the person grades it.

It gives me practice and exercises my brain, but it’s also fun and so far, in my ten days of doing this, I have learned the definitions to at least 11 new words. It’s a pleasure.

I aim to have 365 of these and have 365 DIFFERENT people contribute their 11 words… challenge there too, seeing as I probably don’t know 365 people. But I’ll find them!

Anyway, if you’re reading this and you haven’t already heard me go on about this project, please feel free to submit your 11 words here or on the project website via commenting.

Thanks in advance, as always.

“No.”

“Why!?”

“It’s too low.”

My sigh was far from gentle. I had gotten through five changes of clothes, and time was not abundant either. Plus, after six hours of driving, my patience was not exactly patient.

I slipped into the delicate white knitted top and stepped out.

“OK. That’s fine.”

Shoes were in a different circle of hell altogether. I finally walked out in the flattest pair I could find. Apparently he was on the shorter side of the spectrum.

I wished desperately for my sister.

My grandmother brushed my forehead with her lips and told me to be good. I smiled back saying I would be myself. She laughed and the sun peeked out of the shielded sky briefly, just to light up her sweet face.

“T, you always bring the rain.” My mother half grinned back at me as the garage door slid shut.

“Yes, the whole world is weeping with me.”

“No! It’s a good omen! It was raining the day you were born! Hush!”

I thanked the water drops for the lullaby as we drove between the hills of half charred trees. Unfortunately sleep itself was too self conscious to slap me.

A house is a structure. It is most defined, I think, by the scent that greets a guest.

This house was humble. There was no scent.

After respectfully greeting his parents, we gathered in the living room. The sofa creaked solemnly as I receded myself on to it. Interestingly enough, the carpet lacks color in my memory despite the fact that the carpet held much of my visions attention during my three hours there.

I glanced up occasionally, taking in the neat, half packed piles of boxes. There were trophies from the 1996 Catskill NY convention on top of the slightly dusty television. An anniversary gift stood on the lamp table next to my elbow. Only one framed picture stared back at me from the wall… the brilliant smiles of mother and father shone into the camera lens, gazes slightly surprised and unused to the position at which they stood: she in front of him with his arms around her waist and hands in her lap.

“Hello.” He greeted the whole.

The corners of my eyes studied him quickly. Jeans, checked shirt lined in shades of blue, clean shaved, gelled hair cropped closer to the scalp, a slightly dimpled smile.

Perfect teeth.

He sat into the sofa instead of on it. He asked about my brother. He smiled at the carpet. He played with his rakhis. He fiddled with his fingers. His nails were clean.

The parents continued their small talk of one subject or the other. The trips planned for December, the little happenings of everyday life, and oh, did we hear about this family’s hassles?

And then, there was silence. Complete, prologued, breath loud silence.

If I had been human, perhaps my cheeks would have flamed. Bloomed from invisible buds. The spelling of awkward painting its silently loud mark.

I filled instead with laughter. My lips stalled the urge with a wide smile behind my hand. Ah the absurdity of this! Of sitting in the year of 2007 practicing something that was of my cultural norm 6 decades ago! I glanced around to find them all staring at something below regular vision line and bit my lower lip… oh if some one could paint this! I laughed harder inside.

She announced dinner then, and we gathered again at the dinning table. I filled bowls of sweetened milk, fingers expertly doing their job, neatly, efficiently. We bowed our heads and murmured the shlok. And we ate. I sat across my father, he sat across his mother. We sat diagonally crossed.

Women often claim to have a sense of knowing when they are glanced at. I lack that radar most times. I am more interested in where my eyes land to notice eyes being directed at me. If he examined me at any point during the meal, I missed it. I caught his speed, though. His deftness and precision in a simple act as tearing a piece of flat bread. We finished at the same time. And waited patiently for the others to catch up.

He was waiting for our departure. He glanced at his pseudo-blackberry frequently after dinner. He had a place to be. I appreciated the fact by filling up with laughter again. I had a place to be too… land of nod.

After another attack of no-speak, I offered,

“We should be off.”

His father nodded to him and he disappeared returning with a slip of paper for me.

Ah. Contact Info. Nice. Thank you.

You forgot your insurance company buddy.

“That was weird.” I announced to my anxious parents from the back seat. “I don’t think people do this anymore.”

I fell asleep listening to the rumblings of traffic.

Accidents happen.

All the time.

Ha.

When you are doing something you have no heart to do, you do not deserve to be doing it, nor do you deserve to be. You are then, not of yourself, but a you of what your mindful sensibilities tell you to be. What is authenticity anyhow? I should suppose that it is your hearts living. Yet this is merely supposed because in essence your mind/practicality is also striving for its own authenticity. The means of a survival in the society which requires a certain practicality in order to live.

It is strange to see how alone you are. It is stranger still to see how dependent you are despite your onliness. Thoreau was not a madman “Walking” and thriving on his own philosophical pride. The reason to be authentic is to create a society that is equally authentic. A world that is created by parts that may not necessarily fit in pieces, but which, when merged together, are so profoundly in sync that if singled out it would lose its quality. (There is a reason why giraffes seen at the zoo and giraffes seen in a safari are two different entities which arouse two different experiences.) In effect, you are alone but you are alone only because you are not. Your individualism is only intensified/realized because you are a part of a greater whole. It is defined by you as much as you are defined by it.

I suppose this is the basis of religions, groups/communities, even cults: the sense of belonging to an “authentic” society in which “authentic” individuals should thrive. See, in observance this is not necessarily a bad idea. There seems to have been successful lives among certain such groupings. There do exist individual who ~are~ following their hearts, so to speak, and are enhanced by the society in which they belong. It can work. Has worked.

Here is when it all goes wrong: the claiming and enforcing of ones own authenticity on an other individual simply because of the faith and the assurance that this authenticity is the BEST and ONLY. Really, the absurdity of this is so…obvious! A maple tree cannot demand a redwood to identify itself as a maple simply so that the redwood can fit in its grove (brainwashing might work, but eh, that is another dilemma all together). Rather the redwood would, or should (heh) understand its individuality and reject the grove: It will not enhance it. In fact, even if born in a forest of maples, the redwood would perhaps not survive past a twig-ling. Trust me on this… you don’t see redwoods in a maple grove!

But maples do exist. So do redwoods. As they should.

Point: You cannot make some one be what they are not. Rather, accept what makes your self you and them themselves. Even if the seed is your own, the seed is, in effect, its own. You own nothing but yourself. Nothing you produce is yours after it has been given. These words may have been written from my mind, and I do hold responsible for them, but in essence these words are an entity in and of themselves. Simply the fact that they are mine in said does not mean I am or own the response they give to those that read them. I don’t own these words. I produced them. I let them be and do whatever it is that words do. I can try and guide them, cultivate them so that my meaning gets across as clearly as possible, but really it all matters on the words and those that take them. Nothing is mine except myself. If only that concept is understood will there ever be a world in which authenticities shall be and survive ~peacefully.~ And maybe happily.

The reason why I pour this all out is to remind myself that I do not deserve to be. I am all that I am not. I do not belong in the society I am in. I cannot thrive here and I doubt I ever will. There is a death-like characteristic that is creeping to my being and it is causing pain not only to myself but also to those around me. It was the LAST thing I wanted to be: a pain inflicter. But it is ultimately what you become when you are inauthentic: a wasted piece of shit with no qualities except that of a worthless piece of shit.

And with that, I take your leave.

I hated learning my times tables. My mother would sit us at the dining table and demand the production of sheet after sheet of row after row of numbers after sequenced numbers. Like I said, it was not a fond practice. But we’d do it. And then wonder if when we were twenty whether we would still remember them.

I keep reminding him: She was right. They never leave you.

He scowls up at me and keeps filling the little lined boxes.

Math is not his strength. He finds it both interesting and boring. It’s still a chore to him.

Every evening though, like this evening, he hands his neatly done homework for our father to check. I am putting away dinner leftovers.

Ah, I see my own miniture self! My own anxious eleven year-old face trying to look non-involved, busy, but so worried. Like his today. And every day.

Father sits, his bespectacled vision glancing over the problems, his mind animated under a serene face. The face we all grew up loving, abiding, wanting to please.

“T.”

I wince.

He winces with me.

The way the name is uttered signals faults. A mistake.

A stupid one.

Father takes an envelope from the junkmail pile and turns it over.

“I don’t understand this T. Why are you making such careless mistakes? This is ~substraction.~”

I hear pencil strokes. My brother peers timidly at the envelope. Two rows of decimals. A minus sign intwixt.

“So you carry over a one.” His voice is tiny.

Father follows his intructions.

“You do 12 minus 8.”

The pencil stalls over the envelope and switches over to the homework paper.

There is a five.

“It’s supposed to be a four.” He grimaces with each word.

“See. You are so careless. How can you be so careless. It’s the little things that matter T. And it’s ok to make a mistake, but you don’t even look it over! What do you expect to get if don’t look over?”

I hang my head. For him. With him.

I watch them. My own memories washing forth. Ah my brother…

Our father is an excellent teacher. His explanations and metaphors are sometimes unbeatable. When it comes to finding and fixing faults, he is quite sharp and direct. As I grew older, I came to accept that as part of his nature. He means no harm…

But oh, the humilation that you sink into as you listen to his voice telling you of your seemingly mortifying mistakes…

The apple pie for dessert is waiting for my attention. I take it out and set it to cool. He passes by, saying something about going to bed, and waking up early.

I follow him. His head is face down on his feather pillow.

“Hey buddy!”

No response.

I sit on his mattress, tousel his hair. “Want a massage?”

No response.

I rub the back of his shirt and slowly loosen his shoulders with my thumbs. He spreads his arms out, and then tucks them under his pillow.

My sister walks in.

“Hey, doesn’t T want and pie?”

She cuddles next to him, his face hidden in the curve of her arm.

“Hey,you know, Dad used to yell at me too. And that too becasue I didn’t know two plus two.”

She lets the tips of his hair crawl against her fingers.

“Come on, it’s Dad. He did that to us too. He does it for us you know. Makes us better.”

He turns his head away and I know he’s crying.

“Don’t you want pie?” she asks, “Come on, you love pie!”

“I think T will have pie tomorrow when he comes back from school, right bro?”

He nods slightly.

“M!”

Father’s voice. Calling.

My sister hugs him once more and goes to answer.

I turn off the light and tuck him in, lying by him for a few minutes.

“So. What’s up?”

He sighs. “The ceiling. The fan. The lights.”

I chuckle. And turn his face to me. “No really? What’s up?”

“”No really. The ceiling.”

I smile. “So, do you miss me and M?”

“Yes.”

“A lot?”

“Yes.”

“It’s not fun living in a house of grown ups is it?”

“No.”

“Get’s lonely?”

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

I feel guilt wash over me. I sometimes wish I was at home more, just to be with him. School had not only given me freedom, but robbed me of some too…

“But you have soccer. And Sabha. And school.”

“Yeah.”

“Who do you hang out with at school?”

“People.”

“People? What kind of people?”

“I dunno. People.”

“Smart people or dumb people?”

I can sense his smile. “I play football with people. Some are smart. Some are dumb.”

I chuckle. He is tired. I kiss the top of his clean head.

“T, I love you.” The words sort of hang and settle. Like a feather landing after a quiet journey in a gentle breeze. It’s a rare feather. Especially in this household.

But I love this little kid. I love him almost unconditionally.

I kiss him one more time, tuck him in properly.

“Goodnight bro. JS.”

No response.

He’s already breathing deeply.

Radiohead’s newest album strumming into my ears, my cereal bowl nearly empty, I am reading about the eviction of some Polish nuns who have occupied a church against the Holy See’s orders for the last two years. There is a tap on my shoulder and I swirl around.

Her face is exhausted. She has had a hard night. A hard previous day. There is a sheen over it, a glaze that tells me water has yet to touch it. I breathe in and want to cough out.

I smile. “Hey you!”

“Hey. Can I read Physio in here?”

I scramble up, trying to take off my headphones and turn the music off at the same time. “Yeah sure! Just let me make my bed.”

“Oh it’s OK.” She settles on the hard floor next to my refrigerator, her heavy bag de-shouldered, her high ponytail limply following her head swings. I step back from her. It’s so powerful. Every movement releases gusts. Aged sweat, old lunch, rotted sleep.

Of sweetness dead.

“Well, I am still gonna make my bed.”

She laughs a little and sits crossed leg with the book open on her lap.

I fix my sheets. Spread the covers straight. Hang my clean jeans.

And every time I pass her, I hold my breath.

I finish and resettle at the computer.

Three minutes.

Her head is lost in the book.

Five minutes.

I can’t stand this.

“Hey, why were you late this morning to class?”

She looks up. “Oh because I came with C. She had to ready the kids and all.”

“Did you have a chance to shower?”

“No… didn’t have time.”

“Would you like to take a shower?” In my mind, I am crossing my fingers.

Her face falls in that typical, ‘aw no… I don’t wanna bother ya’ mask. “No, I’ll just take one later.”

Damn my fingers! “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

I can’t help it…

“No really H, I think you should.”

She’s surprised. “Do I smell?”

I nod.

“Badly?”

“Very.”

“Really?”

“You’ve filled the room with it, to tell the absolute truth.”

She laughs self consciously. “OK.”

I hand her my extra towel, show her the soap and shampoo, tell her to lock the door, and open the window in my room.

15 minutes.

She’s in front of the mirror in a shirt I never wore cause it hung so loose. A comb is working through her hair.

“Much better.”

“Haha! Thanks for telling me I stank.”

“You did. Heh.”

“I hadn’t taken a shower for two days actually.”

I am shocked. “H!!! How could you not shower!?”

“Well, exams! And stuff.”

“Jeez. Little advice: take a shower ~everyday.~ Your stink is not very pleasurable. I don’t care if your rats don’t care.”

She smiles at me in the mirror for a second until a knot screws her face in pain.

“I hate doing this.”

I give her my sympathy face.

She winces again.

“I usually ask my mom to do this…” She looks at me timidly.

“What? You want me to untangle your hair?”

A relief passes over her expression. “Could you?”

I am amused. A little taken aback too.

I take the comb and run it through, starting at the ends, leading up. I feel older. Like a sister or an aunt.

“Don’t you ever do this yourself?”

“No… unless there is no one there.”

“Why?”

“I dunno.”

“Jeez.”

I struggle through heavy twists and jumbles… does this girl never comb her hair!?

“I am assuming you don’t comb it at all with no one around.”

She smiles guiltily.

“There, done.”

She tied it up in her regular pony tail.

“Thank you for everything K. People need pals like you.”

I smile and busy myself with something else.

It’s sort of unsettling, combing through tangles.

Of a classmate.

23 years old.