Becoming Death

The results were set in stone, tampered in dark ink, except none meant anything except for one in the middle of the achromic page; it spoke with a single word, positive.

Fingers tightened around the edges, tears dampened the page. How could I be positive was all her thoughts could muster in thought while her body shivered in fright.

“Ma’am, the next patient is ready, I’m going to have to ask you to leave this area.”

Hazel eyes lift to look up at the nurse remembering that courtesy need not apply at the free clinics, she gets up dragging her body past an open door adjacent to a glass window where another nurse calls out to her. “Miss we have to register you in our systems, we do this with all of our positive patients.”

Suddenly in one surge the sadness became anger, she would not be bagged and tagged for having this disease, regardless if she was now a ticking time bomb to herself and others, she didn’t care. Her heels pressed against the ground and she rushed out the door, leaving behind the rushing voices after her.

Outside the clinic a mild downpour created puddles in the urban area, neon lights lit down the street wavered in streams of reflected puddles. An upside martini cup reflects in a puddle a distance away with an olive going in the middle of the cup.

She chuckles to herself, a drink wouldn’t kill her at this point, as her body has already chosen the vehicle which will kill her. Zombified and morbid she makes it to the bar down the street, drinks charming their way to her lips.

Misery wallows into her soul feeling desolate and broken, she now had become a statistic, an unlikely one, one unable to understand warmth, compassion and ever looked at in the same light.

“Dollface, that little body can’t pound all those drinks like a sailor.” A voice creeps behind her, its body taking a seat next to her, a straggly look man dressed in an overcoat, hiding a slim figure.

“This body could kill.” She whispers under her breath as the glass reaches her lips drowning the last of her words.

He smiles at her, “Let me get you a drink then maybe we can see what that body can really do.”

A tab opens at the bar, full cups that quickly go empty from an iridescence of colors to a clear opaque. The anger and sadness in her mind was now stirring in the cauldron of spirits and she’d become clear that she didn’t want to be alone.

Her memory hazes, her steps wobble, before she knows she’s at his door, then laying naked at his bedside, legs crossed, knees touching. She raises her head to see his naked body, a bit of latex on the top of it, his bodies definition also rippled, muscles upon a thin body though his face remained as homely as ever.

His body touches her, pressing her back into the sheets spreading her legs, their motions change, from top to bottom to being handled in reverse, finally he releases and qoes limber under her. She leans over him, her hips rubbing against his thighs, her head to his ears giving his lobe a few kisses.

she whispers gently into it. “I don’t feel alone anymore.”

Warm Abandonment

“Eventually I’m going to let you go, this won’t always be the way it is.”

“Stop saying things like that.”

“Just being honest.”

“You’re putting a lot of pressure on our friendship by using that as a constant reminder.”

“I know.”

In my world it is easily possible to be proficient on building and breaking friendships, two sides to the same coin, just one toss away.

What stems from the desire to destroy what is built? Some sort of mental imbalance? Desire for loneliness? No. Nobody desires to be lonely, maybe alone, but never lonely.

Its abandonment. Sounds pathetic, doesn’t it? But that’s the case of most who suffer from abandonment issues, they view it as an inherent weakness and inability to draw close to others. I don’t speak abandonment in the common form, not the type bred in regular conventional settings; divorce, family abuse. No, the type of persuasion that takes a more ambiguous form, detached from a lucid social norm that sort of abandonment.

What it does is create a safeguard made of daggers, an arrogate shield, appealing at first, full of promise an safety, but upon a touch it becomes a prickling of blades that is abandonment.

In this case its a prolific set of memories; being stripped from a home one is born to, a land who’s familiar soil was under ones feet, childhood friends and family. When your life abandons you, you’re forced to find a new one. In a new home, a new land, its empty. Suddenly the language difference is just the skin acting as a mantle to the veins and organs of mental differences that lay underneath.

The whole world has become a stranger, even the semblance of peace and love in your parents is now foreign, as they work feverishly to build decades of stability in a meager few years, you’re now just another burden.

What becomes of the next decade is a growth into and out of your teens, moving on a scale of maturity that is stunted by misconstrued emotions and confused experiences. Dozens of friends come and go, few remain, the feelings behind it are indifferent for this has become an all familiar sensuality.

In fact, it has now become a craving, the sensuality of being alone, the cradling touch of loneliness. It’s a feeling of being alive. The prying desire of warm hands plucking at the strings of the heart creates an unprecedented excitement. Many become lured in, seduced by promises that particular heart cannot through on.

So this is the apology, sorry, an apology to all the lovers that have been burnt and all the true friends that have been betrayed. There is a reason they are no longer around. Once again, sorry that there will never be change for abandonment is a weakness, a singular selfishness that one cannot overcome, a need to be in charge of bane than be left at the mercy of fate.

In the end I’d rather choose to be alone than be left alone.

The Light of Hope

My friend passed away the other day. 

It reminded me of the recurring question that we Middle Easterners are often asked.

Where is the Middle-Eastern hope? the ones who will rise the Middle East to freedom without hues of crimson violence. Ones who urges us through nonviolent struggles for freedom from colonized forces and Israeli military rule. It seems that Arabs are by nature destructive and their violence is their language. The world sits on the stands and pleads for us to mediate with Israel and the rest of the world, to show our own plight and wisdom through non-violent means.

My friend passed away the other day.

An Israeli soldier killed him at a nonviolent demonstration against Israel occupation of Palestenian land. He was a Middle-Eastern hope, one of many , who believed nonviolence will save us. But with the many falling, what does that leave us with?

Lonely Rehearsal

I remember when she’d left me, in a trail of my own self-pity, a provenience that had been freed when the window to her heart had shut on me.

I spent plenty of time rehearsing our relationship; with every iteration her flaws dimmed, while the rosy moments gained an added luster to their radiance.

With every script there was always the one constant, the imperfect inattentive main character. I winced at how insensible this character was and how they could’ve ever been so blindsided. It’s as if I had nothing in common with them.

Its uncomplicated to view the recent actions of our past as foolish with the help of 20/20 hindsight. It takes what was a complicated situation and simplifies it to a common denominator.

The conscience continued to churn convulsing the third person narrative into a first person recollection.

Then it hit home, this wasn’t about some nobody, someone I didn’t care for, this was a person I unconditionally loved and loathed all at once. For I unconditionally shared every breath, thought and moment with.

A terrifying chill crawls up the spine in the proclamation of this thought, a spider sprawled under the skin, treading the premise of my spine as a vine, arms with a glued brushed touch tapping against my nerves, soon it wasn’t just one spider but a colony of them under the flesh that bounded my being together.

Their thoughts perpetuating into my own, what was so flawed that I couldn’t be hers? What possessed these cells and microorganisms to have the colonized thought to stick together and be me in one unified instance and when would one decide to give up on me, leading a rebellion to my death? What did they wait for?

They waited for their epoch, their time, same as love does. We don’t fall in love with the one we always dreamt of, but when it is our duration we fall in love with the one across from us. Ultimately time was all we waited for, the one constant; the right time, the right moment in place.

So they waited for their duration, for their love to end for me, that one cell would crumble in a cancerous peal leading into a glorious avalanche that ends without a sound.

Stones, Ceramic and Vinyl

Sticks and stones. They will break your bones. We spend all of our lives trying to avoid being broken. The concept behind being broken is that what is broken will never be whole again, but with human perseverance that becomes a fallacy. We are almost shaped as a magical teapot, once broken we can be rebuilt of better china, brighter acrylics with extensive designs. The scars of time, burning of our emotions are just designs, accents that embellish us to stand out.

As we age though, we find a groove, we become a vinyl record; no longer new, now we have grooves causing the same skip every time, nothing unpredictable, knowing exactly what notes you’ll hear. Like an old vinyl record, we can’t hear new sounds, can’t play new sounds and ultimately never understand the sounds we used to be able to play. It’s a tragic comfort that we take a weak unanimity in.

In both of these analogies there’s always a stick stirring in the pot, a stick propping up the needle that plays an orchestrated intonation. We’re on the receiving end of the stick growing up, fitting into society and ultimately we follow someone elses beat and beat downs.

But like any way to control a group, you merely find one of your own opposition give them the stick you beat them with and tell them that now it is their duty, their responsibility to beat their own fellow man. That realization, at that moment twists our fiber, manipulates our need to aspire and fit in. We become that which we were jousting against.

There in lies the fallacy of man, we are willing to do anything for our own sake, as our own righteous trumpet blows, we march forward plowing those in our path with the phantasm devotion that we are bettering the world around us by merely bettering ourselves.

So when asked if I hate man kind. The answer is simple.

I do, wholeheartedly I do. I despise the weakness man takes opulence in.

Do I exlude myself from this equation? No. That’d be foolish. I am man, someday I will age to become a ceramic showcase and the grooves in my skin will play the same tired tone of self-worship.

The Phoenix

He was the voice.

A voice of my youth, my belief. A voice that you listen to does not stutter, does not speak ill and is always indiscriminate of fault.

Fowaz was the Imam. A Palestinian by birth but never spoke of himself as one. Not was he unpronounced of his ethnic association. No. He transcended it. We were a nation of Muslims, not of countries, our allegiance was not to the dirt under our feet but to the faith in our hearts, to the one God that let us bask in His light and darkness.

He understood the adversity of youth and religion. Youth was the livelihood if impulses. Religion was the grounds of strength which we tread. The unseen brick road amongst the obstacles of impulses. Faults were uncertain, perhaps that was my admiration to him. He let me, no, us be just human. Our faults were not to damn us, but to teach us.

For a decade, every Eid(Islamic holiday) twice a year he would bring us to prayer, bowing our heads to the one unified God. It was the one and only time I ever wanted to have my voice heard, The cords that lined my throat were to be God’s tool, vocals strummed to whatever He chose.

Then it came, Nine Eleven. An important day of history that is now easily dismissed. Like any action that isn’t repeated in succession it will wash away along like footprints along the sands shore. Only if we are to renew them, repeat, let it happen again will we remember. though in the heat of those times, it came…

…His fall. His spirit that burnt like a fire that guided others faith must’ve burnt brighter in his youth. He spoke of how the Jewish populace were holding us down, oppressing their own cousins(whether they were or weren’t is irrelevant in this story.)

A phoenix burnt bright in him, the phoenix of faith and it drove him to speak loudly, voice booming, pillars crumbling at the impulses of his youth. While we sometimes outgrow youth, sometimes its actions are illustrious.

Fowaz was held for crimes, for the rallies he attended for his display of passion and faith. The courts held him in their contempt, he awaited in jail as his trial arose and then was driven to be expelled from the United States with no entry or visitation again.

In all of Allah’s, in all of God’s mercy. There was none for him. For over a decade he had served, repented and moved past a childish youth. With his leave my faith quavered. For all of us we have to have a light that beckons our faith, a commensurate physical aspect to an invisible unprovable faith. I had no desire to follow in his footsteps as he sat in a jail cell awaiting his eminent sentence and I had no desire to face the powers that were faced against us. The social, political and religious plight that drove us to the edge.

I took it hard, selfishly it somehow became about me, for at that moment he became human(he always had been in his own eyes.) I couldn’t forgive him for I had forced my trust on him and let him cradle my faith, give it life, growth and rebirth. He was guilty of letting me down and in his humanity he had strewn a path for himself of a fallen believer.

But with every fall there is a rise. One must realize whether to abandon their faith and wash the ashes off or to give birth to a new phoenix born of the tattered ashes and broken spirit.

I don’t know which path he chose, wether to strengthen the bonds of his faith under the tempers of fire or crack under the unforgiven heat. I can only account for where I will tread from here. An invisible battle reminiscient of all faith.

Ohayocon 2009

Coming off the heels of Ohayocon, I can finally rub off the stupid smile it had plastered on my face for the whole weekend.

From start to finish I was awed and in love with the atmosphere, programming and hotel. There’s a lot of fanboying I can do over how much I enjoyed this ohayocon and particularly the company I was with(Picture of them to come.)

Having been spending quite a bit of time jumping from con to con in the past year, almost in some sick twisted ritual, I have to say that its been one hell of an experience and hopefully will continue to be.

I’ll update some pictures of the cosplays I did, but for now here’s a video of a masquerade walk on my group and I did. Yes. It comes from Cowboy Bebop. Did you expect anything else from me?




Cast away Love

Blood hardened along his back, a reminder of hours that past, his heart requited a quiet pace. fingers tingled with an empty sorrow.

Eyes reflected along a tall mirror, a sad visage of a torn interior. The sheets uncovered his lower half, pressed abs along a slender body, built thighs covered in modest hair, in between an asleep phallus lay, no need for an early beckoning but a slight tingle rose it along with the freshly coursed blood.

The sheets moved with the grace of an oceans wave, revealing another figure cradled within the beds sheets. Her skin glowed a pale glow as the sheets slid off her bare body. They followed her curves meticulously revealing a forbidden beauty, her eyes were closed revealing a peaceful beauty, perfect white breasts set upon tiny nipples, along a pierced belly. Her legs cleanly waxed, wrapped around each other, tilted in his direction.

A thrilling beauty, but his eyes switch focus away from her with a gentle close focusing away from the mirror and her own encompassed feel. Under the blankets of his eyes her figure replayed, cradled upon him, thighs tightened around his waist, deeply taking him inside, she smiles a sorrowful smile blessed with lust. She slides upon him, taking his whole inside of her. A shudder crawls along her back, arching to give a perfect march to her breasts.

Her hands settle along his chest, nails gently filing along his skin. His body shivers in response, his own hands cradling her hips, pressing her closer to him. A moment of loneliness disguised in lust. They grind together to be one, to please another, living in a void of emptiness.

She moans a call to him, he responds with a grunt, a fortitude of emptiness filling him. Sentences, syllables and adjectives formed together don’t break his hearts seal. His emotions bound in a locked cage, an empty prison filled with a white clout.

A nights throw before she didn’t exist in his life, but tonight she shared a sacred bond, shattered to defend a torn soul, a crying call of an existence. He pleaded to have his heart heard, his eyes read, but only through the bellows of lust and physical love is his call heard.

A temporary escape.

Her fingers tighten settling up on his shoulders, finding a spot near his back, nails digging, only to be broken as he thrust him off her tossed across the bed, her eyes bewildered as he pins her arms. A smile falling upon his for their eyes connect, her hair streaming past her face unable to hide the intimacy of the moment.

Their lips and tongues utter not a word of comprehension, their primal instinct and burning eyes providing enough understanding of what the other felt. Two abandoned cascaded souls finding a moment of solace from a destitute existence.

His hands tighten around her wrists, entering her once again, her body kicks, pushing him quickly in her a quiet anxiety spoke in her motions. He leans forward lips pressing against her neck, tasting the sweet nectar of her scent. His lips lick along her jaw line making their way to her lips.

A strung out kiss that leaves their tongues tied and a numbness along his lips of knowing these kisses are not to last. As his eyes open one again, he finds his hands pressing against his own lips, looking once again towards her peaceful figure.

The sheets bumble off his body as he leaves the bed, quietly standing up to make not a sound. He heads to a lone window looking at the still dark skies a wondering thought through his mind;

What love can befall one who has castaway true love in favor of temporary passion to bate loneliness.

None.

Black Widow

Black veils covered a venomous face, only kindred eyes peeked through in a hazel hue but underneath the visible eyes lay scars tattered and wasted upon perfect beauty.

Rags clattered loosely along her body, gentle, small and a frame no older than fifteen. A slender neck, settled along rounded shoulders, upon mostly developed breasts, and a young waist straddled by a a concoction of explosives latched on with leather belts, filled with nails and ball bearings.

Her steps are quiet, barefooted taking slow steps into the cafe, the laughs around her only ringing as sounds of horror, ears stinging with a conflagrant sentiment. Her wrists tingled with a reminiscent feel of ropes, bound and chained a few feet above a wall. Her waist lay naked, legs spread.

Eyes closed shut to begin; only hearing the laughs, as she felt three pairs of hands, two pressing her legs open, opting to shift her than to keep her roped and chained from the waist below. The last pair of hands straddled along her ass, platforming her slightly off the ground as a mans girth pummeled deep in her.The bites on her bottom lip weren’t enough to hold back the screams of her virginity being torn from her.

Her ears tinged back to the sounds of the swinging door, a man pressing along her accidentally. He mumbles words of apology as he moves into the cafe, and she follows behind him unapologetic for the lives she’ll take.

He resembled the man who had raped her, except for better shaven, a bit larger with kinder eyes that spoke to be incapable of the resentment she’d drowned through.

In the catacombs they’d trapped her in chains weeks at a time, the man who resembled the stranger in the cafe was a vicious dog of the devil. He’d stripped the veil covering her naive beauty, the only refuge that had remained to her.

His gaze was not set on her but frowned at the man who had taken her first, speaking in a Semitic tongue of how he planned to clean her up.

He spit between her legs, smacking his open palm where he had stained her with his malice, then he went to grab the other man by the collar, warning him to record every moment of this event, to speak in harsh words and record every single of his thrusts.

He entered her fiercely in comparison to the last, blood dripping along her legs, it shimmered in the dark incandescent lights set along the mud walls. She wailed once again to deaf ears. With every scream his fist slammed into her face, tightening himself into her, as venomous words slipped of his mouth;

What life do you have to go back to now? No chance of a normal life, but only to blow up in the name of God, perhaps he will forgive you for being a whore.

Back in the cafe she scratched along her arm, running along infected needle marks which they used to break her body and mind through the subjugation of dozens of psychoactive opiates. A recurring nightmare of rape and drugs brainwashing her to believe there was no way to end the nightmare but to die in the name of a God she no longer sees.  Her tiny shaking fingers settle along a trigger, ready to die a desolate death for a false cause to meet a God that is not there.

(This is a story based on true events. The Black Widow are a group of young girls stripped from their families and villages in the Middle East. They are drugged, raped and subjugated to cruelty all in efforts to become suicide bombers.)

Chink in the Armor

I write. Quite a bit.

At least more than my blog would lead you to believe, but not everything I write would interest you or me.

Sometimes they’re exercises, or just an effort to get a bearing on the world around me. A writing can alleviate emotions, thoughts and problems I may have. Mostly cause there are few to none I can vent too.

It goes along with the saying that you can be around  people and still feel a resounding sense of being lonely but then I can be alone with a pen and paper, left to my writings, and I’m no longer alone.

Funny how things work, guess its a long life lesson to know the difference between being alone and lonely.

Even then I often write in public places such as coffeehouses, Borders, and anywhere that has a thriving amount of books or ambient music coupled to beverages.

I often watch people when writers block hits, it helps me think and also gives me perspective on how people behave in a social environment, such as couples canoodling and being intimate as if the world around them is irrelevant.

Its a phenomenon some don’t like seeing, but everyone has done it themselves if they’ve ever been romantically involved. And that’s where this get off too, falling to infatuation, love and affection creates a strength. Its an act that gives most the courage to face the world, creating that dependency on the other person, in essence it removes any chinks in their armor, because at that point it doesn’t matter what the world thinks.

Only this other individual and their thoughts become important.

But it creates one problem; for that other individual or to be specific their love becomes the only chink in the armor