This Is What It Feels Like

In bending for courtesy

My giant values take hold

A freedom beaming compassion

However selfish it may become.

In the darkness my lover is everywhere

In the light she warms up my bones.

In Autumn she is heart

In spring, she evolves along with the gods.

To cry for her is soothing

To know…

I get to have her in my life enough

To spill tears over – makes me feel worthy,

Of all that I am and everything I am becoming.

This is what it feels like.

Cold back and a blood boiling over

A Breath struggling from spilling

An insanity threatening this dull world

A crack of pure darkness in the light

An Elio to an Oliver.

A cycle that repeats itself over and over

A gentle, warming and devastating love

At times we played Tekken with our hearts.

Even in embracing another

Her smile offers itself to remind me where home is.

To remind me it’s beautiful to exist apart yet still WANT to love this human… to not even need to choose.

To know she loves me fully

And for her to know I understand.

Fall For I Am

She told me she’s leaving as my old, creaky, heart-door clicked, locked.

I offered her my universe but the thump-thumps in my chest embraced my Milky Way.

Let love be a curse, a thief or a home, but let it reside within me – for me, by me.

I will taste the liar’s fears

Drink from her cup, but I’ll…

Never be robbed of my Atlantean spirit.

I am so much more than a broken heart

Or the nine circles of fictional fire.

But if hell is where the selfish (or happy) go then…

Let me fall,

For

I am.

Love Becoming

For the purpose of this text I will let go of format, grammar and punctuation as much as possible. I will write OLI, oLi, Oli as many times as I desire no matter how creepy or psychotic that may seem. Love never really leaves, especially when it is real. I have walked away from this Oli love and sworn to never look back more times than I have said, “I love you!”. A week ago, I was still in a fleeting relationship, but my growth is congruent with my love.

The becoming, at first was rooted in Oli’s heart and love for me. She keeps taking it away when I start to neglect myself for her – and that’s what true love looks like. Never smooth sailing, never perfect or fully selfless. We play games with one another and dance… forever chasing the Darcy and Elizabeth fantasy, but we’re just two average humans who need to become in order to love.

The only love I have never doubted longer than a black day or a black plague… or the infatuation with a golden haired human which I couldn’t explain… until I could, then… a smile, a video call from Oli and her laughter when she explains who I am to me.

Strangers who exit my space as quickly as they enter it, often try to explain this love becoming. They call Oli my scapegoat, my idea, the lie I tell myself in order to be okay… and that’s partially my fault because I can’t stop talking about her (she hates it)… but that’s what happens when I love you – I just can’t shut up about it.

Tomorrow I will draw better, I will write better, I will be a better colleague and a better bartender. I will be closer to becoming because I love the way I love Oli, and how deeply fond of myself I am becoming.

Liberty

It’s so easy to fall in love with her, every whim becomes an idea worth fighting for.

Every strand of her consciousness beckons to herself

Like an embrace for a daughter so eager to be a son.

She whispers,

“Womanhood is a privilege bestowed only on some.”

Be lioness in a thorn-bush corner,

Be a she-wolf at your lover’s throat under attack.

Make a vow to an impossible dream,

Your lover’s arms…

and becoming, becoming, becoming…

I. G. Didova (B. Levskey)

For My People

Margaret Walker – 1915-1998

For my people everywhere singing their slave songs 
     repeatedly: their dirges and their ditties and their blues
     and jubilees, praying their prayers nightly to an 
     unknown god, bending their knees humbly to an 
     unseen power;

For my people lending their strength to the years, to the 
    gone years and the now years and the maybe years, 
    washing ironing cooking scrubbing sewing mending 
    hoeing plowing digging planting pruning patching
    dragging along never gaining never reaping never 
    knowing and never understanding;

For my playmates in the clay and dust and sand of Alabama
    backyards playing baptizing and preaching and doctor 
    and jail and soldier and school and mama and cooking 
    and playhouse and concert and store and hair and Miss
    Choomby and company;

For the cramped bewildered years we went to school to learn 
    to know the reasons why and the answers to and the 
    people who and the places where and the days when, in 
    memory of the bitter hours when we discovered we 
    were black and poor and small and different and nobody 
    cared and nobody wondered and nobody understood;

For the boys and girls who grew in spite of these things to 
    be man and woman, to laugh and dance and sing and 
    play and drink their wine and religion and success, to 
    marry their playmates and bear children and then die
    of consumption and anemia and lynching;

For my people thronging 47th Street in Chicago and Lenox 
    Avenue in New York and Rampart Street in New 
    Orleans, lost disinherited dispossessed and happy 
    people filling the cabarets and taverns and other 
    people’s pockets needing bread and shoes and milk and
    land and money and something—something all our own;

For my people walking blindly spreading joy, losing time 
     being lazy, sleeping when hungry, shouting when 
     burdened, drinking when hopeless, tied, and shackled 
     and tangled among ourselves by the unseen creatures 
     who tower over us omnisciently and laugh;

For my people blundering and groping and floundering in 
     the dark of churches and schools and clubs and
     societies, associations and councils and committees and 
     conventions, distressed and disturbed and deceived and 
     devoured by money-hungry glory-craving leeches, 
     preyed on by facile force of state and fad and novelty, by 
     false prophet and holy believer;

For my people standing staring trying to fashion a better way
    from confusion, from hypocrisy and misunderstanding, 
    trying to fashion a world that will hold all the people, 
    all the faces, all the adams and eves and their countless
    generations;

Let a new earth rise. Let another world be born. Let a 
    bloody peace be written in the sky. Let a second 
    generation full of courage issue forth; let a people 
    loving freedom come to growth. Let a beauty full of 
    healing and a strength of final clenching be the pulsing 
    in our spirits and our blood. Let the martial songs 
    be written, let the dirges disappear. Let a race of men now 
    rise and take control.

Play “Boy”

I had to talk myself out of making voodoo dolls from your curls.

This morning as I held the golden thread between my fingers,

I kept trying to figure out a less psychotic reasoning for

wanting to wear you around my neck, or my wrist or…

as a costume.

Not your body of course

I’d never bend you like that.

I would never want to hurt you for my own pleasure

or paint you pretty as though you weren’t already delicate.

And yet

I let you shape me,

Shame me

Throw shade at me.

“What if this is just a phase?”

Your robotic question meddles up my software and

I struggle not to pop-up error reports out loud.

But I am cornered and so afraid of being here

In this space between male and female…

Lingering, awaiting arrest for the crime of being alive.

Am I just a fluke?

I mean, forgetting all the women who treated me like one.

4380 days of trying every possible escape route before accepting that I was born in the wrong skin.

A body that bulges for breasts and curves for childbirth,

But leaves no room for the boy with an insatiable hunger to live.

I can no longer remember a time when

I didn’t need to be sedated to feel peace.

When bathing wasn’t synonymous with panic attacks.

When a glimpse of my own chest didn’t make me feel like a fake.

I promised the new sun to walk up to you and say,

“I just want to soap-scrub myself with my eyes open for a change.

I am tired of trying not to faint when I accidentally bound my chest too tight just to keep it from showing.”

You walked into my morning, overshadowed the sun…

and I, again, had to talk myself out of making voodoo dolls from your curls just to get you to understand.

That it hurt…

It hurt every time you decided that I am only a ‘he’ during play scenes.

My Body, As A Cage (Excerpt)

“What if this is just a phase?”

Your robotic question meddles up my software and

I struggle not to pop-up error reports out loud.

But I am cornered and so afraid of being here

In this space between male and female…

Lingering, awaiting arrest for the crime of being alive.

How can I be just a phase?

I mean, forgetting all the women who treated me like one.

It’s been twelve years since I saw you close the bars on my trapped soul with your golden keys of expectation.

Twelve years of trying every possible escape route before accepting that I was born in the wrong skin.

Skin that bulges for breasts and curves for childbirth,

But leaves no room for the boy with an insatiable hunger to live.

I can no longer remember a time when

I didn’t need to be sedated to feel easy… at peace.

The Pessimist’s Obituary

At exactly 22:35 on a cold March evening, the pessimist surmised their own death.

Being only 29 years of age, with a new home, a challenging yet rewarding new job – the pessimist could no longer survive the sudden onset of kindness and love toward their fellow humans. Their understanding of basic generosity and goodness was so limited that the mere air of it was enough to send them to hell.

My name is Elio Perlman, AKA B. Levskey, but more commonly referred to as Moaning Myrtle or just – Iva. The relationship I had with the deceased was arduous and definitely the longest that they had with any living being. It almost destroyed me and in turn almost immortalized the pessimist. Though I couldn’t have killed the deceased on my own – I alone, knew them well enough to summarize their almost pointless existence.

There were never enough kind deeds for our dear departed. When they set their mind on feeling hated, excluded or just generally disliked, a furrowed brow would hang over their face like a bad fringe-cut. Their intentions were always clouded by their inability to see the good in others, let alone trust them, and no happiness ever lasted long enough for them to hide their true nature.

Last night they had a mirror encounter with themself which, I dare say caused such an unpleasant rot in their mouth they all but dissipated into thin air. Maybe, we all aught to learn that most pessimistic genius beings, only need a good dose of themselves before kicking the bucket, to an untimely, drooling slumber.

I realize that so far, these paragraphs do not correlate to a typical obituary but because the one who is no longer with us has been such a nightmare, I am afraid to raise them from the dead or speak their name or of their deeds (much like Voldemort to magical folk).

For a brief period of time I fell in love with them. So much so, that I assimilated and became this pessimist and though I am still breathing, I hope to be a kinder, less moany and more productive version of my former lover and self.

Lest by some miracle, the universe loses the plot and makes me famous.

Written by:

I. G. Didova for the People’s Progress Press In Muizenberg , Cape Town.

30 Things before 30 #2

The endless pit of will-power. I’d like to find it within myself to be as strong as my mom and if possible maybe even more so.

Right now I’m in bed after working 2weeks straight. If I wasn’t at the bar I was working anyway. Here and there I had some rest but never a full day. Honestly even the current rest period will be short-lived. I want to learn to get through it without getting ill or burning out.

Ideally I’d feel the strain and know it is dangerous, but because of my infinite love for the life I want to bring into the world – I’d like to learn to care for myself while stretching myself way past my own limits.

Why?

Because my mom as a hero, always knew how to stretch herself while still a know her own weaknesses.

And if she ever failed she never showed it… and for that I am eternally thankful.

Moms really are underrated.

For more on these 30 part themed posts – please start at the first one titled : 30 things I’d like to do for my mom before I’m 30.

30 Things I’d Like to do for my Mom before I’m 30

Number 1 : Learn The Meaning Of True Sacrifice

30 is a big year. For me (as for many others out there) it is the year where one stops being a child in certain ways. 

Before I get into this post any further I would just like to say that each ‘thing’ on my list will be made public. I made this decision because generally, I keep my life in the public eye as a point of honour, I like to be called out on my own hypocrisy when it does happen (I am only human after all). Mainly though… I realise that I am not the only person out there who has had a very rocky relationship with their mother and with this I hope to give us all a different perspective and a chance to fix and change all that we can while we still are capable.

So without dragging this out any further – here’s number one.

  1. The Meaning Of True Sacrifice

I was born 3 months premature. I weighed a little over 1.1kg and the doctors as well as my gran had very little to no hope that I’d ever live to be a full human. I know that in the first few months my mom didn’t get to hold me or see me as often as she may have wanted. I also know that she visited me every chance she could. I know that I was a very sickly infant/toddler/teen in the years that followed. There were times she had to sacrifice sleep (not just because babies will do that to you) when I would stop breathing randomly in the middle of a road trip or in the middle of the night when we were 40 – 50km away from a hospital. Imagine the stress and trauma that must have caused. Imagine, not knowing if your child would make it through the next few minutes never mind to 30 years.

I know that my mom (like every other mom) was and still is an imperfect human. I know that I am still angry about some things and that my mom has given up absolutely everything in order to help both me and my sister grow into the strong, resilient, loving people that we are today. 

I’ve been saving up for when she comes to visit me in March. Some days I manage to put away all of my wages and on other days – my greed gets to the best of me. Today it dawned on me that she never gave into her own greed (everyone is greedy to an extent), but as a mom she has always given first to my sister and me and only after has she allowed herself some level of comfort or splurging. 

I thought about what I’ve sacrificed for my mom.

What have I given up for her sake? 

Have I ever considered her feelings before speaking?

Have I ever given up my own comfort to aid hers?

Have I ever stepped out of my pride and ego in order to see things from her perspective? 

How have I ever helped my mom?

Is the worst memory of my mom bigger than the fact that she gave me life and also sustained my life when I couldn’t (even as a grown person)?

NO, no, aaaaand – NO AGAIN. 

So my first task is  – whatever sacrifice necessary in order to give my mom a decent, homey vacation this March. It’s a small start, but I bet there will be some important lessons in the next few weeks.