I woke up contemplating bourbon and bitters.
Pu-Erh, with local honey, has always been more sensible.
It is warm and it heals a hoarse throat.

After two bags and a little Marquez, I sat at my desk staring at a spider in the opposite corner of my office.

I stared at it for a length of time that is too embarrassing to mention and never once had the inclination to smash it.
Not that it did not deserve it, I simply lacked the motivation.

It occurred to me that I would not trade a deep sleep under the sunlit blinds for a week's pay. How long can one get away with this?
For as long as one's wit will float them is my guess.

No one knows exactly how they want to be perceived when their ego barges into a room, but they know exactly how they do not want to be perceived.

But If I had the power, I would perceive being wanted.
To know I am here on purpose. What does that feel like?

If Hell is my fate for my living sins, then let me die in the arms of the woman that lit the fire within!

When I'm amongst the great race, brooding over my artisanal mug-of-joe, the constant chatter and open planning of the day becomes a spoken roar and I want to scream out, "Keep it down, I'm trying to plan my escape!"

What do I associate with happiness? My dad pouring M&M;'s into my mouth before a football game. Of course, I won't play, but one must be prepared!
The look on my mother's face when I sang well. Getting picked first in a game of pick-up. All the fellas whispering legends.

Ah, to be wanted!

Of late, the pain in my torso has become more persistent. I think of it and my imagination gives way to bouts of sheer panic.

And even this is not an excuse for concern and a peaceful night.
How about a kiss on my neck and chest for a change?
Must I always make you hot?
What if this is my last stand?
What if this is it?

In that final glimpse of consciousness, in my minds eye, all I make out is a faint light far above me and the brown soil and rock digging into my feet below.
What walls did I allow to be built all around me?

नै अनजालु फरायसाफोर-
एबार आं नोँसोरनो फंनैसो खिन्थानि।
जिब-जुनारा जोँनि आंगो लोगो।
जोँनि बेसेबा बानजायग्रा अनजाथाव माहि।
जिब-जुनारखौ नेहाथ सान्ना
बुथारनो नाङा।
बिसोरहा दाय गैया।
अब्ला जोँहा मानि हिंसानाय?
माहारिनि बिफा गान्दीया बुंदोँमोन-
अहिंसा परम घर्म।
अदेबानि हिंसा खालामियानो सोरजिगिरि
जिउमानि गियान।
बेनो नंगैबै दोहोरोम।
जोँ मानसि माहारिया बुजिनो हायो
अब्लाबो मानोदि उन्दै उन्दै
जिब-जुनार आरो दाउसिन-दाउलाखौ बुथारो?
बिनि जाहोनखौ दिनै नोँसोरनो खिन्थानि।
जिब-जुनारा जोबोद बुजि गोरोँ जिबि
बिसोरो गियानि नाथाय राव रोङा।
राव रोङैनि थाखायनो बिसोरखौ सुबुंआ नेहाथ सानो।
बिसोरो राव रोङैनि थाखायनो उदांस्रि गैयै बादि जायो।
बिसोरो जेब्लाबो मानसिनि बादि राव रोङैनि थाखाय
लाजियो थाखोमाबायो
अब्लाबो बुजि रोङै मानसिया बिसोरखौ
होसोयो गावथारो, बुथारो बायदि
हिंसा खालामो।
फंबायफोर नोँसोर दिनैनिफ्राय
बेबादि हिंसा सान्नायखौ दाला
मोजां आखु सोलोँ गियानि जानो सोलोँ।
रामायाण खन्थाइमायाव मखनाय रामचन्द्र
आरो लक्षन मोना
गिलु बालु फोजोबस्रांनो हानाय
गोहोआ दंमोन अब्लाबो बिसोर
जिब-जुनारखौ हाग्रायाव थानाय समावबो बुथाराखै।
अर्जुनमोनबादि हाथियारनि बिगोमाफोरा
जिब हिंसा खालामामोन
बिसोरबादि अनसुला घोरोमिनि सल'खौ खोनासं।
बिसोरनि जिउमिन फराय।
हायोबा सम सम नोँसोरनि फोरोँगिरिफोरनाव सोँना ला।
गावनि जिउआ जेसेबां अनजाथाव
गुबुननि जिउखौबो अन।
जिउआ महर गैया जेरै
बयनिबो जिउआ समान अनजाथाव।

फंबाय-बिनानावमोन आं दिनै मानसिनि गोसोआ
माबादि खाना बेखौ नोँसोरनो खिन्थानि।
ओरैबादि दं जाय मानसिया
बेसादनि सायाव मेगन खोख्लैयो
बियो गुबुन आरो जेबोखौनो नुआ।
नाथाय ओरैबादि मानसिबो जाय माखौबा नुदोँ
बियो बेसाद होन्नाय
जेखौनो सिनाया।
फंबाय-बिनानावमोन फंसे बाथ्राखौ नोँसोर
खोनाबाय नङा ने?
'फिसा सिमां नुनाया फाफ'
भारतनि रुंग' हादरगिरि आरो सासे
बेसेबा गिदिर बिगियानगिरि
आब्दुल खालामा बुंदोँमोन बाथ्राखौ।
जोँ गिदिर मिजिँ लानांगौ, फिसा नङा।
सिमां नुनांगौ- बेखौ दाफुंनांगौ।
मानोना नोँ जेसे हास्थायो
बिदि नोँ मोनद्रायनाय नङा।
अब्लाबो जोँहा गिदिर सिमां; बिनि मिजिँआ थायोब्ला
गिदिर सिमांआबो नाजानायनि बोलोआव गावनो गाव फैयो।
सरासनस्रा मानसिया गासैबो जिरादखौनो मेगनजोँ नुयो
नाथाय बिसोरो ओरैबादि खाना थायोदि-
सासे आबादारि, थेला बोग्रानि
फिसाफ्राबोदि सासे दाक्टार जानो हायो।
सासे हादरगिरि जानो हायो
बेखौ बेसोर गोसोजोँ
सान्नोनो हाया।
जाय गोसो गियानजोँ सान्नो हाया
बिसोरखौनो गोसो खाना होन्ना बुंनाय जादोँ।
जाय उन्दै गेदेर सिनायनाबो,
गोरिब- हावरिया, खैफोद-आफोद नुनानैबो मदद होआ
बैसोर बादि गोरोँखौनो
गोसो जाम्बा एबा गोसो खाना बुंनाय जायो।
फंबाय-बिनानावमोन जोँ गोसोखौ बेमा
सोँहोनो नाङा।
बयखौबो नायनो सोलोँ,
बयखौबो अनसाय मानसि महरै
मानसिबादि गेदेमा आखल गियान दाफुं।

बिफां-लाइफांआ आदार होयो ने?
थारैनो बाथ्राया नंमारगौसै?
होयो थारैनो।
जोँनि राफोद गोहो बोलोयै आरो
गोसोयै थांना थानायानो
बिफां-लाइफांनिफ्राय जोँ मोन्नाय आदार।
बिफां-लाइफांखौ जोँ जेब्लाबो जायो
जोँनि मेगनजोँ,
जोँनि गोसोजोँ, जोँनि बिगुरजोँ, जोँनि सोलेरजोँ।
बिफांआ हगारनाय अक्सिजेन गेसखौ जोँ जोँनि
हां लाग्रा अंगजोँ जायो।
नै उन्दै उन्दै फंबाय-बिनानावमोन,
आंनि अनजालु-अनजालिफोर।
जानाय बुङोब्ला खुगायाव सोनायखौल' बुङा।
मोन्नाय माखासे जामुंखौल' खुगायाव
होनायाल'नो नङा।
जोँनि माखासे सान्दांथि-मोन्दांथिजोँ अनसायनायाबो
मोनसे रोखोमनि जानाय।
बेखौ साबसिन होन्नाबो बुंनाय जायो।
खुगाजोँल' जाबानो जोँ थांना थाया।
जोँ जोँनि गियानजोँबो माखासे
खुगाजोँ जानो हायैखौ जायो।
बिफां-लाइफांआ जेब्ला
सोमखोर समायना जागोन अब्लासो
जोँनि गोरबो आरो सोलेराबो बोलो जागोन।
नै फंबाय-बिनानावमोन बेखायनो जोँ
बिफां-लाइफांखौ अन्नांगौ।
बिफां गायनांगौ, दै लुनांगौ जोँनो थोजासे
हेफाजाब होगोन।
बिफां-लाइफांआ जोँनि मेगनाव समायना
नुजायोब्ला जोँ गोजोन मोनगोन।
जोँनि गोसोआ रंजागोन।
नांगौसेबां अखाया हागोन,
खोलो खोलो गुसु बारा बारगोन।
साया सायख्लुम जोँनो मोनगोन।
गेदेमाफ्रा बुङो- फांथाम गाय नांथारगौ जाब्लासो
फांसेखौ दान।
जानला-मोनला बिफां दाननो नाङा,
दाननो दाहो।
मानोना बिफां-लाइफांआ जोँनो आदार होयो।

~Many people rely on the convenient, easy ways of living in this age of fast food, plastic packaging and rapid development. Most people do not care to see why they live the way they do or what it takes to live in such a way. Toxic pollutants leaching into our earth and water should not be worth the convenience! Third world women working in dusty, cramped factories to make designer purses for fifteen year old girls. Garbage is America’s biggest export and it ends up in China, on the coast of Somalia... anywhere that American citizens won’t be bothered to see it.

~What does it mean to buy a pack of plastic razors? Some metal, some chemicals, some plastic, more plastic for packaging. Use a razor a few times and toss it in the garbage. Somewhere, maybe at La Chureca, someone will pull the rusted metal and plastic from the landfill. They might make one US dollar per day collecting scraps of aluminum, glass, plastic and other scrap metals. What does it mean to wear deodorant? The plastic stick isn’t reusable. The ingredients are highly toxic. Aluminum-based antiperspirants have been linked to Alzheimer's and cancer. Soap comes in plastic bottles, coffee makers made of plastic, water bottles made of plastic… hell, my plastic shower curtain came wrapped in plastic packaging.

~Americans are lucky. Indoor plumbing with quality water. Green lawns and exotic flower beds. Buy and use, throw away and repeat. Big corporations pay off politicians to pollute. Industrial waste, land erosion, low air quality, pesticides. Why are we so quick to trust an artificial sweetener being promoted by a company that makes poison? They call you a hippy, a conspiracy theorist. They tell you that you only live once and to stop being so worried about it all. I ask them, how can you look away? Deforestation and destruction are all around. Those that profit are not concerned with what happens to the land after the loggers and miners have left the ground scarred and desolate.

~Modern living is a hoax. Yeah, you get around quick in your car but at what cost? Carbon dioxide, greenhouse gasses choking us and everything alive that lives with us and cannot speak. Can’t you walk to the corner store? Can’t you grow a few things in the garden or in the windowsill? When was the last time you saw a sunset and didn’t take a picture of it? Dairy cows packed together so tight they can’t turn around for your glass of milk. The disconnect is everywhere. Overpopulation. Overconsumption. People don’t care.

~They can choose. They can choose paper over plastic. They can buy a water filter instead of 20 plastic bottles. They can bike to work. Anyone can lessen their impact, anyone can think more deeply and live more sustainably. But we’ve made it so easy to be lazy. We’ve become so dependent that we’re forgetting to use technological gains to make the way we do things better. We’ve come so far that we’re forgetting what brought us here.

~

‘We are slaves in the sense that we depend for our daily survival upon an expand-or-expire agro-industrial empire – a crackpot machine – that the specialists cannot comprehend and the managers cannot manage. Which is, furthermore, devouring world resources at an exponential rate.’ Edward Abbey

‘In the developing world, the problem of population is seen less as a matter of human numbers than of western overconsumption. Yet within the development community, the only solution to the problems of the developing world is to export the same unsustainable economic model fuelling the overconsumption of the West.’ Kavita Ramdas

‘Water and air, the two essential fluids on which all life depends, have become global garbage cans.’ Jacques-Yves Cousteau

‘Globalisation, which attempts to amalgamate every local, regional, and national economy into a single world system, requires homogenising locally adapted forms of agriculture, replacing them with an industrial system – centrally managed, pesticide-intensive, one-crop production for export – designed to deliver a narrow range of transportable foods to the world market.’Helena Norberg-Hodge

‘Throughout history human exploitation of the earth has produced this progression: colonise-destroy-move on.’ Garrett Hardin

I don’t want to become a Creative Writer because I usually suspect that being a Creative Writer is a lot like having a Pretty Face.

When I wake up at 7:24 instead of 7:00 like I always plan to, and my nearly empty journal falls out of my bed, and I look in the mirror at my vaguely pink eyes and that cowlick I have on the right side of my forehead, I do not feel Creative. I also do not feel like I have a Pretty Face. Mostly, I feel very tried, and frustrated that I am going to be exactly seven minutes late to work like I am on every Monday and Wednesday.

Men and people who were almost-men have told me that I have a Pretty Face. At the poetry things I have gone to, the presenters have called me some variant of Creative Writer. I smile with all of my teeth when they say it, because it is a compliment and I know that when I receive a compliment I am supposed to smile like this, a little crooked and a little coy and a lot humble, even though I know that I am only an occasionally creative writer with a face that is pretty in the right light with the right liquid eyeliner.

The trouble with Creative Writers is that their paper crowns start to make them recognizable to people. People recognize them and then they are forced to wave their pencils around like the conductors of a silent song with whatever rhythm is currently in style in the artistic world, and if they hit the wrong note, people tell them they don’t deserve that crown. That Creative Writer is a faker if I ever saw one, the people say. She pretends to be something special. If she wants to get to know you, she will probably tell you a poem instead of telling you what she means.

The trouble with Pretty Faces is that people get so angry at them that they get called fake, too, if they’re lucky. The first day that the Pretty Face shows up to her yoga class without makeup on, or with a friendly zit in the dimple on her chin, people do a lot of pointing. They point and snicker, because that is what we are supposed to do with pretenders. When the truth gets revealed, we like to publish headlines about it and jump up and down with our index fingers out, screaming that we knew it all along. We love to find out that other people’s good things are not real. I don’t know why that is, but I know it is true.

The people in charge rarely give you any power for your titles. The Creative Writer’s paper crown is usually one that she made for herself—you can tell because she gets really frustrated when it starts to sag, weighed down by an accidental cliché about boys’ tears or the rain. Paper disintegrates in water, did you know that? And the Pretty Face probably had a snaggletooth until she was thirteen, so she feels like a fraud even if no one has called her one this week.

I like reading stories and theories by writers who we all took a vote on and decided are definitely both authentically Creative and Important, even if we did not give them those titles until after they died and became noble corpses with hardly any face at all. Sometimes I think that we are incapable of calling anything important until it is gone. I like writing about them because writing about writers is a marvelous loophole—no one but other academics ever questions it, so the popular opinion stays on my side.

One time, a man at a bar in a yellow polo told me that my Face was not Pretty enough for me to laugh like such a tease. I wrote a poem about it and read it at a conference with a toothy mask on, people loved it, and then I decided I did not want that to be my livelihood.

It took me a while to realize that you were not my first love. Sure, my first time, my first older boyfriend, my first lover who was also my best friend. But not my first heartbreak. While discussing the argument between your girlfriend and me with a close friend, she said something that woke me up.

“Why is she so insecure if you two didn’t work out? Like, you two just don’t work, she shouldn’t be attacking you.”

At that moment I wanted to interrupt with a, “we did work out but-“ But what? I let what she said resonate through my brain. We didn’t work out. I was trying to keep every beautiful memory alive (there’s a lot of them) by ignoring the idea that we really did not work together. It was a slap in the face when everything clicked. We would still be together if everything worked.

Naturally, this led me to think of everyone I’d been with and why it never worked. I ignore Evan. Yes he was my first boyfriend and yes he was my first kiss, but that’s all it was. We were eleven years old with dorky crushes on each other. Hardly love at all. Then there was Gareth. He was my first love. It was one of those things where I saw him and I felt like 500 bees had stung me. Only their stingers left the healing sensation of honey. Right after the pain came the comfort. But with this also came with the reality that he was my first unrequited love, my first heartbreak. It took years to get over him. I dated Nick, I dated Hayden, I flirted with Jordan, and nothing sufficed. And then came you. Seeing you wasn’t the equivalent of a bee attack, but rather the feeling of floating in the ocean. Calm, tranquil, heavenly. We had a good run. I could write every amazing moment our relationship had but I’d die before it was finished. In the end, we were changing people that weren’t changing together. It hurt to realize this, as a Taurus I abhor change, but looking back on it years later it all makes sense. I tried for so long to get back what we had, but we never can. Burned out flames should never reignite.

After you came Jake. Now he’s an interesting one. He’s the first person that I was infatuated with. At the time I didn’t know this so I merely stuck the sticker “head over heels in love” onto him. I thought he was another repeat of Gareth. Unattainable and heartbreaking.  And in a way he was. I broke when he left. I completely shattered. But I’m thankful for this because most things that fall apart already have some sort of cracks in them. I realized that I didn’t shatter because of Jake, but because I had been living with depression. Jake was just the missing puzzle piece. And when he came back around, I felt nothing. And with that I found Rory smiling and lying in a pile of my shattered pride. We challenged each other, bettered each other. Until we carved and sculpted each other into the partner of our dreams. Our love was built on copious amounts of *** and drugs; Rory and Tia became a euphemism for Sid and Nancy. “I love you” became euphemism for “I'm not sober.” That’s how I knew it wasn’t love. But what was love however, was Daniel. Being with him was lava. Molten hot lava. This was the kind of love that grew out of proximity. Scientists say that if you look into someone’s eyes and tell them every deep part of yourself for thirty minutes, you’ll fall in love. And that’s basically what happened, except for the fact that it made Daniel feel nothing. I, on the other hand, was being consumed by him. It was a hookup gone wrong and I still have yet to learn the lesson that his role in my life will teach me.

The wind blew strongly. Out at sea, the fisherman’s small boat swayed in rhythm with the waves. He stood up and adjusted the sail, in case the wind blew it off. After so many years of earning a living as a fisherman, he has made peace with the sea – he no longer feels sea sick. Oh, but he feels a certain kind of sickness…… a different kind. His eyes filled with tears as he shifted his gaze from his worn out canvas sails to the horizon where the sun is just about to set. The sky above him is slightly orange – but is dulled by the gray of the storm clouds shifting in.

                He thanked the gods for the sky above and the sea below him, albeit the upcoming storm. He has recently lost his daughter, Fatema to the sea. His grief is still fresh, it still cuts deep. He lost his daughter to the tsunami that destroyed the fishing village. He has lost all his belongings – but nothing belonging to him will ever be as valuable as Fatema. Yes, grief makes him sick – and he has a good reason for that. When they found her, her body was trapped between five pieces of driftwood – it was a gruesome sight. How ironic is it? The arms of Neptune have always supported him throughout his life – making sure he earned a living and yet, the same menacing arms betrayed him and took Fatema away.

                For that, he was angry with the gods. How could they take away a life as easily as they gave it? He snapped out of his thoughts and raised the back of his hand to his eyes to wipe away the tears. His musings aren’t going to help. He has to begin sailing to find a shelter from the storm that is rolling in or else he won’t make it through the night. For the past week or so, he has been living in his small boat, making sure his stomach is full by fishing for small fish and crustaceans. He fixed his sail and began to sail in the direction of a small cove he is familiar with which will provide adequate shelter for tonight.

                As he sailed, he started to feel lonely. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a locket with Fatema’s picture in it. He brought it to his face and gently kissed it, gripping it in his hand. As he sailed nearer the cove, moonlight began to illuminate the prow of his boat. When he is near enough to the shore, he skillfully measured the depth with sight alone, and lowered the anchor to make sure his boat remained in that position till dawn.
                As he descended from his boat, he waded through the water. Both of his arms are full of dried driftwood for him to start a fire tonight. He heard the distant sound of crickets and an owl. He walked toward the beach, heading towards a small cave and entered it. He checked the ground to make sure it was dry before he started a fire using the driftwood. The crackling of fire accompanied by the distant rumbling of thunder brought comfort to his ears. The flames that rose and vanished combined with the smell of the smoke left a silage – a lingering presence that soothed him. They reminded him of how he used to read stories of beasts and princesses alike to Fatema when she was a young girl until she fell asleep in his arms. Those days are long gone now. He stood up and headed back to his boat to set up the fishing nets for his meal later on tonight. He fixed the nets close to the shore before walking back to the cave to the warmth of the fire. He did not know what to do. He was supposed to sail back to the mainland by next week but the storm has been slowing him down. He listened to the rhythm of the waves crashing against his boat and drifted off to sleep……

                He opened his eyes. He did not hear any crackling from the fire nor feel the warmth from it. When he looked down, the fire has been extinguished. The moon was so high and bright now he only needed the fire for warmth. Just as he was about to stand up to fetch more wood from the boat, he heard a sound. Yes, there was a slight drizzle but it wasn’t the sound of rain hitting the sand. It was a soft, melodious voice which was….singing.
“May you sail fair to the far fields of fortune,
with diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet
and may you need never to banish misfortune,
may you find kindness in all that you meet.”

                It was the lullaby he sang to Fatema as a young girl. He began to feel excited and ignored the voice at the back of his head telling him he was insane. He looked out and saw her – Fatema, sitting on a rock. He called out to her and she looked back at him, saying something he has been yearning to hear from her – “Papa.” He was speechless and could not believe his eyes. She donned the black dress they found her in, but she barely had any scratches on her; she did not even look wounded. Instead of walking towards him, she flashed her sweetest smile and started walking towards the beach. She beckoned for him to follow her. He ran towards her, constantly calling out to her but she did not reply. She held out her hand for him to hold, and he did.

                One more step and she will reach the water now. “Fatema, what are you doing?” “Papa, just come along with me.” With those few words…..he felt like he was in a trance. There were so many questions running through the back of his mind but he ignored all of them. Was he hallucinating? He turned to his left as they waded nearer to the sea – the fishing net that he placed near his boat had a small crab in it. The moonlight that shone onto the sea reflected on her beautiful features – her curly, black hair and light brown eyes. With every step he took, he felt more nervous, confused, and excited at the same time.

                The water level is up to their chest now.  On the second day after Fatema died, when he was very much in pain, he made an analogy about grief by comparing it to the nearest thing to him. Grief is like the sea. It drowns you while everyone else is swimming. He felt more familiar towards it….. it did not seem as foreign to him anymore. If so, he is “literally” being consumed by grief as they waded deeper into the sea. He did not mind though – this is the story of a man who desperately wants his daughter back. He did not care if he was hallucinating or if she was a ghost. He does not know where she is taking him, but he wants to follow his daughter to who-knows-where; for to him, that is paradise, be it in the depths of the sea or the height of the skies.

                He can no longer see the moon.